TRADITIONS! – Prompt # 32

With the advent of December 1st, we are in a four week run up to the Holiday.
Since the Holidays are about traditions, we will write about these time honored habits. It could be a family tradition, maybe a cultural or ethnic tradition, or something you do that follows you from year to year.



Marie’s Tradition:

Love and Legend (a shadorma)

changes may occur
is absent)
preserve family customs –
keep loved ones alive.


Walt’s Tradition:


When it started,
I don’t remember. But
Every December 24th,
Before the day’s completed,
Every year it gets repeated.
“You can open one tonight”
The box with the Christmas
pajamas seems right. Old habits
die hard, But traditions live on!

150 thoughts on “TRADITIONS! – Prompt # 32

  1. Love this prompt; snuggly, warm, flannel-Granny gown for me–I have to select my own again this year.

  2. Good morning Walt and Henri!

    Opening one gift on Christmas Eve was always a tradition for us as well, but I LOVE the idea of the PJs! Does it get any warmer (literally and figuratively) than that?

    Marie Elena


    Tiny prayers
    Words penned
    By friends, family
    Placed with care
    In mini envelopes.
    I created them
    With the intention
    Of starting
    A new tradition
    “The blessing tree.”
    Each feeling free
    To give thanks
    Prayer and concern
    Place it in the branches
    And after all is said and done
    Little letters live in
    an old fashioned chocolate box
    “Sweets for the Creator!”
    Years and years later,
    If we wish,
    We can indulge
    In this time capsule
    And give thanks
    For our blessings.

  4. Traditions at a Host Home

    Our host home charge,
    a childlike woman,
    gets so excited about Christmas,
    that at the first hint of it,
    (usually a store ad in October)
    begs to put up the Christmas tree.

    In order not to be driven crazy,
    we mark the calendar,
    the first Saturday after Thanksgiving.
    When it arrives, we wheel her
    to the living room where she can
    inspect the proceedings.
    We play Christmas music,
    divvy out the eggnog
    and she rings her Christmas bell.

    Our second host home charge,
    a childlike man
    who likes noise,
    sits on the floor,
    facing her, and listens.

    After the tree’s up,
    our calico cat claims
    under the tree
    as her special resting place
    until she’s crowded out by presents.

  5. Marie, I love the the heartfelt thought in yours of keeping tradition for those lost, so their hearts carry on through you. Beautiful.

    Such a fun tradition you keep, Walt! Feels like family! 🙂

  6. To All,
    This exchange just gave me a seasonal cheer!

    Traditions and words
    Shared poems, comments, wrapped with
    Crimson silk ribbon

    For all creative spirits, I would like to share a link in thanks– I like to make name books for a custom–wrote about Making Green Name Books for the Season of Light at Bread’n Molasses, Nov.Dec.

    • Hep me! Hep me! I’m being quite dense, and can’t find your article out there. What a cool site, though! I had fun looking through it.


      • ditto me Patricia altho I too found the site fascinating … I scanned the entire pdf of the mag, it was that cool but missed your article if it’s in there – prob. my bad but thanks for the tip about the site anyhow.

  7. Story Time

    I learned quickly that while teenagers
    saw plenty of videos in class
    and often enjoyed or endured
    assigned periods of silent, sustained reading,
    whether they’d admit it or not,
    they missed hearing the teacher read aloud.

    Drawing from my own experiences,
    after lunch, heads on our desks,
    listening to Mrs. Knott reading to us,
    the entire collection of Laura Ingalls Wilder,
    I had fallen in love with the sound
    of books, of stories.

    That first Christmas I taught, then,
    to high school students taller than I,
    seventeen and eighteen years old,
    I announced “Story Time with Miss Nancy,”
    tongue-in-cheek, of course, and read
    Truman Capote’s beautiful story
    “A Christmas Memory,” channeling
    the soft Alabama accent of Buddy
    and his best friend, only friend,
    going through their yearly rituals,
    cutting the tree, baking fruitcakes
    they mailed to near strangers, going
    their separate ways to make gifts—
    the same every year. As I read, the room
    grew quiet, and as the story ends, the boy
    now grown and gone recalls the letter
    with the news, the sight of kites
    in the sky. The lump in my throat
    barely let me reach the end.

    I knew to let them leave their heads
    down on their desks. Big boys
    hate for anyone to see them
    wiping tears with their sleeves.

  8. A Gift to Santa

    I hardly remember
    when it first began,
    I think it was my
    ex-husband’s plan

    But on Christmas Eve,
    to fuel Santa and reindeer
    we always left carrots
    and cookies and beer.


  9. Each Year a New Tradition Now

    When you’ve spent many Christmases
    Hoping for a day pass to be let out of hospital
    For at least the day, maybe the night before too,
    Your traditions take both a kicking and a re-evaluation
    So while I’m grateful for the memories
    Of what we did with the kids when they
    Were little – I find I’m easier going these days
    Less likely to fight about or even for, anything
    Especially now that there are grandkids
    And a need for them to make
    Their own traditions …

    So – things like attending a Christmas Eve
    Service, while de rigor when I was growing
    Up, have become a bonus now and since
    I’m agnostic; I agree it’s a wonderful story
    And church a tradition I observe when I can
    —one I treasure actually so I do try
    to make it— but if it’s something that can’t
    be accomplished due to logistics,
    I let it go

    Our girls, right up until they moved out
    Insisted that their Dad read
    “The Night Before Christmas”, to them
    On Christmas Eve – now if they’re
    Around – they still dig it out
    But I notice he reads it to our grandson
    And they listen up, on the periphery …

    Like many others, we open
    One gift the night before
    The big day too
    And traditionally, for whomever’s
    Around – our Christmas Eve meal
    Is always bacon and eggs

    In the last few years
    We’ve instituted a few new
    Traditions; we draw names
    Amongst the adults
    To cut down on the pressure
    And the inevitability of many
    Small things being exchanged
    That no-one seems to want
    With the hope that having to buy
    Only one gift will get
    The buyer really thinking
    About the person they’re to buy for
    And considering them,
    Get to know them better even—
    So far, it’s been working well.

    My husband and I, truly needing
    Very little, have started
    Giving to charities rather than
    Each other and that has
    Made both of us feel great …

    And happily, our whole family
    Has become involved
    With the Christmas Bureau
    Making it traditional
    To wrap and deliver gifts
    And food to the have-nots
    In the city, of which, every year
    There seem to be sadly
    More than ever …

    As I write this, I realize
    We do have other traditions —
    I make chocolate balls
    And butter-scotch squares
    The years I am healthy—
    And we all try to out-do
    Each other with funny cards

    I also appreciate that our
    Biggest tradition
    Is probably that we love
    Each other dearly
    We like to get together
    And remember
    Times past and that
    Works for us …
    I guess it’s a tradition
    Of gratitude given
    The number of years
    We’ve spent apart …
    That works
    For us too.

    • Sharon, there is so much warmth in this, and yet, it has a hard beginning with the day pass. I was agnostic for years, and even now, wife of a pastor, I don’t believe in a lot of the “normal” things many Christians take for granted.

      Thanks for bringing up giving to charity – we now do that in honor of our families, because even the “pull a name” thing was a drag… all of us save one sis-in-law wanted to give to a charity in the name of that person. So we dropped out of the “circle” and just give in the name of the entire family.

      I’m happy for you, having a family who truly appreciate each other. That’s the best gift of all! Lovely write. Amy

    • There is always a poem or two that doesn’t end up making the “cut” for our Saturday honors, for no good reason other than Walt and I can choose only one each. This is one such poem. This is a “wow,” Sharon.

  10. Hi Marie Elena and Walt–Happy Holidays, thank you for the wonderful prompt!

    Sweet Memories

    The artistic process grew
    Like boys to young men
    From a single cookie
    Piled high with
    Colored sugar, sugar dots and silver balls
    To sprinkles meticulously
    Placed with toothpicks
    Every December
    Finds the four of us
    Surrounded with cookies, frosting
    Toothpicks, sprinkles
    And smiles

  11. John smith, Peter cooper, Andy
    Jack’s son, Doug MacArthur, Sonny White;
    son of wife of; farmer, plumber, goldsmith;
    color homeland size shape blemishes.
    Tradition. We pretended to start over.
    Pretended we were children, Peter Pans
    and women-girls in tribes as loosely tatted
    as a bag of yardsale doilies. Dealers, Painters,
    Organizers, Narcs. Gerald introduced himself as Kid.
    Michael was called Maggot. Sam was Black Sam, long
    beyond when White Sam went to New Orleans
    for Mardi Gras and ended up in Texas. No one
    used their parents’ name. Tradition.

  12. Pingback: Christmas Tree With a Schmear « Sharp Little Pencil

  13. I can’t believe I ran into Walt at the Sunday Whirl, because my “tradition” poem came from the words Brenda posted there. One my blog, it’s at

    Christmas Tree With a Schmear

    “Will I have to genuflect to it?” she grimaced.
    An inking of the controversy to come, December of ’86.
    My mission, to host my husband’s folks
    and decorate our Christmas tree. No big deal, right?

    Intermarriage: He, a Jew; I, a pseudo-Christian.
    (His faith only observed when his mom set
    the Passover table, lit by silver candlesticks,
    laden with luscious food on fancy trivets.)

    But every year, my vanilla faith called for a tree.
    My Episcopalian upbringing had brought me to this:
    On Christmas Eve I’d sneak into church;
    in the spring we watched “Easter Parade.”

    Interfaith civil wedding: A generic Man of God
    found in the yellow pages; a hoopah in our living room
    (no rabbi or minister without promises of Hebrew or
    Sunday school… not ready to even have kids!).

    We lugged home the best (cheapest) tree in Queens;
    its bark shredded during trunk-shoving, leaking
    pestilent, resinous sap. My allergic splotches
    crusted over, just in time for The Big Party.

    Mom was less than amorous about the whole affair.
    She felt her shiksa daughter-in-law had exposed a subtle agenda:
    Trying to make her son revere a tree that (apparently)
    was a symbol of Jesus on the cross. With tinsel and lights.

    They entered with trepidation; this was a precipice in our
    relationship. I had gone to every Seder, Hanukkah… and
    my husband loved having a tree (the pagan aspect, too).
    Within ten minutes, we had gravitated to places of safety:

    Mom, smoking a cigarette, looking at the wall, peeking
    out of the corner of her eye in downright disgust. Wife
    telling stories of each ornament; husband happy, stringing lights.
    Dad, singing along with a Crosby record, “White Christmas.”

    Ain’t compromise a wonderful thing?

    © 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

    • Oh Amy – I am holding my gut laughing but there are tears in my eyes also; I so know where-of you speak … case in point – my Unitarian minister– a reformed-lapsed Irish Roman Catholic — every Christmas Eve after doing a secular service at our UU church, “sneaks” into the back of St.Joseph’s Basilica (a huge cathedral here – Wayne Gretzky and Janet Jones were married there, to give you an idea of size) for midnight mass. I’m sometimes there too! I love the pomp,ceremony and music. His biggest regret about no longer being a Catholic? No absolution – I get that … I do. Sometimes compromise is a complicated business, yes?

    • Ha! I live in that household, my husband, Jewish and I, a church musician. As long as I cook Christmas dinner, his dad joins us without comment. An interesting poem.

  14. I couldn’t resist bringing together a French and English Christmas tradition.

    As uninvited squatters
    in what is not our native land
    we make our own tradition,
    exciting the suspicion
    of foodie French firemen,
    and postmen, and bandsmen
    and every other organisation
    which thinks we need updating.
    We offer them mince pies,
    when they call for a donation
    in exchange for a calendar
    and another and another and another.

  15. I really don’t have any warm, wonderful traditions. Lots of bad habits, plenty of routines, and a few things that get repeated, but nothing with that element I can’t come up with that makes the thing transcendent. I’m still exploring the subject, though.

    What does it take, to make a thing,
    a place, to make a set of words
    tradition? I look at this snapshot,
    and there you are, across the table.
    And my roommate, and your room-
    mate. How many meals together,
    showing off, complaining, punning?
    I listened to you run through lines
    and jazz the chapel organ in the dark.
    We were
    best- and best- for Syl and Arnie,
    and haven’t seen each other since;
    I wish I’d said: let’s all come back.

  16. *sigh*

    It’s going to be another difficult week to choose one bloom … I can see that already, and there will be more to come.

    Lovin’ the dilemma. 😉


  17. Christmas

    We hung our Mennonite discomfort at
    materialism upon the wall
    in a single sheet of wrapping paper,

    and spent the day doing good for others
    while the few gifts we had grudgingly bought
    pined away beneath the radiator.

    At ten p.m. we gathered to sing hymns
    and read the Bible in reverent tones.
    Thus we preserved the meaning of Christmas.

  18. Every Year

    Tree, decorations and all Christmas thoughts
    Must wait until Thanksgiving and,
    More importantly, Son’s birthday have passed.
    Then it is Mom unpacking, Dad with the lights,
    All of us decorating the tree; Finding the perfect
    Place for each ornament, remembering it’s history
    And it’s true meaning to the one whose name is written on.

    The Eve of the Birth, always quite busy;
    A meal with friends and in-laws and the
    Exchanging of gifts. Not as many this year,
    But not nearly as important either.
    Candles lit during the evening service,
    One on the mantel for the Son gone too soon.
    Home fairly early and settling in,
    Pajamas are on and stories must be read;
    ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’ followed by
    Luke Two, first through twentieth verse.

    The Day starts early as would be expected,
    Kids watching the clock for the time appointed.
    The moment of discovery still a delight,
    For the parents as much as the child; perhaps
    Even more so for seeing the knowing grateful
    Glance from the teenage boy. Keeping the
    Secret and enjoying the younger sister’s joy.
    Home all day, never a plan or a place to go;
    A big brunch on the table, extra seats to spare,
    An open invitation for any that would share.

    The perceived obligations of our youth
    Become expectations to our children,
    Which time turns to family traditions.

    • Umm, an apology, perhaps? I have two blogs; one for poetry and one for politics. It has come to my attention that if you were so inclined to click on my name you would go to the political one. Not intentional, i just have not figured out how to fix it. After the PAD mess, I do not want anyone to show up on that by accident and be offended. There is a link there to the poetry, but be warned; my political leanings are somewhat to the right of Hannity.

      Great prompts, great poems.

    • This is a profound and poignant poem Mark, I believe, as beautiful for what you’ve left unsaid between the lines … I esp like the ending “which time turns to family traditions”. Nice.


    she beams with pride
    during her angelic performance
    (well—she’s playing an angel)
    in the Christmas story;
    her heart, filled with pure love
    for the one in the manger
    (it’s her baby doll, after all)
    her eyes twinkle with joy
    (and her share of mischievousness)
    in anticipation of Santa’s visit;
    the program ends none to soon
    and we pile into the car…

    for this season, each year,
    our sleepy one-stoplight-town
    glows like the big city
    with more lights than can be counted,
    yet we drive slooowly enough to try;
    after what seems like forever for her
    (probably only 45 minutes)
    and countless ooohs and aaaahs
    we make our way up our own farm’s lane…

    it is already soooo late on this Eve
    (maybe 8:00 p.m.?)
    that Santa has already made his stop,
    often leaving tracks in the snow
    (rabbit tracks do sometimes
    look like reindeer prints)
    wide-eyed, she scrambles out of the back seat…

    I follow her giggles inside
    where an empty plate awaits —
    cookies (and carrots) have been eaten;
    I read the note written in Santa’s own hand,
    she grins when Santa confirms:
    she’s been (mostly) good all year!
    her giggles round the corner
    to the tree skirt that had been barren,
    now laden with packages…

    the magic of another Christmas Eve

    P. Wanken

    This is really my dad’s story if he were here to tell it…

  20. Pingback: Another Christmas Eve « echoes from the silence

  21. The Seventh

    The seventh of December,
    birth of my husband, his
    favorite day of the year.
    He tried not to get as bombed
    as Pearl Harbor, as we strolled
    Fifth Avenue from Macy’s
    windows to Lord & Taylor’s
    tasteful display, and Christmas
    stories recited aloud at each
    window of Saks. In Steuben
    Glass, a stark, sculpted
    silence, we gazed at figures
    far above our means, but full
    of enchanted dreams.
    At F.A.O. Schwartz, we entered
    as adults, changed into children,
    skipping `cross keys of the Big
    piano, and squeezing the toys
    that chatted in cacophony
    of barnyard brays, neighs,
    and oinks.
    Queen of all trees, graced
    Rock Center, tastefully dressed
    to guard red-cheeked, woolen
    capped skaters, dancing
    on ice, music gaily gathering
    them in synch. Lavish lobby
    of The Plaza, where if you
    could not afford to eat,
    you could still admire
    the scenery, and stroll
    to the lounge.
    Late lit afternoon chilled
    the air. We stopped for hot
    chocolate, browsed booksellers,
    and chose our calendar
    for the coming year. Weary,
    fingertips frozen, we made
    our way home for a grand
    meal at our favorite
    Italian restaurant.
    Now, we are living in the Pacific
    Northwest, attempting to begin
    brand new traditions.

  22. Christmas traditions
    are first tolerated, then
    remembered fondly

    P. Wanken

    Marie Elena and Walt: Thanks for such a heart-warming prompt! 🙂

  23. Some Traditions

    It feels good
    every December to hang some heaviness on the tree.
    December has had many houses over the years,
    even different house people
    who got older and had to find new ways to get to December
    or new excuses to skip December this year
    after already missing November and most of the phone calls.
    One year, after many other years,
    the cousin returns after being hardened by his interpretation of the world,
    orders all the members of the supreme court shot,
    the 1%ers off to an island,
    the federal reserve eliminated,
    the rolled eyes around the room to stop being so damn ignorant.

    On the train back to 8th and Market
    the conductor says something which no one understands,
    one man stares through a newspaper,
    another stares into a bag,
    another stares back at me.

  24. Christmas Eve we gather
    to sing familiar carols,
    share favorite foods,
    and savor family members
    while we remember
    Whose birthday we celebrate;
    the One who made it possible
    for us to enjoy one another


    Tinkling, crystalline silver bells
    Rhythm and rhyme of Christmas song
    Apples candied glistening red
    Dates and nuts and figs in bread
    Inspired voices singing evensong
    Turkey roasting, honeyed ham is basting
    Intrepid shoppers, scurry in hurried haste
    Overtures of familiar songs
    Ne’r heard except this time of year
    Singing angels like silver bells we hear

    Poetic form: Acrostic
    Poetic Prompt: Traditions


    In every shop window, and inside maybe
    two possibly three more, shimmering
    and illuminated, tinselled and trimmed
    but without a hint of a scent other
    than green plastic on twisted wire
    was the tallest and broadest tree that I’d

    ever seen. It towered like a green
    giant kissing the asbestos tiled

    ceiling with those annoying flickering
    neon cold-tinted lights that stutter
    on and off with Morse Code wishing all
    a merry Christmas if they bought all
    in the shop. I looked up and I looked
    up and the room went a bit dizzy as my

    head angled back and back a bit more
    for a view at the star on the top.

    Or was it an angel. I couldn’t really
    tell as it sat so high up on the tree.
    My dad stuck his knee into the small
    of my back so I didn’t tumble over
    into a dizzy slack heap on the floor,
    my brain begging for blood from my

    oddly angled head. In a weak wobbly voice,
    “What is it up there?” I asked, to which my dad

    replied, “An idiot’s idea of Christ’s birth.”
    It was a bit beyond a 5-year-old’s brain .
    “What’s an idiot, Dad?” I asked.
    He didn’t reply. Some things he thought didn’t
    need more than what’s said. Christmas at our house
    was pretty much the same. Not one decoration,
    nor candle, nor tree, nor star to be seen until
    we bounced down the stairs in our nightgowns

    on Christmas morning to see our house
    transformed overnight into red and green

    and gold and candlelight, and spicy scents
    and smells to fill your nose, and a pine tree
    that reached up tall into the ceiling
    with a bright Star of Bethlehem set on the top.
    And for us that was our Christmas, not all
    that tat. Ours was never an idiot’s affair.

    Poetic Form: A L’Arora

  27. Simple Gifts

    Every year Christmas smelled the same—
    cinnamon and oranges, apple brandy
    on the fruit cake, cookies baking,
    spruce tree and running cedar,
    warm fire and wintry wind.

    We did not believe in Santa,
    but in gift, our presents coming
    from one another, simple things
    we could afford or make ourselves—
    baskets, poems, songs, crafts—
    wrapped up in good feelings,
    our expectations of return
    low enough for surprises
    to make us feel lucky.

    • Oh, thank you, Jane, I do so agree that everyone is lovely and talented…….feels like “Home”……….my little poems will tell me when they are ready…..they thank you for the encouragement. Hen

  28. A thank you haiku for Henreitta Katie Choplin:

    Encouraging words
    Selflessly offered in love
    A gift to our hearts

    Henri, I do so hope that you will feel comfortable sharing your own poems here soon. I would love to see the poetry that would be born of the beautiful heart reflected in your encouragement to all of us.

    No pressure, of course, but do know that we would all welcome your creative heart, just as we do your encouraging one.

    With warm smiles,

    • Thank you, Meggy; smiles and tears for your lovely, thoughtful poem….what more could I ask for in my life? I just absolutely Love that I have finally found this place to “rest”….. (my family calls me “Hen”)

  29. Hi,
    I’m in the hay(na)ku and toasting mode today. Here’s one of our family traditions:

    The first
    Toast, the second

    Is always,
    “To our parents!”


  30. She asked about the blue mirror we
    had moved a few times but never
    used, so I told her the story of how,
    from the time I was four or five,
    my mother would put it on the four
    by five cedar chest we used as a
    table, and at Christmas time, we’d
    put snow and little people on it to
    make a festive scene.

    I’m 67 now, and through the years,
    a lot of stuff has disappeared, like
    lamps and photos and baseball cards, and
    people, too. I’ve lost dogs and cats, some
    car keys, the home I grew up in, even
    my mother, who died suddenly one
    September, and we didn’t have Christmas
    after that for a long time, what with
    sadness, and, later, war for me.
    I never lost that blue mirror, though.

    Then I met her, and I had very little
    stuff, but I had her, and that was enough.
    for me. Her family was big on Christmas,
    and, after we returned from our December
    honeymoon, her baby sister put the
    ornaments on their tree, the ones made with
    a glitter and a glue stick, the ones with
    everybody’s names on them, and we were
    the last ones to go up, smack dab in the
    center front, to much oohing, ahing and smiling.
    My dad was there, our first Christmas in
    forever. It was cold, really cold, but
    our hearts melted.

    So, the blue mirror, remember? After
    we moved to a town with lots of folks,
    one where we could have visitors, we
    started to decorate excessively. Too much
    was still not enough, with wreaths and
    themed trees and garland and such. she
    said we should bring out the blue mirror and
    make a scene, so we went looking for
    fake snow and little trees and people

    Then Department 56 happened,
    and a train set happened,
    and more Department 56 happened,
    and I built display tables and drilled holes
    and did dangerous, overloaded wiring
    and it was big and grand and good,
    and all of our friends loved it,
    and more Department 56 happened,
    and a storage locker to hold it all happened.

    I think I mentioned that I’m 67 now,
    those boxes and tables got heavier,
    that wiring got more painful to connect,.
    we’ve lost a few more people,
    there’s this talk about voluntary simplicity.
    Still have that blue mirror, though.
    I think this year we’ll start a new tradition,
    borrow from the past, bring out the older,
    garage sale the newer.

    But, then, there’s the crazy
    Krinkles accessories,
    and all the Santa ornaments,
    and the clowns
    and the reindeer
    and the angels
    and…oh, what the heck, one more year,
    and I think we can find room for
    a blue mirror

  31. Pingback: Are We There Yet? The Friday Freeforall « Margo Roby: Wordgathering

  32. For my Sister, who just passed away:

    Godly Tradition

    An angel passing
    in the night on spiritual
    wings in perfect flight.

    • Oh my … I’m so very sorry, Hen. Such a lovely tribute haiku. I’m sorry that the first time we get to hear your poetic voice was inspired such tragedy and heart break. God be with you and your family, to hold you all in His arms, and grant you grace and peace.

      My heart is with you.

    • I barely feel I know you Hen and with Marie Elena am saddened that the first words we get to hear from you on this site are on such a sad occasion – but what magnificent words – you’ve done your sister proud for sure … still, my heart aches for your loss. Sharon Ingraham

      • Thank you, Sharon… know, I find it quite interesting that because I lost my sister, my heart just burst open with these words for her; I really don’t think that I would have penned them, in Public, had I not so wanted to share with the world how truly inspirational my sister was to me….she had a difficult life, but when we turned on our music, we could dance and sing to our hearts’ content……..our Creativity made us Creative!!! Thank you for reading my words….. With Warmth, Hen

      • On Traditions

        We celebrate the
        spirit of Christmas, always

        adding to the old
        something new, to surprise
        our crew.

        ~a plan we have seen through
        some forty years, all
        counting now~

        Bow-wrapped exchanges,
        emptying loaded stockings,
        all continues – all

        morning, coffee served
        with hot biscuits drenched in creamed
        pork sausage gravy.

        Hope this year’s new will
        not involve my run for that
        forgotten item.

        And I would tell you,
        really I would, what is new ~
        except for their eyes.

        May you find a glow
        in your family’s eyes, delight.

  33. On Traditions

    We celebrate the
    spirit of Christmas, always

    adding to the old
    something new, to surprise
    our crew.

    ~a plan we have seen through
    some forty years, all
    counting now~

    Bow-wrapped exchanges,
    emptying loaded stockings,
    all continues – all

    morning, coffee served
    with hot biscuits drenched in creamed
    pork sausage gravy.

    Hope this year’s new will
    not involve my run for that
    forgotten item.

    And I would tell you,
    really I would, what is new ~
    except for their eyes.

    May you find a glow
    in your family’s eyes, delight.

  34. Season’s Tradition

    writing poetry to the rhythm
    of this weeks practiced plays

    running through the tackled crunch, passes
    going for the touch

    no way, not today they say
    and yet there is the pile
    and no one signaling ~


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