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About This Author
A changeling spirit,
constantly evolving,
revolving around an inner core,
spinning forth legend and lore,
stories and lives
as I come to grips
with who and what I am,
have been and may be.
I am a phoenix:
rising ever above and beyond!
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The White Board #625897 added December 24, 2008 at 5:26pm
Restrictions: None
White...which is as it should be!
The Christmas Angel
Late one night in the toy store
the old man trimmed his tree
with all his love
and all his skill
with toys carved through his artistry.
Little toy soldiers at attention stood
guarding the Christmas Spirit.
Golden bells chimed their song
so true that you could feel it.
Mr. Angelino was his name-
pure white of hair and brow.
A size-less man,
with calloused hands
who answered questions of why and how.
In front of the crackling fireplace
(that burned the whole year through)
he'd carve and talk;
inspire and dream,
telling marvelous stories
he would swear were true!
His hands always caressed a piece of wood
as he sat in his hand-carved rocking chair
waiting for an idea to come
as to what it could be
with a nick here or there.
I used to love the toyshop-
I always felt at home; secure.
He always knew
when life was wrong. . .
and when it was, he'd find a cure.
Until one day I didn't go in,
instead I passed him by
and although he'd come to the door and watch
he never pressed for why.
Summer heat baked leaves to brown,
Autumn cooled, then snowflakes flew.
I turned to my writing,
to books, to dreams
and never guessed the old man knew
the problems that tormented me so,
the teasing the teacher's pet had received
and without my ever breathing a word
Mr. Angelino's cure was thus conceived.
When you are the odd-girl-out in town
for some reason different from the very start,
the one who is teased
about her name and her dress and her grades
feels very strange and very apart.
Just when every girl needs to feel pretty
a head-on collision wept colors dim--
clear glass
blocking out the light--
bandages and scars; without and within.
Kids are cruel, they don't understand.
Unable to cherish what it meant to see
and so they laughed
and teased and joked
at the glasses I wore, and so at me.
Every year at the toystore
the old man trimmed his Christmas tree.
Every year
he carved a new angel
to crown the top for all to see.
He must have had fifty
from previous years; each one a masterpiece.
All of them different,
all of them carved;
each one a herald of Christmas Peace.
The Christmas Angel
he carved that year
was his last. . .unfortunately.
He carved the magic
of his craft
into a special angel for all to see.
He waited until Christmas Eve
to light his tree that year
and all the people crowded 'round his store
singing songs of joy and cheer.
While they waited together:
I stood there alone
on the side
being pelted with snowballs:
wanting to be there,
yet wanting to hide.
Wondering why after all these months
I was still being teased about my glasses thick.
When a deep expectancy
stilled the crowd
as Mr. Angelino lit the candle's wick.
I heard the crowd murmur in delight,
saw fingers pointed at the tree
and simply
couldn't understand
when everyone turned to look at me.
The crowd parted leaving a path
of faces which now were smiling at me.
Feeling foolish
embarrassed, scared,
I walked to the window and saw his tree.
Suddenly I understood
and lifted my head up high.
Someone began singing "Silent Night"
and outside the toystore
joy was nigh!
There on top of the Christmas Tree
carved with a theme for the masses
was a beautiful, smiling angel
wearing
a thick pair of glasses!
Merry Christmas Everyone!
May your days to come
be full of joy!
Love,
Robin |
© Copyright 2008 Fyn (UN: fyndorian at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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