Christmas Poems

These are Christmas poems by Michael R. Burch. Some are darker Christmas poems and heretical Christmas poems. 

The First Christmas
by Michael R. Burch

’Twas in a land so long ago . . .
the lambs lay blanketed in snow
and little children everywhere
sat and watched warm embers glow
and dreamed (of what, we do not know).

And THEN—a star appeared on high,
The brightest man had ever seen!
It made the children whisper low
in puzzled awe (what did it mean?).
It made the wooly lambkins cry.

Holly, Hearts, Home

by Regina

Hanging wreaths of holly, heartened hello's,
hardworking men, women, of hand to mouth
hardships,
homeless hearts housed, having hot cocoa,
hearty helpings of holiday homemade fare,
hearthstone and home harmony,
hearken!
haloed host of Heaven's angels,
heralding the Holy One,
hurry here, His children hail Him,
He harbors hope for the humble have-nots.

Snow

Snowflakes fall on the ground like
Wisdom that needs to be spread.
The fatter ones are the harshest ones,
And those are the ones that need to be said.
The tiniest flakes are the one-liners,
The bits of truths we learn every day
That sprinkle knowledge in my hair.
People avoid harsh truths,
But sometimes the truth is dressed as
A winter wonderland,
And sometimes that makes it
Easier to swallow.
I welcome snow on cold mornings.
It makes coming to life a lot simpler

Snow

Snowflakes fall on the ground like
Wisdom that needs to be spread.
The fatter ones are the harshest ones,
And those are the ones that need to be said.
The tiniest flakes are the one-liners,
The bits of truths we learn every day
That sprinkle knowledge in my hair.
People avoid harsh truths,
But sometimes the truth is dressed as
A winter wonderland,
And sometimes that makes it
Easier to swallow.
I welcome snow on cold mornings.
It makes coming to life a lot simpler

Twas just this time, last year, I died

445

'Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms—
It had the Tassels on—

I thought how yellow it would look—
When Richard went to mill—
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.

I thought just how Red—Apples wedged
The Stubble's joints between—
And the Carts stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in—

I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,


Trivia or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London excer

Thus far the Muse has trac'd in useful lays
The proper implements for wintry ways;
Has taught the walker, with judicious eyes,
To read the various warnings of the skies.
Now venture, Muse, from home to range the town,
And for the public safety risk thy own.

For ease and for dispatch, the morning's best;
No tides of passengers the street molest.
You'll see a draggled damsel, here and there,
From Billingsgate her fishy traffic bear;
On doors the sallow milk-maid chalks her gains;


To Theodore Roosevelt

Son of a sire whose heart beat ever true
To God, to country, and the fireside love
To which returning, like a homing dove,
From each high duty done, he gladly flew,
Complete, yet touched by genius through and through,
The lofty qualities that made him great,
Loved in his home and priceless to the state,
By Heaven's grace are garnered up in you.
Be yours, we pray, the dauntless heart of youth,
The eye to see the humor of the game,
The scorn of lies, the large Batavian mirth;


Winter

A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose,
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,
Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth;
Or circled by them as thy lips declare
Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,


Window Shopper

I stood before a candy shop
Which with a Christmas radiance shone;
I saw my parents pass and stop
To grin at me and then go on.
The sweets were heaped in gleamy rows;
On each I feasted - what a game!
Against the glass with flatted nose,
Gulping my spittle as it came;
So still I stood, and stared and dreamed,
Savouring sweetness with my eyes,
Devouring dainties till it seemed
My candy shop was paradise.

I had, I think, but five years old,
And though three-score and ten have passed,


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