My Christmas...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Remembering yesteryear.....

Submitted: December 29, 2011

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Submitted: December 29, 2011



I`ll tell you a tale about Christmas,

When its meaning was wonder and joy,

So I`ll have to go back to my childhood

When yours truly was just a small boy.


My story starts with the depression,

When the workers all went on the dole,

Of old England way back in the thirties,

And my Dad got a job,  heavin` coal.


We were luckier than some, I can tell you,

`Cos we had a roof over our head,

There were plenty of folks who were starving,

And many who ended up dead.


Now Christmas don`t stop when you`re hungry,

Or you`re chilled to the bone with no heat,

For the sick and the lame and the homeless,

For the beggar who stands on the street.


No-one at home spoke of presents,

As for money, there wasn`t enough,

Our Christmas was a scrag end of mutton,

And a prayer that it wouldn`t be tough!


I remember it had just started snowing

Christmas Eve of the year thirty two,

We sat by the window and watched it,

As Ma dished up our potato`s and stew.


It was then that the miracle happened,

For my father had started to sing,

Hallelujah to Him in the Highest,

Halleluja to our new born King.


A strange light invaded our kitchen,

And it seemed like it opened our eyes.

Christmas ain`t about turkey and stuffing,

Plum pudding and juicy mince-pies.


If you`re suffering...ill, or you`re homeless,

Or you`re rich, and with servants abound,

Christmas comes to us all through  the Spirit,

Of that Babe who lay sleeping so sound.


Now I often think back to my childhood,

To the squalor of poverty street,

Of my Dad, and my Ma and the children,

And a coal fire without any heat.


So I don`t count my Christmas in money,

Or the gifts that are put round the tree,

My Christmas is Mary and Joseph,

Their Son Jesus who died to save me.



Geoffrey Kennell.

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