For everyone who has lost their way
realize the promise of Christmas Day
all those feeling crippled by fear
understand you can start life anew
by letting the Lord have you

It’s not about colored lights, holly or trees
no matter how beautiful things such as these
not about Santa, presents or snow
it’s all about knowing where you’ll go
at the appointed time to go home

Some feast on dainties, dressed in finest silk,
And travel forth towards the furthest star.
They rest on roses, bathe in whitening milk,
They're hardly touched by any worldly scar.

Some feed on scraps and bear the heavy chains,
They wander where no mirth could ever land.
They sleep on thorns to weep eternal pains,
Where utmost grief extends a hurting hand.

Shall ever I leave? No longer to stay,
Till cold darkness falls then soft, drift away;
Starlight still shall shine, moonlight still shall glow
Words ripped from the pen still onward will go
With you who have breathed fresh life to my soul
Inspired my spirit to grow as a whole.
So much do I owe, words I cannot find
To pour out my feelings to all so kind
With praise, encouragement, oft times critique
Driving me on in this land of mystique.
To Neopoet and friends discovered here
A season approaches, I wish good cheer

alternately titled: a literary retrospective when holiday times living hand to mouth in Penn Valley fraught with slim pickings and yours truly felt utterly miserable that nary a delivery from Santa Claus would be forthcoming.

Reflections
My soul awakensI begin to see
The road that I traveled is now in sight
I begin to see the man that is me
A man that comes out of night into light

Thankful for the family memories
My wife, my children, my friends and my work
I try to forget all of my difficulties
And avoid sins and dangers that will lurk

Right Now is the time to retrain my brain
To be more mindful of what can now be
To ride life's joys on the existing train
I can open my eyes and now see

Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!
My nephew does his ice cream walk
Pounding the ground in a joyful romp

He won't do it for tri-tip,
He won't do it for cake,
Or even pico de gallo with garden grown tomatoes
All of which he is very fond of

Normally he walks real slow with nowhere to go
Unlike his brother who was practically born running
At the age of 2 he's a learned a valuable lesson: Sometimes you must make an exception

It may have been the tangled neurons
buzzing about in my head that tripped me,
knocking the wind out of my passable life
as if sending me tumbling
onto concrete,

splattering like a china doll,

pieces of me scattering into pockets of empty spaces
where once a foundation of confidence stood erect,
holding me safe.

But this is its odious power.

To be tossed about
into the reins of panic,
walls crumbling as I watch myself
slowly
sinking
downward.

To know fear.

The treated wood on this deer stand
is fading grey from all the years
which matches these woods old and bland.
I check for rot as autumn nears
and last night's ground fog disappears.

Carefully I ascend the ladder
and it creaks like my brittle bones.
It holds me so it doesn't matter.
Through these deep woods the wind moans
with desultory low pitched tones.

I am a builder,
Who constructs ,
And who adds value.
I am a creator,
Who uses imagination
In my writing.
I am a singer,
Who sings songs
Written by others.
I am an individual
With my own my ideas
And devices.
Constructing my world.

While out Christmas shopping at Mall Of America with Our Spanky Gang of Little Rascals, who should we bump into but, Scrooge, Fezziwig, Fred, Bob Cratchit, Mrs. Cratchit,Tiny Tim, Jacob Marley main fictitious characters drawn upon under belly, of real life mid eighteen hundreds lowliest British (thermal unit) poverty stricken caste. Das scribe sketched out their soul full collective misfortune, without virtue, but plenti via a vice, which storied lives depicted (i.e.