We are the face of Christmas
If you’ll look inside you’ll see
In a place where only children hide
That’s where the face will be.

The Christmas bell ringing on the door
As I exit the small downtown store on 5th and Main.
It reminds me once again that it is Christmas.
On the sidewalk a cold North wind flushes my cheeks red,
I tighten my scarf tighter around my neck.

I round a corner and just across the street I see several
Gathered around a large table, all waiting in a line.
Curious, I cross the street and take up my place.
I look around the line to see a sign that says –

“The Real Santa Clause- $1.00”

One by one people step up to the old man behind
The table and hand him a dollar –
The old man reaches into a large red bag under the table
And produces a small doll of Santa Clause.

One step at a time I move closer to the old man until
It is almost my turn to give him a dollar.
I watch as those in front of me walk away with their doll,
Each one walking a few steps away and then they abruptly stop,
Looking back to the old man, their eyes with a questioning awe.

It’s my turn – finally - I step up to the table with my dollar in my hand.
I hold out my dollar and then it becomes clear to me that the old man is blind
For I have to find his open hand to place the dollar into.
He accepts the payment and opens the red bag feeling for my prize.

The old man chants “Merry Christmas” as he hands me the doll
Seeming to talk more to the doll than he was to me.
Receiving the doll I repay the emotion returning the “Merry Christmas.”
The old man nodding his head as if to say yes all the while.

Walking away I look down at the Santa Clause figure in my hand.
I notice one piece of clothing that doesn’t seem to fit.
The doll has a scarf wrapped around its head.
It’s a tiny copy of...
Of the scarf that I am wearing!

Quickly I unwrap the scarf from Santa’s face and find –

The face on my Santa

IS ME

We are the face of Christmas
If you’ll look inside you’ll see
In a place where only children hide
That’s where the face will be.

With a whispering wind in silence she sings -
Her raptured emotion stirring even the trees.
The old wind chime chants out its haunting ring -
Singing within her crystalline voice.
Yes she hung it long ago just where it is,
Another reminder that she was here
And somehow she is still near.
But I just cannot find it in me to rejoice.

That day it was snowing and cold.
She had asked me to hang it days before.
Somehow I forgot and I suppose that rather than scold
Me she decided to take care of it herself.
She had on her nightie, her bath robe and my old work boots.
She had the wind chimes, a hammer, a nail and a chair.
At the moment I didn’t think that I had ever loved her more.
I was wrong.

Keep singing - my darling...... please keep on singing

In times to come, will you believe me or believe my verse
When they come to place the words “Poet” on my tomb?
But if I write of the hidden beauty found in those eyes,
Or try to solidly account for all of your graces
Heaven itself would stop and say, "This poet lies,
Such heavenly features never left our heavenly places."
So should my letters become yellowed with age,
Or be ravaged by old women of less truth than tongue,
Sentencing my words to remain inside this poet's cage,
A simple wrinkle of some ancient love song.
Through your children that live in that futuristic time,
You will live twice, in them and in this rhyme.

My nature, once pleaded for one of these darling ones!
The amazing hope only found in the fair women down here.
A strength found only in the wilderness having the ability
To drink bourbon until dawn being absolutely naughty
And then the next morning to show you how to properly
Use a fork and knife while signing thank you cards.
To be raised up to all the heights any man could bear:
Has my God ordained my fate to be southern reborn?
Perhaps he has indeed given this soul another turn.
Gullied without a patriot's name, have I lost my sense?
Yet to be treated as if I were by law a prince.
Am I so brave or just this Belle’s tool?
I never saw a patriot yet that wasn’t a fool.
Here comes she now with religion and the laws
Should I be Absalom or should I be David's cause?
But I am the instructor, or have I lost my place?
She has taken me over with so much grace.
Good heavens, how fast must a patriot pant!
She stole me away by saying “A saint I ain’t.”
Pulling off my shoes as she pulls me down from my throne
I cross my eyes as I moan and I groan.
A kingly battle within the sweetest of torments,
Was their ever a prerequisite or my consent?
The look in her eyes – flames, fire and fury – nothing to lose.
Inferring this infernal night is ours to depose;
Oh God it’s true she’s petitioned me to approve her by choice,
But are not my hands still powered by my voice?
So my pious subjects, for my safety please pray.
I do think this Belle has taken all my will away.

These flakes that fall - ever so effortlessly,
They bathe my mind with their peace and liberty - tranquility.
They have no rule and yet no precedence found
No law circumscribed - falling flawlessly upon the ground.
They cover the wildest desires of the woods and caves,
Turning these savages into bitterly cold slaves.
Snowflakes times billions, to and fro they blow,
Making fresh and clean of all they forego.
Hidden within the silence - a gentle song they bring.
Listen, listen can you not hear them sing?
They recover every note and they give their best,
Laughter, loving, so cold yet only the warmest expressed.
Beckoning me to play along so they can be obeyed,
I place one keyboard on the handrail I made,
Turn it on and listen intently to what they create.
Yearning to learn from my new classmate,
Random bolts at first with no formal design,
But somehow begging for me to join.
With another keyboard I listen and strain,
Allowing the snowflakes to quietly reign.
I close my eyes and touch the keys with their wise delight,
Saw searing sounds, honest and right.
In contemplation I feel their deepest of scars,
As they cover the memory of all the civil wars.
They moderate the worst of men, now disqualified,
Inclined in the balance taking them to the better side.
With calmness my fingers manage it well,
And my hands find no occasion to rebel.
Listen, listen can you hear the love as it leans,
Be careful Devil, the flakes will erase all your means.
Softly covering all those ill desires,
The good old cause revived, this their plot requires.
Darkness turns to a powdery white erasing all of everything,
Raising up the common-wealth, covering the evil kings.

from rain,
should i turn into a storm?
howling like the wind,
making noise,
to get you to hear me?
more raindrops; more tears,
to make you feel
drenched in remorse?
harsher and faster,
much like a hurricane,
to get you to see
how messed up i am?
when i'm stronger
like the storm,
would you love me more?

Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again