A Christmas Thought (short story)
by
rgpage
This time of the year, when once giving from the heart has since melted like the snow in Spring to the meaningless demand for expensive toys and gadgets; and Santa has waned to no more than the all-giving sugar daddy to each and every child, and a tireless crutch to the mindless parent during the year; “Santa’s watching so you’d better be good.”
And alas, there I stood in this huge department store amid a vast forest of toys, colors, and noises, fallen prey to this modern day hypocrisy known as Christmas. Being of a lower middle economical standard, and having with such stealth blindness juggled expenses and bills to afford myself the opportunity to plunge even deeper into dept. I pondered these playful wonders of modern day technology. All about countless numbers of people were doing as I in efforts to reward their children for their year of good service.
This was when I saw her. As fast as this seasonal frenzy had overtaken me just days earlier, it vanished for a time as I watched her. It must have been that she seemed so out of place in this hurry-scurry festive scene of Christmas shopping that she caught my eye. She was very old and her tattered, worn out clothing all too obviously reflected the fact that she couldn’t afford much. While others struggled about her almost comically laden with brightly colored packages, this old woman had nothing more than an old purse dangling from her arm. Slowly she moved, seemingly pained with the infirmities which accompany old age. She appeared overweight for her stature which I’m sure added to her discomfort. When she stopped in front of the doll section her old, pudgy face glowed with joy. Undoubtedly a doll for a little granddaughter, I was sure no more as she couldn’t possibly afford more. I watched as she studied each doll
and its price tag, going from one to the next. Finally she stopped to give particular attention to one little doll adorned with colorful ribbons and big bright blue eyes. Then putting the doll back, she opened her purse and I watched as she counted the small amount of money that she had.
By this time I had become so unexplainably absorbed with watching the old woman, who with a smile closed her purse, retrieved the doll and walked slowly and painfully to the checkout counter to wait in line. Around her the noise of parents and children alike waiting their turn to check out didn’t seem to bother her as she patiently waited, holding the precious little doll for an equally precious granddaughter. Finally when her turn came, an all to cruel yet human trait appeared in not only the people waiting behind her but the checkout clerk as well. Their impatience to maintain a steady flow of human traffic through the turnstiles came to the forefront almost obliterating this seasonal spirit. This didn’t seem to deter the old woman from slowly and surely counting out the correct change, leaving her very little to return to her purse.
With this done and the doll tucked away in a shopping sack, she proceeded through the large glass doors and out into the cold December night. A passing thought, “one special gift for one special person,” went through my mind as I continued my own, now more selective tour of annual duty. Looking over my shoulder for one last glimpse of the old woman, I suddenly felt as if struck by a jolt of electricity as I saw her on her back in the slushy snow, struggling like an over-turned turtle.
Bolting out the door hoping to be the first to reach her, I almost found myself lying next to her on the slick sidewalk. Nothing was said as I struggled to lift her up. Once this was accomplished I asked her if she was alright. Instead of answering she started looking around for her package. I spotted the torn, soaked paper sack some ten feet away in a slushy puddle and went to retrieve it. The doll had come half way out of the sack and her little blonde curls were now filled with water and slush; and as I handed it back I searched the old woman’s face for even a trace of sadness, there was none. Instead she looked at me smiled and said, “thank you young man, it’ll dry out, it’ll be alright, Merry Christmas.” Then holding the doll in both hands, she turned and went on her way, much slower and much more cautiously. I just stood there and watched her until she finally disappeared in the crowd and darkness and thought to myself, “maybe Santa Claus isn’t a man after all.”
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
by
rgpage
the way at certain times i feel
my hopes, my life, my only goals
take wing to mental fantasies and soar
high above the scarred and tortured reality
to which i awaken each day.
alone now i feel the excitement from
the magnitude with which my giant brown
winged chariot carries me on an odyssey
seen only through my mind’s eye.
and as i look out across the broad massive
expanse of one wing alone, dwarfed by just
a solitary feather, i feel the security of
my mental fortress.
before me lies the horizon of life, a life
in which the sun is slowly waning toward the
west, oh God let this vehicle of mine catch
just the traces of twilight and hold them.
many times i’ve flown and many times found
release and gently glided to a soft landing
in slumber; sheltered in that darkened void
until awakened by the harsh light of day and
only then to realize that my journey had safely ended.
the light of life is real, yet the dusky
light of evening with its twilight softness
rounding off the sharp edges of my loneliness
is what i must cling to, and to this light i fly.
one day soon, with the change of the season
the sun will set completely, and
i on my final voyage will streak into the
darkness, crashing into the inevitable mountain
of death. leaving not the traces of sight or
sound, but just the absence of a person so
wrapped up in his own loneliness that he
couldn’t see the true light and love of those
around him….
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
by
rgpage
Beautiful rain, so life giving where it needs it most. My spirit glides through the beautiful rain, refreshing my thirsty soul, extinguishing hell’s fire that sometimes got to close. The Lord won’t let me burn when my frightened soul cries out for forgiveness. Please cover my friends as the wide scope of your beautiful rain clouds sit over my head and stretch out to protect my friends and family…thank you Lord…rgp
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
by
rgpage
to be loved
how should I act?
not poor and pathetic
maybe wealthy, athletic.
a man of song
a man of dance
one most willing
to take a chance.
with friendly smile
or cheeky grin,
no down cast eyes
and quivering chin.
no pity’s not
the way to go,
should never let
my feelings show.
but wait a minute
how honest is that?
a constant smile
and tip of the hat…?
a loveable rogue
that everyone knows,
with a pose out of vogue
where my best side shows.
don’t let her see
the inner me,
from contradictions
she might flee.
they say all’s fair
in love and war,
so give her what
she needs to see
just that and
nothing more….
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
by
rgpage
hollow now my world has grown
with age that time has ****** on me.
from carefree childhood days i'd known,
from days of climbing in a tree.
from summer sunlit mornings
from sundays in the park.
i didn't see time's warnings
or see the sun grow dark.
i didn't see the stranger
who followed me one day.
i didn't sense the danger
as i went off to play.
with eager youth i left from home
the world was my shell.
i didn't see the stranger
who'd lead me to my hell.
i'd lifted weights with youthful ease
these weights now known as life.
did what i wanted as i pleased;
i took myself a wife.
and with my wife we had a child
we had a baby boy.
with carefree sundays in the park
he filled our lives with joy.
we watched his life as he grew strong
'til off to war he went.
he told his mom, "it won't be long
until my journey's spent."
and as his ship pulled from the pier
i saw the stranger's face.
with deep set eyes he blankly starred,
he seemed so out of place.
i felt as if i'd known this man
had known him all my life.
in parks where as a youth i ran
and when i met my wife.
it wasn't long our son had gone
my wife had passed away.
and in the war he followed her
just six months to the day.
old and lonely now i sit
and watch the children play.
on carefree sundays in the park
until that final day.
a day in which the stranger comes
and takes me to my rest.
to my loving wife and son
upon my final breath.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
by
rgpage
In this quiet time of night, I lie alone and prey to the bitter pain of
joy's absence. Lost in my mind's shallow thoughts the sharp fragments of
happy memories since shattered ***** at the sensitive fringes of my sleep.
Sleep: Nature's sanctuary
A quiet haven, an island set apart
from the daily consciousness of life
where my thoughts may at last run free.
An island with white sandy shores as
far as the eye can see. Blemished only
by my solitary figure walking the blue
water's edge.
And the forests of my paradise, their
deep green density gives substance to
my world. Often I stop to ponder their
far reaching greenness.
The warm subtle breeze carrying the
fragrance of this foliage across my
face, fills my nostrils with the pleasures
of nature.
And occasionally a gull overhead,
drifting unchallenged on the soft
warm currents of the azure, as free
in his world as I in mine; lends companionship.
All of the sudden in the beat of a heart,
from no where a large black cloud appears
to smother the sun's warm light, turning
the blue sky and green foliage black
and the white sand that I once walked
upon a cold gray.
And just ahead of me lying there in
death's humiliation, my winged companion;
soaked and scorned at the dark water's
edge.
I awaken:
This cold room and bed the greatest part of my conscious moment, and the sound of a distant train bell mocking the destruction of my comfort; its havoc upon my sleep done it now moves on. Saddened I once again wade through the shallow bogs of my loneliness, and the pains of memories of the love and life i'd wasted return. This painful sleepless night a most cruel retribution for my past. So firmly entrenched it seems I may never return to my paradise; yet remain in this cold room to suffer the long night's tortures.
Returning:
The warm sunlight, and gentle caress
of the water's pulse upon the white
sand.
And overhead my pure white friend
again drifts on the warm currents of
air, heralding not my return
but praising my presence....
...for my presence alone, gives
life to this warm yet oh so precariously
balanced paradise.
The white beach with its warm sand
leads me on my journey to the morning,
as I walk the blue water’s edge.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
by
rgpage
Now slipping from my quiet night
my captive mind in swirling motion.
From my cold and darkened room
with hollow days and lingering hours;
from this life i slip away.
And journey now i cross the seasons
time's own boundaries hold me not.
I course my way from winter's cold
past infant spring and summer's hot.
'Til on the sandy shores of fall
as in the past i gently land.
I cast my gaze out toward the west
across an endless stretch of waves,
and sit upon the sand.
An evening breeze now strokes my face
the autumn sun is on the wane,
and as it goes it takes the tide
as if its journey needs a friend
to stay it from life's friend less pain.
And like a harlot in the night
to keep me from life's friendless pain.
I strive to seek and hold her near ,
her softened shape clutched next to mine
to keep my lonely heart from fear.
Yes to her side i often journey
her calming presence soothes my mind,
her pulse the breakers on the sand;
the sand her softened skin;
the evening breeze, her scented hair;
with her a gentle peace i find...
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
by
rgpage
of all God's majesty the power he wields
from His smallest flower to most vengeful wrath.
from dawns first light over frosted fields
His simplest miracles lining our paths.
let's take the time from our journey to stay
and admire His artistry quiet and grand.
with quiet love He closes each day
artistic beauty for this moment planned.
and as He takes the sun from our sight
the sky brightens up with colors asplash.
'til gone from our view to the darkness of night
if we don't take the time His efforts are dashed.
and lost to us now just time in the day
for God's gift to us we did not see
we did not see His nature at play;
or know for us His love to be.
in closing let's pray to God's quieter side
for this particular time of day.
that we get time out from our hectic stride
to take in His grandeur and say.….....thank you Lord.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
The Slow-Bullet
by rgpage
In the early days of Viet Nam
the American draft was going strong.
Young men in their prime of life,
were forced and herded into world strife.
A generation of America’s best, were
then brought home and laid to rest.
Wall Street smiled, the money flowed
the “fat Cats” called it money owed.
In towns and cities big and small,
families waited, worried, and cried.
Groups appeared, dissention grew.
"Mothers grab your son’s and hide."
There were those who felt their duty strong,
to take the leap toward blood and strife
with McNamara herding them along.
Known to the grunts as “Mac the Knife.”
The madness grew to a global scale
with those that were for and those against.
In bombing, selective targets became the norm
keeping the rest of the world from harm.
With those who didn’t feel their duty strong,
a path to the north they took.
They packed what they could, burned their cards
and paused for one last look.
With this some parents felt relief,
while others felt the disgrace. Of seeing
the grief so many went through after
having their futures erased.
The war took over 58,000 American lives;
men and women both, (before we flew away).
Wall Street got their wages for blood, with
broken lives in pain, many thousands more would pay.
With thousands more that were yet to be lost, after returning home.
Physically and mentally scarred, even those seeming
perfectly whole. Then saying good-by to the ones they loved
in their own special way. They stoically waited for the slow-bullet to come to finally take them away…
Suicide has taken 3 or 4 times the lives than the war took. My heart cries for every last one of them…Robert G. Page, Viet Nam Vet. ‘66-’67.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
little furry yappers and big lumbering well winter rested dawgs spring is here, spring is here went to the dog park today, so many smells and owner's yells at their hairy kids at play. they don't care, it's fun in the sun as off they run and find new friends today. when they get home they'll sleep and dream of their magical time in a distant place, 'cause spring is here hooray...
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC