As we close in on Christmas, we are surrounded by the trappings of the season. Pick an item associated with Christmas and write a Christmas poem from that item’s point of view. It could be an ornament, or a branch on Christmas tree. It might be an angel tree topper or a figurine from your nativity creche. What does the donkey see? The Star of Bethlehem? Christmas from a different perspective.

We are fortunate this week to get an early Christmas gift, in the guise of our Marie Elena Good rejoining us. It is a Good present indeed!


Cross of Christ

My place atop the Christmas tree
may seem a lofty place for me,
but humbly, I point down below
through greenery and lights aglow
to manger scene that holds the Christ
who paid the price in sacrifice
for every woman, man, and child –
this perfect Lamb – this undefiled
Rescuer, Redeemer, God
I represent, and richly laud.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021



Each year, they bring me out to celebrate, 
and I wait in silent vigil, keeping watch
over everything Christmas. My uniform
is well appointed and my double jointed
jaw may have me cracking jokes
or other nutty things. Mouse Kings
and sugarplum faeries complete my circle.
I do enjoy the joyous music this time of year.
My job is to protect and serve with nerves 
of oak, just like any bloke who chooses
to enlist their service. Yet, I'm nervous.
I'm suspicious of that elf up on that shelf!

(c) Walter J Wojtanik - 2021

150 thoughts on “PROMPT #365 – “DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE?”


    They make a fuss of ornaments
    and other bric-a-brac,
    but nobody ever thinks about
    what keeps them on the track,

    but I sit here, `way down below
    like some forgotten daughter,
    and keep the whole tree standing straight
    whilst holding all its water.

    I ask you now, do you really think
    you’d admire each twinkling light
    if I were not here, on the job,
    keeping this thing upright?

    So when you do your oohs and aahs,
    please spare a glance at me,
    and even stroke my tripod legs
    that brace this Christmas tree.

  2. Mistletoe

    Give your missus
    or air kisses?
    No! No! No!

    You are fluent
    in French. C’mon!
    Plant a few on
    her, Spider-Man.

  3. Thoughts

    I’m just a little ceramic mouse
    sleeping in my ceramic matchbox,
    hanging from the lowest branch
    of a bedraggled artificial tree.

    I can feel her eyes upon me,
    the one who hand-painted
    my gray head, pink ears,
    and my red and black matchbox
    with the year 1981 on its side.
    She was expecting her first child.

    I know what she’s thinking, now.
    “Yikes! Forty years!”

  4. I’m on Your Tree

    Every year you’ve peeked at me
    Since you could barely walk
    You even pulled me off the tree
    That year that you got caught

    You know I’m just for looking at
    And I’m grandma’s favorite one
    She got me the year you were born
    The same year she lost her son

    So I have double meaning now
    That’s why she’d hang me here
    And as she did she’d takes a pause
    To wipe away her tears

    Every year she’d pull me out
    And say a little prayer
    Thanking God for you and Gramp
    And wishing your dad was there

    Grandpa passed a few years back
    Gram didn’t decorate
    By the time you pulled me out
    I knew it was too late

    It’s sad but happy all the while
    ‘Cause now I’m on your tree
    Grandma is with Grandpa now
    And you’re taking care of me

  5. Flurries in Florida

    It rarely happens
    And we watch in amazement
    Florida flurries
    Hit the video button
    Before the flakes melt away

  6. Pucker Up

    Stop under me and pucker up
    Here comes that little buttercup
    Oh no, she saw you standing there
    Then she turned and walked away

    But she looked back and smiled a bit
    And batted her eyes in a flirty flit
    She’s messing with your mind, you know
    At this game two can play

  7. Great to have you back, Marie. I hereby declare that your sick days are over for 2021, and you have used up most of them for 2022. Stay healthy… we need you in the garden.

  8. Gifts on a Cold Winter Night

    In the spirit of the season, we
    our hearts of hate and fear, fill
    with warm hats and mittens, and leave them
    where those who need them most will find them –
    on the
    trees and fences around our town, instead of on a


  9. Great to see you back, Marie Elena! Happy to know you are feeling better! Your presence and words were missed. Beautiful poem! Welcome back! 🙂 Fun prompt, Walt, and I enjoyed your poem today, too! Now I will see all my nutcrackers capable of cracking jokes! So love the image of that!


    I am hung by the chimney
    With certain great care
    Yet I am empty
    Nothing’s in there

    I know there should be filling
    There’s plenty of room
    I am certainly willing
    So clean, don’t need a broom

    I must have a purpose
    I just can’t feel it
    They certainly love us
    But here with nothing, I sit

    I remember I was full last year
    I had chocolate, candy canes and a bow
    The reason I was there was clear
    Now I’m confused, I just don’t know

    Oh, wait here comes a large box
    I see goodies that will fill us just right
    Small books, oranges, and funny socks
    This is it, it must be the night

    What was empty is full to spilling
    We’re laid down carefully by the fire
    Soon we will take top billing
    Be the joy of everyone’s desire

    Good thing we are patient and can wait
    Because soon we’ll be emptied once more
    We’ll go back to being sedate
    Until more goodies appear from the store

    Typical this time each year
    Ups and downs of the Christmas stocking
    Truly, it’s a gift, let’s be clear
    We might complain but nothing’s shocking

    Just wish we could hang around more often
    Filling the family more often with joy
    When life is too heavy, our presence would soften
    For us, too, there’d be more to enjoy

    Just to come out only once, a year
    To hang on a hook and wait our turn
    To so briefly, unceremoniously, appear
    Doesn’t make us applaud our return

    And yet this is how we live
    I guess we should be grateful
    It is ultimately our joy to give
    We do love it when we’re ripe and full

    (c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2021

  10. How I See It…. A Haiku Collection

    The Ornament

    On the tree I’m hung
    For all who pass by to see
    Look but do not touch

    The Tree

    I’m a Christmas tree
    Seven seasons I’ve stood tall
    I’m fake but pretty

    Gift Wrap

    I’ve been cut and taped
    Wrapped lovingly on presents
    Soon I will be trash


    Short with pointy ears
    We make the toys that bring smiles
    Singing happy songs

    Mrs. Santa

    If it weren’t for me
    The old man would stay in bed
    But that’s our secret


    The world in one night
    Milk and cookies ‘til I burst
    Rolaids for breakfast


    I’m still the reason
    No matter how they spin it
    Merry Christmas all

    I would encourage anyone to add to this. Let’s have some Haiku fun. Oh, and Merry Christmas y’all.

  11. Pingback: Do You Hear What I Hear? | Experience Writing


    Here I sit—
    All dapper and pretty.
    Giggling amidst the dazzling,
    dancing, sparkling lights.

    Here I get—
    to be all dapper and pretty.
    Topped with a cherry red bow,
    slapped gorgeously across my head.

    Here I lit—
    their spinning smiles all giddy.
    Appreciated, feeling all the love.
    Gift wrap opened and shred.

    Benjamin Thomas

  13. View from the Star on Top

    I do not burn-
    but passion stirs
    in the heart of the boy
    who kneels at the foot of the tree.

    I do not burn,
    but I listen
    to a litany of his wishes
    while his parents watch.

    I do not burn,
    and I’m only turned
    on for the night
    until the house grows still.

    I do not burn
    and when the family
    goes to bed
    I live in shadows.

    I do not burn
    but each night
    I watch wrapped gifts
    to be given as tokens of love.

    I do not burn
    but I glisten
    in the eyes of a child
    as he unwraps the gifts..

    I do not burn,
    and the light I share
    will fade
    when the season ends.

    I do not burn
    but live in the stories told
    as if they have a life of their own,
    and I wait another year..

  14. Treetop Angel

    How she fingered
    my voluminous paper
    skirt ran her thumb down
    the curls of gilt ribbon following
    the curve of my wings and how
    she wanted to kiss
    my tiny china face before
    her Momma tucked me in
    to the white box and folded
    over sheets of star spangled tissue

    an angel for her little girl’s Angel
    Guardian her Momma’d called me
    her little one sitting third row
    fourth seat first grade classroom
    and the teacher spotting the child
    having barely perceptible but
    lethal micro-seizures that others
    had yet to notice and then how
    the woman had gently asked
    if anyone had seen what she saw
    and how heads nodded with maybe
    and then the challenging diagnosis

    and how the teacher’d cried to
    know she’d not imagined it all
    but knew the little girl would get
    the best care possible to live
    her best life and now how I sit
    the highest part of the Christmas
    tree every year still in that
    teacher’s house and the little girl
    all grown up here or hereafter
    (since I’m only paper I can’t know)
    the teacher long retired but me
    not so much reposing in my star-
    spangled box until time to soar
    above the butterflies and birds
    the blue tinsel that rivals the sky

    but now my papery skirts cup
    Scotch pine needles and my china
    eyes see again that mother’s eyes
    brimming with tears of uncertainty
    and love as she presented me to
    the teacher my face still imprinted
    with the finger and thumb of the
    little girl and the teacher remembering
    it all as she places me yet again atop
    the fresh-cut tree pausing to whisper
    her prayer for another mother and child.

  15. First Ornament

    You fellas, so shiny–
    bright globes of
    Christmas color. May
    you all last as long
    as I. My top cap
    is askew, so I cannot
    hang as straight
    as you. I am the first
    ball they ever purchased.
    Fifth Avenue Hallmark
    store. One side says
    Season’s Greetings,
    the other, 1979–
    the year they were

  16. The box of Christmas Ornaments

    When I was very small
    We had an old box of Christmas Balls
    Shaped like a tear drop.
    With lit candles and wreath of holly berries
    On green, or red or blue or gold glass balls…
    I could not touch them…

    Ma bought one Christmas a new box
    And inside was wonderous Christmas balls
    In mixed colors and shapes…
    They were hot pink, and two-toned ones
    With glitter and sparkles on those glass balls.
    I still was not allowed to touch them.

    For years they decorated our trees at Christmas…
    They also began to break
    Until only a few remained…

    For some reason Ma moved the boxes
    With Christmas ornaments and I have never found
    Her hiding place for them.
    Knowing her, she may have given them away…
    All our ornaments are gone except a few of mine.

    I have the memories of beautiful trees…
    Hanging with beautiful ornaments…
    Never had the heart to buy new ones.

    People say each year you need to decorate…
    But how do I say… all that I had is gone,
    I am not looking for pity…
    It is a fact of my life
    Dealt with it for years…
    Ma hid things
    Sometimes years before I found those-
    No wonder her ghost still
    Takes things…

    Besides I have memories of trees,
    And miss little at Christmas…

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    December 20, 2021


    Perch upon me, if you will.
    Make your home upon the east
    and west, upon the north and the south.

    Adorn me well, if you will.
    With the finest of glitter, and the glamour
    of bright stars and the purest of gold.

    Dress me with joy, if you will.
    Electrify the passerby by the windowsill—
    the passing of cars, amidst the snow and cold.

    Benjamin Thomas

  18. The Silver Tree

    Da loved Christmas…
    Ma was not as fond of the mess…
    She bought a tinsel silver tree
    Not as tall as me
    When I was nine.

    Da was on a business trip
    When she bought that tree.
    It was all set up when he got home.
    She told him it would do.
    I could tell by Joe and Da’s faces
    They did not think it would.

    I thought it looked like a fairy tree,
    And I imagined fair steeds
    That dance in their silver bridles
    Carrying the fairy king…

    We only used that tree
    And Ma was thrilled the mess
    Was all gone by New Year’s Day,

    When we moved,
    Da and Joe went to get a tree,
    And they pulled out the decorations
    While the little silver tinsel tree
    Sat lonely on Ma’s sewing machine
    In our den…
    It looked quite forlorn,
    And the story of the fairy king
    Was lost in the tattered tree
    She had become.

    One year she was too tattered
    And was thrown into the garbage.
    Ma never tried to get an easier tree to manage
    And the Fairy King was long gone
    With the memories
    A once beautiful little tree.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    December 21, 2021

  19. The War of the Christmas Trees

    It was second Christmas after Da died.
    I wanted a tree… Ma did not.
    She thought with Da gone
    That foolishness was over…
    I wanted a tree.

    I engaged a reluctant nephew, George.
    I knew the tree we would cut.
    Just needed his help to carry it.
    It was pine tree growing in the wrong place.
    I thought it was a pretty tree.
    Ma did not, but she didn’t want a tree.
    The war of the Christmas trees
    Had begun and Ma won the first battle.
    I still wanted one.

    I came home from work
    And she had cut a “Charlie Brown Tree.”
    I said that tree was not going to work,
    For that tree could not hold our ornaments.
    I won the second battle.
    I still wanted a tree.

    We decided to go search for our tree.
    Every tree I liked; she didn’t.
    Every tree she liked; I didn’t.
    We had walked for over an hour,
    And I had about given up.
    When we came into a clearing
    And there stood a sweet gum tree
    Because if you chew a twig
    It has a sweet clean taste.
    It was shaped perfectly like a Christmas tree
    Except it had no needles or leaves…
    It was bare.
    Our lives had been bare without Da.
    It fit somehow.

    We stood for a moment and Ma looked at me
    Her eyes were dancing, and I began to smile…
    We had found our tree…
    We began to laugh,
    And laughed at how the family
    Would look at us strange,
    But we didn’t care…
    We had made a peace agreement
    And isn’t Christmas about peace

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    December 21, 2021


    Somewhere under your Christmas tree
    you will find me in your silent night.
    The star shines very bright and I long
    to be present when you unwrap my love.
    Pretty paper and bows and God knows
    I want to be the gift your life requires.
    The burning yule log fires your heart,
    that flame keeps giving you joy, somewhere
    under your Christmas tree.
    I could be everything on your list.
    As if you had been kissed by true love’s lips.
    Gentle sips of your honeyed buss,
    I must have more. There on the floor,
    under your Christmas tree you will see
    what I had brought to you in the night.
    It was a determined flight I made
    to serenade you with Christmas love.
    The room is quiet.
    The night is still.
    I will be stirring as only love will and can.
    I will be the man who brings peace
    to your aching heart and your mind.
    You will find me. Somewhere.
    Under your Christmas tree.


    I tend to glow golden or orangey-red
    with whispering snaps as I lie in my bed;
    I dress up the room with my presence, but then
    I’m not much for heating, though roasting’s my ken.
    I’m the perfect companion when Christmastime’s here:
    I recall once again the departed and dear
    and do so with fragrance that scents and delights
    these days of long shadows that fade to long nights.

  22. In 1977 a dear friend said she was going to make her Christmas cards… and I decided to do my first one that year… She never made another one and I have made my cards ever since that Christmas… I now paint one card and take to a printer… I wish I could post the picture of my card… In 1996 I added a story, and though I can’t show the card, and Merry Christmas to you all

    Memories are gifts….

    Christmas is not the only time we have memories. Sometimes in the summertime there are memories that ties us to others for they shared a time in our lives. In the last few months, the two other women who were involved with me that night have brought up that one particular memory we all shared.
    I was thirteen. My cousin Beverly was eleven and had come to spend the summer with me. Our neighbor had his niece Nancy from New Jersey come to spend the summer with him and his wife. Nancy was twelve. Often Beverly and I were over at Chock and Della Pickle to visit with Nancy. I had fanciful dreams. I was going to be a famous writer and make money. Nancy and Beverly were not so fanciful, but they would listen to me each day I read from the novel I was writing. Sadly, the day before I went to college, I burned that novel.
    One day we had been down to the creek below the Pickle’s house playing in the water. We were wet from head to toe. We were laughing and Mrs. Pickle told us we had to stay out until we got dry. I loved Mrs. Pickle. She worked in a school library and brought me discarded books to read. I still have many of those books. Mr. Pickle came out to listen to us chatter and talk about what we could do next.
    I am not sure how it came about, but Mr. Pickle began to talk about how he loved to eat frog legs. We were all curious and asked him about it. He told us we had to go out at night when the moon was high in the sky and catch the frogs. He called it frog gigging. We girls began to beg him to take us out at night to catch some frogs. Mrs. Pickle was standing at the door laughing at us. Mr. Pickle was smiling. He said that Nancy could go but we had to ask Ma, if we could go.
    We were almost dry. Beverly and I went to ask my mother. She was dubious about us going to catch frogs in the dark of night. Ma did not like the dark. We told her that Mr. Pickle was going with us. Ma was not sure. Da came home later and thought it would be good experience for us. He asked us if we were going to eat frog legs, and both of us said no.
    Ma asked, “Why are you going then?”
    I said, “Mr. Pickle will eat the frog legs. It is being neighborly.”
    Ma said, “I think it something you thought up.”
    “I swear Ma, I didn’t.”
    Ma was not convinced.
    I am sure that she called the Pickles to ask if it was fine with them.
    The next day we were over at the Pickles to tell Mr. Pickle we could go. He laughed and said, “Well, we just can’t do it any night. It has to be a night when the moon is full. I will let you girls know.” He got up and said, “I got to get to work.”
    I am afraid we three girls pestered him to take us out to hunt frogs. Then a few weeks later, He said to us, “I think tomorrow night will be the best time to catch some frogs.”
    Beverly and I were over at the Pickles after it had gotten dark. We were dressed in shorts and tops and wearing tennis shoes. We laughed and giggled and played tag as we went down to the spot we were going to get into the creek.
    Before we did, Mr. Pickle had a bag, a pillowcase actually, and a flashlight. He told us that he would shine a light in a frog’s eyes, and we had to catch them with our hands. We made so much noise getting into the creek that Mr. Pickle had to remind us we were hunters and needed to be quiet.
    We had not gotten too far, when he said. “There’s a frog. Catch it.”
    We raced to the frog, and he hopped away. We fell into the water trying to catch it. We were laughing, making noise.
    Mr. Pickle was chuckling at us, and said, “Let’s keep going we can find another frog.”
    The frogs were faster than we were and escaped, and we fell into the water, and splashed around. Mr. Pickle reminded us to keep going.
    We were almost to a small waterfall. It was a place we often played in the water to get cool in the summer. At the waterfall there was another frog, and this time Nancy caught it. I had decided I didn’t want to touch it. She put it in her uncle’s bag saying, “Here’s you one Uncle Chock.”
    But we weren’t done, because there was that waterfall, and we sat on it and slid down over and over into the small pool of water as the moonlight danced on the water with us.
    Mr. Pickle just stood there letting us be girls. We would all be women soon and have to make the choices that women have to make in life. But that night we were still girls loving life with the knowledge that Chock Pickle would keep us safe.
    It was a time of innocence. It was before the times we live in when we view those around us as being guilty. I understand because I held dark secrets then but that night, I was a girl trying to catch frogs with two friends. I clung to that innocence. The children today do not have that kind of innocence, and that thought makes me sad. Ma used to say that we are children for such a short time in this life, and grown up for most of our lives. We need to keep children as children for as long as we can. She said this to young people trying to grow up and sometimes to mothers trying to push their children into being grown.
    I asked Mr. Pickle few weeks later did he ever eat the frog legs we caught for him. He said he froze them to eat later, but I suspect that he took that one lone frog back down to the creek to live out its life croaking in the moonlight.
    The gift Mr. Pickle gave us that night was to let us be silly girls without fear of being judged or harmed. Every girl needs someone that will be that person for them. I remember years later when I was returning to college knowing that my home was no longer my home for, we were moving again. I went over to the Pickles to tell them goodbye the evening before because they would be in church when we left the next morning. I talked to them about that night and how much I loved them for the books and the memories. I told them I would miss them. I walked down to that creek after leaving their home and waded into that creek, and I wanted to be that girl wading in that creek in the moonlight again because saying goodbye hurt me to the core.
    I thought moving was the worst thing to happen to me, but it wasn’t. I met new people. My life was blessed by those people. It took years to realize that was what I needed. I believe people are placed in our lives for a reason. I am thankful for The Pickles, Nancy and my cousin Beverly and that night of catching frogs.

    Years have passed, and life has had its hardships for each of us, but the gift of that night was always there to remind us that things as simple as wading in a creek in the moonlight can make bonds and give us hope for joy all our lives. I am thankful for that night. I am thankful for those bonds.

    Normally, I list those that have died in the last year, but I am not doing that anymore. I am looking to the future and whatever it might bring to me. I will tell you that I have finished writing my third novel and am looking for an agent. It will happen at the right time.
    Blessing on all of you and remember with your children that you can create memories that are simple and ordinary, and will in later years bring them joy.

  23. My Christmas Cards

    I was mid-twenties, and
    My friend Gracie said,
    “I am going to make
    My own Christmas cards.”

    I thought it was a cool idea, and
    Decided to do the same…
    She did a simple card
    With a dove of peace.

    I took my crayons
    And did a rainbow
    In words…
    “You are my rainbow.
    Because of you, I have seen the colors.
    You are my bread,
    Because of you I have tasted life,
    And you are my benediction,
    Because of you, I have been blessed.”
    Inside I said a simple, “Thank you.”

    Over the years
    I wrote about the earth,
    And faith and hope, and love,
    And attempted to do mercy…
    That one still eludes me.

    I painted or drew each card…
    The one I did for my father’s death,
    Broke me as I typed each card.
    He had died in November, and I wrote
    In my journal two days after he died
    The poem that I used.

    When I was mid forties
    I added a story…
    I later turned into a poem.

    When my brothers died two years
    Before the century changed,
    I took my cards to a printer…

    In the last few years
    I have failed to send out my cards…
    I was weary, and lost, and deeply sad…
    This year I feel simply that I am blessed
    By each day, each hour, and each minute
    I am living. I want to be more
    Than weary or lost or sad…
    For I am more, and I have hope.

    I have complied a scrapbook
    Of my cards…
    It is actually two scrapbooks, and
    To finish I need to buy a third…

    Why do I do it?
    My cards are a gift to those I love,
    The people who bless me,
    And are my benediction.
    It is the way I say, “Thank You”

    Ever in Christ’s love,

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    December 22, 2021

  24. this is the first story turned into a poem


    In April of this year, I took a journey
    Into the mountains of Western North Carolina where I was born.
    I had always been a wanderer.
    I found my way to a place I had not been since I was very small.
    I found my way to Fontana Lake.
    It was early morn. The water was a deep mint green.
    The mists were rising, and the wind was cold.
    Above the lake in the pines on the other side,
    I heard the cry of a hawk.
    As I walked along the edge of the water,
    I listened to the songs of the morning.

    I was alone with it all.

    I stood at the water’s edge for a long, long time,
    Watching the mists rise, listening to the wind and the hawk,
    I have always been a wanderer.
    And I had been taught that part of wandering
    Was waiting and accepting whatever journey may come.
    On the edge of the lake on that cold April morn,
    I accepted that my journey had just begun.

    I had come here alone.

    I had been in the same place for such a long time.
    I had heard the wind rising for years.
    It had begun in the woods outside my home.
    I heard the wind early one morn.
    I heard it and stopped and thought for a moment,
    But I did not listen to its voice.
    I heard it again in Scotland one moonlit night along the Firth of Forth,
    And again, about twilight in a meadow in Ireland.
    This time I listened to the restless voice calling to me.
    I had listened but had not followed.
    I heard it again over the lake and in the mists that April morn.
    I have long been a wanderer.
    I wait for whatever journey may come,
    For wherever my heart calls me to wander,
    This time I will follow.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    November 1996 for the Christmas card that year and rewrote as a poem


    Jingle all the way,
    a one-horse open sleigh with
    reindeer retro-fit


    I know she’s the boss
    and I am only the Claus.
    She likes it that way!


    It surely does glow
    and so you know, batteries
    are not included.


    And then there’s the list.
    Not a single soul is missed,
    not naughty, nor nice.

  26. Just wanted to wish you all a very Merry Christmas! Wishing the best to each poet and hopefully, you know it! Enjoy your time, thanks for every rhyme . . . see you next time! And on it goes! 🙂

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