The snow falls thick outside,
its quiet weight presses against the windows.
Let it snow, let it snow
but the cold feels heavier this year.

The fire crackles softly,
but it can’t quite chase the shadows away.
The tree stands tall,
but its lights seem dim,
flickering faintly like memories
too distant to reach.

Silent night
but the silence has a weight to it,
a hum that fills the room,
reminding you that stillness doesn’t mean peace.

The room is warm,
yet it feels like something is missing,
a hollow that the carol of the bells can’t fill.
We sit together,
but the distance between us stretches
like the snow gathering outside,
quiet and inevitable.

The tree stands in the corner, vibrant and full,
its needles still bright, though winter presses close.
There is joy in the room, but it feels stretched thin,
the space between smiles a little wider than it should be.
The fireplace crackles, but its warmth cannot erase
the coldness that lingers in corners of the heart,
memories too heavy to hide beneath the cheer.

You watch as others unwrap their joy,
but the wrapping paper feels thin,
the ribbons untied, the colors muted.
There is laughter, but it tastes of something sour—
the kind of laughter that echoes too loud
because it is hiding something you don’t want to speak.

Christmas is supposed to be light,
but this year it feels like a burden
draped in tinsel, asking you to carry it
as if you don’t already have enough weight
in your hands.

The first crackle of wrapping paper,
The soft whisper of breath against frosted glass,
A sudden knock—unexpected, warm.
Outside, the streetlight hums a distant song,
A quiet symphony of distant footsteps
and the rhythm of snow, settling in stillness.

The faint jingle of sleigh bells,
carried by the wind, brushing past
the voices of strangers weaving through the night.
Inside, laughter hovers, thick and gentle—
a fire crackles, wood splitting in the hearth,
its hiss a companion to the silence that follows.

Each sound is part of a moment,
one after another, fleeting and eternal.
The world outside swells with life,
but here, in this room, the sounds fold
into a quiet lullaby we only half-hear.

A snowman stood tall in the yard,
His scarf and his hat were both starred,
The children would play,
On that cold, festive day,
As Christmas arrived unbarred

The carolers sang with delight,
Their voices rang out through the night,
With joy in the air,
And warmth everywhere,
It was truly a magical sight.

The trees sparkled under the glow,
The world wrapped in winter’s soft snow,
The kids ran and cheered,
The season appeared,
And the fire in the hearth burned low.

But the sun rose more sharply each day,
The cold slowly started to sway,
He felt in his frame,
A loss he could name,
As the chill slipped away with the gray.

He knew his time was nearly through,
As the world changed from white to blue,
With a soft, final sigh,
He whispered, “Goodbye,”
And accepted the warm winds that grew.

I see you in your day, maybe with a touch of grey
In the kitchen with little faces, smiling on Christmas day
Baking treats and making memories, passing on the love for free
I see you laughing as the flour spills out; all the children jump and shout:
“We love you Grandma, you’re such a mess”, and in your heart you feel blessed
Cookies made on Christmas day can only be made a certain way
A kitchen full of love, that’s a grandma’s secret recipe
They make great cookies, moments and memories

Christmas used to be cookies,
Left out for Santa
Christmas used to be hanging ornaments,
Collected over the years
Christmas used to be waking up early,
Trying to catch Santa in the act
Christmas used to be real trees,
Piled high with presents
Christmas used to be family,
Happiness, safety, and home
Christmas is now saving money,
To buy enough presents for everyone
Christmas is now plastic ornaments,
Because the old ones aren’t at this house
Christmas is now sleeping late,
The only break from life you get
Christmas is now carrying in the fake tree,
Leaving small gifts that mean nothing
Christmas is now disappointing,
Just faint memories, forgotten traditions
What Christmas used to be
Different now-
But we still pretend it’s the same

Ebbing and flowing in
winter months,
buried soft in
snow and cold.
Painted skin and eyes
so they
pulse in
deep red.
Painted hair and nails,
green.
Glowing.
Sharpen the
edge of arms and
fingers to
points and prickles of
festive delight,
mix with crowds alike,
Make whole
and make useless
and make
holly.

After seeing the ruthless killings
of black, tiny, weak kids on TV,
from starvation in Africa
on Christmas Eve,
I tiptoed back to my
white son's room,
made off with the gifts I had left,
burned them,
and killed the Santa Claus.