Have you already skipped down to read the poem? If so, you could forego the following prose if you wanna? Won’t hurt my feelin’s since the poetry is the important bit for the week anyway. Like many of my columns, the second half or so is where I get to my point (sometimes completely unrelated the the first half?!).
I managed to fracture bones in both legs and my spine playin’ paratrooper, years before many of you were born. Curiously, on my birthday (day after Christmas) somehow I remained 44! But I still hurt every day.
There is pain worse than the pain left over from injuries to the body (for too many folks). Some people carry emotional pain around for a lifetime? Often the source of the pain is so long ago, buried so deep in our (marvelously resilient) minds that a person never really understands why something hurts?
I’d meant to publish this poem alone, as a “letter to the editor” from that other alter ego, me. But the folks at the paper explained to me that my already bein’ a big shot columnist, precludes me from havin’ letters to the editor published! Phooey!
That makes it hard for me ‘cuz I often have things I’d like to say, but don’t have space enough (often enough) to git it all said! I expect this doesn’t bother many of you, since ignorin’ me once a week is enough?
Kinda wanted this printed a day or two after Christmas, because that’s when it takes place (I think?). Like you, I can’t really be sure? But I know it (or something like it) takes place way too often in our world.
Children, captive in situations (I won’t call them homes) where early hurts of life are inflicted on them, by the people (?) who are suppose to show (and teach) them love.
Presents aren’t all that important. But the lack of them is often brought on by a lack of love. Drugs, alcohol, other “needs” of adults in “homes” take precedence. Meanwhile those “adults” don’t even realize the things they do (or don’t do) stay with the child (forever).
One last little thing (cuz I know yer thinkin’ it) this isn’t autobiographical. It’s merely me, meddlin’ in the thought processes of those who might need it.
I Don’t Know About You..., If this poem hits home, you might want to change your ways.
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Have you already skipped down to read the poem? If so, you could forego the following prose if you wanna? Won’t hurt my feelin’s since the poetry is the important bit for the week anyway. Like many of my columns, the second half or so is where I get to my point (sometimes completely unrelated the the first half?!).
I managed to fracture bones in both legs and my spine playin’ paratrooper, years before many of you were born. Curiously, on my birthday (day after Christmas) somehow I remained 44! But I still hurt every day.
There is pain worse than the pain left over from injuries to the body (for too many folks). Some people carry emotional pain around for a lifetime? Often the source of the pain is so long ago, buried so deep in our (marvelously resilient) minds that a person never really understands why something hurts?
I’d meant to publish this poem alone, as a “letter to the editor” from that other alter ego, me. But the folks at the paper explained to me that my already bein’ a big shot columnist, precludes me from havin’ letters to the editor published! Phooey!
That makes it hard for me ‘cuz I often have things I’d like to say, but don’t have space enough (often enough) to git it all said! I expect this doesn’t bother many of you, since ignorin’ me once a week is enough?
Kinda wanted this printed a day or two after Christmas, because that’s when it takes place (I think?). Like you, I can’t really be sure? But I know it (or something like it) takes place way too often in our world.
Children, captive in situations (I won’t call them homes) where early hurts of life are inflicted on them, by the people (?) who are suppose to show (and teach) them love.
Presents aren’t all that important. But the lack of them is often brought on by a lack of love. Drugs, alcohol, other “needs” of adults in “homes” take precedence. Meanwhile those “adults” don’t even realize the things they do (or don’t do) stay with the child (forever).
One last little thing (cuz I know yer thinkin’ it) this isn’t autobiographical. It’s merely me, meddlin’ in the thought processes of those who might need it.
I Don’t Know About You..., If this poem hits home, you might want to change your ways.
Father, Is This the Night Before Christmas?
Jack could only ponder buried in thought
He’d asked a few days before, but for naught.
Dad’s at the beer-garden quaffing his draught
Mom’s In the kitchen upset, overwrought.
Sister in her room, doing what he cared not
Can’t knock on her door, or she’ll fly hot.
Leave her to herself, enjoy what she’s got.
Cowering in his room he knew he ought,
Make the trek to the beer garden in town
Fetch Dad from his corner, wearing his frown.
Mom said ”Bring ‘im home, the silly old clown,
A’fore he’s caused trouble, an’ lockup bound”
Pulling on his old coat ‘gainst the fierce cold
Jack headed for town just as he was told.
No light burden, but for ten he was bold.
Bring home father, started at eight years old.
Found in his corner, dear father nodding
His eyes awoke with Jacks’ gentle prodding.
Together they began their slow plodding.
Jack thought, father needs a good sodding.
Late they got home, supper eaten, at last.
Father scowling took his meal, eyes downcast.
Jack thanked his Mom for the meager repast.
He started, then stopped, and finally asked.
As Mom leaned on the sink, Jack slowly spoke.
Dad lit his old pipe, puffed out the stale smoke.
He snorted and laughed, like he’d heard a joke.
Jack stood waiting, ‘til father harshly spoke.
“Life's been too hard, we can only blame fate,
Presents you’d like, but you’ll just have to wait.
Moneys all gone, you have misread the date,
This day before Christmas came early, not late”.
Jack turned to the stairs and started for bed
Biting down on his lip, eyes growing red.
T’was just too important to leave unsaid,
Sure he’d been right to ask just before bed?
Many lucky children still ask each year
Isn’t this the time when Christmas draws near?
Some, like Jack hope and pray but I fear,
Christmas for them comes and goes without cheer.
They toil all year at their daily home tasks,
Praying that this year is different than last
A simple childs question, all that they ask,
“Father, Is This the Night Before Christmas?”
Cal Teeple, Observational Cogitation Consortium founder is often found three stools down, where he may be ignored, accosted or contacted. Also at: wayneindependent.com/cal Or At: calteeple@g-mail.com.
