Best Seasonschild Poems
Early Christmas morning I glanced outside,
and no snow was falling, and suddenly a vision of a luminous light
with a trembling child appeared in sight...
and could this have been the Infant of prophecy and might?
And He softly said with the sweetest and kindest voice,
"I bring you no snow but endless love...the warmest flame
that makes every forsaken and unhappy heart rejoice;
it's a gift so gladly given to all the believers of this blessed age."
Struck by that splendid appearance, unafraid,
I ran to thank him for those wonderful words,;
and not having seen any gift under the decorated spruce,
I seemed puzzled, but not fearful or nearly surprised.
There it stood, my gift from that generous child with golden, curly hair:
a purple spring crocus never seen before, an Alpine flower
which grows in early April in every emerald meadow...
I leaned forward with much gentleness and plucked it from the cold snow.
When I stood up, he was gone and not a trace of him could be found,
and who was that cherub without wings...to leave that flower in the bitter cold?
Wasn't He the Christ Child who was born in a Bethlehem's abandoned stable?
And wasn't hope the meaning of the purple spring crocus so beautiful?
A cherub with a rosy face
and plenty of curly hair
that the breeze loved to lull,
more than the daises so fair;
and that was the closest comparison...
to the beautiful child he once was!
The youngest dreamer ever to be born
with eyes as bright and lively as stars,
such were his to take imagination
beyond every possible dimension;
and such was the closest comparison...
to see himself as the beautiful child he once was!
He grew up too fast with an instinct
that was immensely blessed; so keen,
privileged and gallant seemed that fearless
kid not to be able to earn one's keep,
to make perfection the closest comparison...
to the beautiful child he once was!
The shady paths covered by the swanky pine trees,
were as dusty as any country road which needed rain,
and it came without ever wishing for it; and he welcomed
it by getting wet, to lose himself in its gentle peace;
and what other closest comparison would he have made?...
If not that of the beautiful child he once was without worry and pain!
Entered in Deborah Guzzi's poetry contest
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
It’s cotton for snow in a village I know
with each house in its place on a shelf.
And an angel is there, high in the air
In the top of our tree, by its self.
It’s a manger scene of ceramic and sheen,
And the Christ child watched over by Snoopy.
Though his character don’t fit, doesn’t matter a bit,
The child wanted him there; not Goofy.
It’s carolers singing, and tiny bells ringing,
And the Salvation Army kettle.
It’s cooking and baking, and young hearts waiting
For Santa Clause after they settle.
It’s candles that light our windows at night
And a wreath hanging on our front door.
A child’s surprise, and the glow in his eyes
Among paper and bows on the floor.
It’s church bells that ring to remind of a scene
When into the world there came
A child who was King, who came to redeem
Those who were lost and lame.
The excitement is there, and sounds fill the air
And I celebrate for a reason.
Remembering Christ came to accept all my blame
Is why I celebrate the season.
Ron Lanier
Christmas, 2006
The grower's child and the picker's child want to run away
They want to go to Duluth, the most exotic place they know
We fear he'll get amoralous and ruin us, ruin us
Here the rain is falling, straight as pokers
But never piercing the laconic plane of air
A sudden wind will blow it sideways, straight into eyes
It is too warm to stay in one place, but to follow --
I make up my mind before the gate hits me on the way out
They call for me, but I run, I run
I've run
Weeds underfoot buoy me to the sky
My age doesn't matter now, nor my circumstance
Only my good feet, my big lungs to take in the blue
My calves
I know the laws of the universe but there's no reaction
Not here or now