Christmas Memory Poems | Examples
These Christmas Memory poems are examples of Memory poems about Christmas. These are the best examples of Memory Christmas poems written by international poets.
CHRISTMAS TIME
Every Christmas time, we decorate the Living Room
with foliage fearless and high, along with
a pine tree covered in bright colorful little lights
and in front of the old brick fireplace
we watch fun movies, drinking hot cocoa
wearing our slippers.
Every Christmas time we eat pumpkin pie
with cranberry sauce and a baked turkey,
along with glasses of sparkling cider
we joyfully open presents after a late
Christmas morning breakfast
that is homemade.
Mom trained me to recite poems
with eloquence and gestures,
Confident and proud on stage,
I delivered one with pomp…
Loud cheer for a five-year old,
like a star of Christmas play !
Then, a teen roared, that’s a song!
Christmas Eve, when I was four,
Mama said Santa had come
to visit me at our home!
Milk and cookies, she brought in
where, by the fireplace, he sat
in my daddy's rocking chair...
Uncle dressed like Santa Claus!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fruitcake—a relic
of old kitchens
and
winter hands.
Each bite carries
memories
of my forgotten aunts,
their sugar-dusted aprons,
and their
pertinacious love
wrapped in
parchment paper.
Stubbornly sweet,
and dense.
Cut a thin slice,
let it dissolve
slowly
on your
tongue.
Time becomes edible.
In twenty-fourteen, on a Yule Christmas
Holiday at school in a young lady's
Life, she shares a few moments with her loved
Grandparents. Embracing, showing the deep
And enduring bond they shared together.
It has been seven years since Grandpa passed.
On Christmas Day those moments privately
With her grandmother are spent silently,
Shedding tears at the head of his headstone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
aluminum tree gleams,
a cold miracle~
electric blue, then pink,
spun from the future.
flannel pajamas,
stiff with newness,
crackle like wrapping paper
under the tree.
toy guns bark in the den,
plastic rifles with no recoil.
Tiny Tears weeps
her forever-damp dress.
Barbie waits, legs arched
for a life she can’t bend.
Silly Putty lifts
the funnies right off the page.
Mr. Potato Head,
eyeless in the morning light,
grins with his spare parts~
a face we assembled ourselves
using real potatoes.
‘Twas Christmas 1955
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The oven hums,
a steady hymn.
Like December's first snow,
flour drifts across the countertop.
Her hands~
kneading, rolling, pressing~
leave maps in the dough.
I trace them with a cookie cutter,
star-shaped, blunt at the edges.
Powdered sugar hangs in the air,
a sweet ghost.
We laugh,
and it sticks to our cheeks,
to the aprons she sewed from fabric scraps,
to the memories we don’t yet know
we’re making.
The timer rings.
The cookies glow.
And for a moment,
the whole world is warm.
When Christmas nears, I reminisce
about the ones that won’t be there
for gift exchange and scrumptious meals.
I visualize each empty chair.
Then one by one, my picture books
come off the shelves. I dwell upon
the photos of my nephew, brother,
Mom, and Dad. Dear God, they’re gone!
Nostalgia can be friend or foe.
At times like these, he is a friend
who lingers only long enough
to help me wipe my tears and mend.
It’s time to load the gifts and food
to share with all my family.
No signs of grief will mar my smile.
Just joyful love is all they’ll see.
To honor loved ones we have lost,
we’ll share the special memories
that make us smile instead of cry.
Our praises won’t be eulogies!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
empty now, the stocking droops beneath the mantel,
cinnamon lingering in its empty toes.
the heels are frayed, Christmas memories
and the wool unraveling like vintage Christmas cards.
it stands open recalling the remnants of sweetness~
oranges, candy canes, and chocolate coins.
how something so small holds so much absence.
Well, hey there!
I remember you, Christmas.
You’re the sights, sounds and tastes
of my dearest yesterdays.
Your hugs and laughter
have not ghostly passed
they are part of us - we’re imprinted.
Let’s dance and laugh at obsidian oblivions
celebrating as one
until time itself comes undone.
.
.
A song for this:
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_19.mp3
a few balls
on skinny limbs
of tinsel
a most
humble
christmas tree
I look back
at photos
child to teen
it was the
christmases
of our youth
these old photos
remind me of
growing up poor
they remind me
of joy from hearing
christmas carols
they remind me
of family reunions
with festive foods
a time when
grand-parents
were still with us
a time when
we were fulfilled
just being together
that beautiful
old pathetic
christmas tree
bearer of
loving memories
that will never dim
AP: 2nd place 2026, Honorable Mention 2025
It's with a deep feeling of love that
we decorate our Christmas tree
and mount it in a place of honour
so it brings joy to all who
will come to rest their eyes upon it.
It's a tradition close to our heart
as we bestow charm and beauty on each branch.
Many ornaments have sentimental value
as they've been passed down with great care
through years and generations.
Sparkle and glitter light up the season
with added sprinklings and flicks of magic.
Everyone enjoys how it brings out the child in us
as we reminisce about Christmases past
and feel nostalgic for loved ones we dearly miss.
AP: 2nd place 2025
Winter wonderland through the Alps.
Fabulous romantic lovers' trip of a lifetime.
Mesmorizing memories to last forever.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2025
These days, The Grinch hasn't much to do -
retired to Florida, they say - could be true.
So, he bought a ticket, and he flew.
A mind, muddled and clouded, conjured Cindy Lou,
and a forgotten place, "the Land of the Who?"
As he flew that jet airplane, so fast, so fleet,
his mind was captured by something sweet.
There was no fanfare, nor any trumpet,
as the plane passed by Mount Crumpit...
and The Grinch, he had a window seat.
My dreams are glossaries of his charms and virtues
More than those things that Santa can bring.
The curl of his lips
their sweet flavor
and his molesting appreciations
If you feel sweet rhapsodies, are they imagined?
But just as the light of bright stars recede
and interstellar constellations wither
memories of dream-state passions fade.
Not that the spheres of their collateral radiance wilts -
in recounting those subconscious tempest smolderings
- we hold them tenderly in our favors.
.
.
A Christmas playlist:
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_01.mp3