#christmastrees
I was never meant to be clean
Never to wear white
Always tarnished or stained
First it was in green
As I threw my peas to the floor
Then it went to red
As my face welled in anger and let out a wail
Then it was bright green yet again
As grass stains tore their way up my legs
And then red as my face was burned from too many days of sun
It never was anything different
Red and green, red and green
Stop and go
Never stay
Never wait
Go and stop
No slowing down
Maybe that’s why Christmas is so appealing to me
Even with all the empty promises
At least we share a color scheme
I would turn green yet again
As my face churned in jealousy
For those with what I would never have
Never get back
And I would return to red
And red and red and red
Making me go go and go further away
Further from my innocence
My childhood
The red that washed my Mother away
That wiped away my innocence as it ran down my legs for the first time
The same red that spilled from my arm as I shakily held the knife in my hand
I was never to be clean again
Too much red had come in between
With no green in sight
Nothing to keep me moving foreword
Just stopped.
Waiting.
For what, I will never know
Perhaps, for red to mean love
Or passion
And no longer for death and destruction
Anger
Maybe someday
But not today.
Today I’m still stopped. Just waiting for my time.
Forever stained.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 12:08 AM UTC
Husks of chopped evergreen
discarded by the sidewalk
tied to trash,
weeping pine needles
only hope to be compost.
Deflated decoration litter the lawns,
red and green strewn about
lights flickered and burnt out.
Expired eggnog, chicken bones,
crumpled wrapping paper,
empty boxes, metal reindeer,
tinsel and broken candy canes.
Dead christ is still in the holiday,
while we spoke about the night before
we forget we can see him
the morning after.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
That first Christmas,
We cut four branches,
Under the clouds,
From the three pines
On the other side
Of the backyard hedge.
If I went there today,
I'd see the nubs.
The pail full of sand
Came from Daddy's
Circle of cement making.
We firmly planted
The four branches
And wrapped them
With newspaper chains,
Made with the extra edition
From the morning's route.
That night, the moon streamed
Through the bay window,
Spotlighting our tree.
In later years,
We bought trees from the Farmer's Market,
Roping them with twinkling lights
We plugged in.
Daddy never bought a gift or a card
For any special day;
But he annually re-gifted Canada.
This Christmas, the full moon
Will stream again,
And I will tell
His great grand-daughter
The story about the tenacity
Of paper chains,
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC