The Christmas angel sat sadly on the shelf
She sat there all by herself
She had been sitting there for years
You could tell she had cried many tears
For she was covered in dust, except for the streaks
On her beautifully round cheeks

For there was no tree for her to grace the top
One year it wasn't put up, it just came to a stop
All the children had grown up and left
In them the Christmas spirit had been kept
They had always been the reason
The mother had decorated for the season
The reason the smell of cookies baking would fill the house
Now there is not even a cookie crumb, not even for a mouse

So the angel sat all alone
Watching how the darkness had grown
The mother no longer caring
Her sadness, over bearing
Every year it seemed to get worse
The mother feeling Christmas time was a curse
The angel trying to figure out how her cold heart to traverse
How to chase away the darkness and the pain disperse

Then like magic, one Christmas eve a knock on the door
What the mother saw knocked her to the floor
Her eye's filled with tears of joy
There in the doorway stood a little girl and a little boy
The grandbabies had came
Christmas would never be the same
Those tiny little arms held out to be picked up
Had more than over filled the Christmas spirits cup

With laughter and song
The put up the tree, it didn't take long
And the angel was dusted off
Given a kiss and placed on the top
Although old and slightly tattered
It didn't in the lest bit matter
They plugged in the tree, fingers crossed they hoped it would light
All those gathered round the tree gasped at the sight
That little angel had never shined such a bright brilliant light

A single tear rolled down the mother's cheek, the same time one rolled down the face of the angel
A tear of joy and of hope for the future, then the Grandmother scooped up the grandbabies Kimberly and Abel
Held them up so they could see
Just how beautiful that angel could be

©Pauline Russell

If my heart were a garden meant to grow and flourish with each person I gave it to
*Then I've been watering dead plants for years

When I was a kid, my mother told me I needed to grow up quicker
We'd bicker about how life is a straight line and I needed to be a man
with guidance and plans like the palm of my hands wrote my life story
before I could even ignore me. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a man,
that believed night-lights were a scam to force little minds to sleep
like sheep who were always counted on to put eyelids to rest.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a man, a man who stayed up all night
and sighed the next morning that I did not get enough time to sleep.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a man, but the definitions kept changing, and based on society's placement, I was far away from being a man.
I hid the kid inside me locked away behind bars of ribs,
because kids were not allowed in bars, nor were they allowed at work,
at worst I found myself smiling not for the sake of me but others.
I held judgement that grew like a crimson rose with bitter petals
just trying to settle my old moments, live the memories in open
and hope that putting the kid inside me away was the better choice.
My voice, though deep could seep the minds of those who cared enough,
to graft dreams that bare enough for me to help see them through it.
I wish that I knew it, that being a man was somewhat of a ****** dream
because the gleam is never as bright as the source of the light,
and lonely nights were only more terrifying when you're awake.
I met a girl with a beautiful face, who dared to tell the truth
that a roof is merely a ceiling in a simple way and the fact
that I acted like a man did not make me one. I remember the words
like a curse tainting families with the plague for generations
meant to bring indignation but it didn't. The words she said
went to my head and travelled through to my heart like roots
growing shoots that helped me understand that I could change.
'Men don't do that, boys do that'.

I'm a man built on the pressures surrounded me
that I've been remnants of others more than I have been myself
and a night's help could not tell how far that I have been lost.
I tossed away fiction with satisfaction because like Pinocchio
who wanted to be a real boy, I found myself wishing the same
when tears clogged my face as I stood over my best friend's grave...
I was a man who wanted to be a kid, but I've hidden that kid so deep
that I can only ever find him in my sleep, because feeling like a kid again
would only ever come in my dreams.

I watched her body left to rest and I wondered yet...
Why was I a kid who wanted to be a man?

I found an empty book, it's labelled biology- grade nine,
fake lines ran across the book, never any real content,
to feel content with what I read was an impossible matter,
scattered diagrams of human anatomy too far from realism
because realistic diagrams would include labels to hearts
with coloured charts stating that 'this may fall apart-
not by fat barricades, but to paraphrase a different place,
Neruda chases the stars and from afar as the cages of ribs
would rip and sometimes, just enough to have felt loved,
to feel enough with being held for just a night, a short time,
but life is built beyond a biology book.

It is so strange that I have learnt so much more about life
than ninth grade biology because being biologically correct
doesn't ***** the hairs on my back as an assortment of words
like an assortment of birds aren't really meant to be described
as assortments and a biology book isn't really meant to describe life.

Where do I stand? Amongst the broken or amongst the strong,
A destructive song to whistle pass oncoming traffic,
Oh tragic how the tunes I hear in my head are much louder
than the clouded judgements of those just passing by
because I'm blinded. Blinded by grass in the sky, the Earth
seems hurt, confused, upside down but I keep walking,
keep crawling, as though I have shoes made of cloud
and I'm allowed to fly wherever I want.

This isn't the world that raised me up, this is the world
that hurled abuse and painful memories, just to keep me down.
It's what I've allowed and to that I say I'm walking on
because my feet sings a song, the pitter-patter beat
like sleep under a tin roof echoing the serene sounds of raindrops.
The pain stops, the tears I've heard are not falling down my face,
it is the rain, leaking between cracks of a self-made ceiling
and as healing begins, this is my start, by tearing down that roof.

My shoes are made of cloud and I am walking across the sky,
hear me sigh as I say 'this is where I should have started from'
Catacombs are built for the dead, you are breathing, you are alive,
hearts survive, and so will you, so just do me a favour...
tear that ******* roof down and fly.

Step 1
In the age of the doom
Try and enlighten the gloom
because your mind has been twisted
blinded by negative criticism
a misguided decision on who you are
as a person.
If you think the world is dying,
that trying is a burden and a pointless task
just ask yourself, should I plant sunflowers
just to make things look prettier?
because in the age of the doom
don't let chaos consume your mind
because beauty can still exist.

Step 2
It is ok to love yourself
and be selfish from time to time.
You are wonderfully made
with all different shade of colours
so if make-up is your cover
than do what makes you happy.
You do not need to help everyone
sometimes helping yourself
is enough help as it is.
Love others and love yourself
because not everyone is as helpless
as you'd imagined.

Step 3
Be you**
Not the you that others like
but the you that you are comfortable with,
the you that you like
because as clear as day and night,
the only person that matters is you.

___________

There is a flower growing between the cracks in a wall
and the saddest thing is it is not getting enough
sunlight nor water to grow but it survives
simply by the admiration and love
that it gains by surrounding viewers.

There is a flower that grew in the dark,
that grew between cracks in the ground,
between the cracks in the walls
and it is the most beautiful flower I have ever seen.

My inner turmoil is almost limitless
yet your patience seems to be infinite.
Some days I feel like I'm drowning
but I don't own it in pride or proudly.
My face goes beyond wrinkled lines
as if a frown could be a simple sign.
I have a hundred different smiles
and while some point to the sky
only three or four are truly happy
because I'm a dog without an owner
facing thousand others who won't own up,
so even without an owner
I'm somehow still feeling like a lackey.
So can you please find it in you
to come back and remind me
that when I need you, you'll be there.
My soul is bruised by inner turmoil,
so please go grab a shovel from the shed
and when I need it, please help bury me
in the sands, in the dirt and soul;
to relinquish the inner turmoil.