Writers Corner for December 23, 2011

MEMORY OF CHRISTMASES PAST

A wealth of green with candle glows,

Upon this door my memory holds.

A special place that's sheer delight,

To all burst forth on Christmas night.

With sparkling eyes, a tiny hand,

I opened this door to my wonderland.

Draped ropes of red and green are held,

Like years before, with bright, red bells.

There's mistletoe, tinsel and holly,

And best of all the Christmas tree,

It's eight feet tall; I'm only three.

A beauty of shimmering, twinkling light,

Reflects in my eyes and heart alike.

All this, so special and so dear,

"Grandma, Grandpa, I'm finally here!"

- Gloria Vonberg

•••

THE PERFECT GIFT

Give me please, the perfect gift,

One with warmth and joy,

One that will patch up any rift,

Be it from girl or boy.

Give my gift in any size;

it's guaranteed to fit.

Leave off all the ribbons and ties

And paper, which wouldn't fit.

Send me the gift, which won't be exchanged.

Give me a hug, and don't be ashamed.

I needed that now, didn't you?

- Ramona Hollenbeck, Pinehurst

•••

CHRISTMAS BELLS

Once upon a Christmas Eve,

In a land where blizzards blow.

In a land where icy waters,

Through icy rivers flow,

A church bell keeper,

Lay on his simple bed.

He had but one young daughter,

To cool his fevered head.

"I'll go, she said, this evening,

To the church upon the hill,

I'll ring the bells for Christmas,

For father you're too ill."

Into the night she scurried

She did not hear him say,

"You should not go dear daughter,

But in the cabin stay."

With faltering steps she ventured on,

Across the ice she went.

Against the howling, winter wind,

Her little body bent.

Between the cabin and the church,

That sits upon the hill.

A frozen river she must cross.

It runs down past the mill.

A hunter from the forest,

Came upon her trail.

He followed the prints to river's edge,

Alas, to no avail.

He saw the child struggling,

It was, as he had feared.

Slowly she slipped beneath the ice.

The girl had disappeared.

Moonlight shown on the scene,

As the footlights on a stage.

The hunter shook his fist at God,

Could not contain his rage.

In fading light,

Bent on frail knees,

An old man beckoned him,

He called in frantic pleas.

Carefully, with measured steps,

The hunter inched his way,

He saw the girl he thought was lost,

In the old man's arms she lay.

"Take her to my cabin, please,

For I'm to weak you see".

The cabin is just beyond the knoll,

Between those two tall trees.

The hunter raised the child,

Her delicate, shivering form,

He wrapped her in his strong, sure arms,

And tried to keep her warm.

Then he hurried through the trees

Mounted a small hill's crest.

The girl he carried safely,

Snuggled against his chest.

The fireplace sparkled brightly,

Flicking shadows everywhere.

"She'll be fine when she is warm."

He said, but the Father wasn't there.

His eyes, now accustom to the light,

Fell on a straw mat bed.

One look was all it took to see,

The old man there was dead.

The little girl stood, by the fire,

Wet from head to toe,

The hunter had no words to say.

She said, "He's gone, I know."

In silence they sat and waited,

Both knew it all to well,

Christmas Eve, near midnight.

No one to ring bell.

"You must go, she said,

If you hurry there is still time."

The hunter rose and then he froze.

They heard the church balls chime.

It happened on a Christmas Eve,

In a land where blizzards blow.

Who rang the bells on Christmas?

For only God would know.

- Marvin W. Tyacke, Post Falls

•••

The Press Writers Corner features original, creative writing submitted by our readers.

Send your Writers Corner submissions to Maureen Dolan, [email protected].

We prefer email submissions, and we ask that you limit the length of your stories and poems. Please include your hometown with your submission.

You can send hard-copies by mail to Maureen Dolan at The Press, 201 Second St., Coeur d'Alene, ID 83814.