The Other Night Before Christmas…

This was just sent to my email, and I found it interesting enough to share. The Other Night before Christmas.

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS,

HE LIVED ALL ALONE,

IN A ONE BEDROOM HOUSE MADE OF

PLASTER AND STONE.

I HAD COME DOWN THE CHIMNEY

WITH PRESENTS TO GIVE,

AND TO SEE JUST WHO

IN THIS HOME DID LIVE.

I LOOKED ALL ABOUT,

A STRANGE SIGHT I DID SEE,

NO TINSEL, NO PRESENTS,

NOT EVEN A TREE.

NO STOCKING BY MANTLE,

JUST BOOTS FILLED WITH SAND,

ON THE WALL HUNG PICTURES

OF FAR DISTANT LANDS.

WITH MEDALS AND BADGES,

AWARDS OF ALL KINDS,

A SOBER THOUGHT

CAME THROUGH MY MIND.

FOR THIS HOUSE WAS DIFFERENT,

IT WAS DARK AND DREARY,

I FOUND THE HOME OF A SOLDIER,

ONCE I COULD SEE CLEARLY.

THE SOLDIER LAY SLEEPING,

SILENT, ALONE,

CURLED UP ON THE FLOOR

IN THIS ONE BEDROOM HOME.

THE FACE WAS SO GENTLE,

HIS ROOM IN SUCH DISORDER,

NOT HOW I PICTURED

A SOLDIER.

WAS THIS THE HERO OF WHOM I’D JUST READ?

CURLED UP ON A PONCHO, THE FLOOR FOR A BED?

I REALIZED THE FAMILIES

THAT I SAW THIS NIGHT,

OWED THEIR LIVES TO THESE SOLDIERS

WHO WERE WILLING TO FIGHT.

SOON ROUND THE WORLD,

THE CHILDREN WOULD PLAY,

AND GROWNUPS WOULD CELEBRATE

A BRIGHT CHRISTMAS DAY.

THEY ALL ENJOYED FREEDOM

EACH MONTH OF THE YEAR,

BECAUSE OF THE SOLDIERS,

LIKE THE ONE LYING HERE.

I COULDN’T HELP WONDER

HOW MANY LAY ALONE,

ON A COLD CHRISTMAS EVE

IN A LAND FAR FROM HOME.

THE VERY THOUGHT

BROUGHT A TEAR TO MY EYE,

I DROPPED TO MY KNEES

AND STARTED TO CRY.

THE SOLDIER AWAKENED

AND I HEARD A ROUGH VOICE

SAY, “SANTA DON’T CRY,

THIS LIFE IS MY CHOICE;

I FIGHT FOR FREEDOM,

I DON’T ASK FOR MORE,

MY LIFE IS MY GOD,

MY COUNTRY, MY CORPS.”

THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER

AND DRIFTED TO SLEEP,

I COULDN’T CONTROL IT,

I CONTINUED TO WEEP.

I KEPT WATCH FOR HOURS,

SO SILENT AND STILL

AND WE BOTH SHIVERED

FROM THE COLD NIGHT’S CHILL.

I DIDN’T WANT TO LEAVE

ON THAT COLD, DARK, NIGHT,

THIS GUARDIAN OF HONOR

SO WILLING TO FIGHT.

THEN THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER,

WITH A VOICE SOFT AND PURE,

WHISPERED, “CARRY ON SANTA,

IT’S CHRISTMAS DAY, ALL IS SECURE.”

ONE LOOK AT MY WATCH,

AND I KNEW HE WAS RIGHT.

“MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIEND,

AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT.”

The supposed origin below was sent along with this:

A Peacekeeping soldier stationed over seas wrote this poem. The following is his request. I think it is reasonable. PLEASE. Would you do me the kind favor of sending this to as many people as you can? Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our service men and women for our being able to celebrate these festivities. Let’s try in this small way to pay a tiny bit of what we owe. Make people stop and think of our heroes, living and dead, who sacrificed themselves for us. Please, do your small part to plant this small seed.

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Categorized as darkness

By Sire

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4 comments

  1. I want to thank Sire for posting that email. It’s appearance couldn’t have been more timely for me. I have done as the email asked, for the sole reason of honoring my dad, who adopted me, gave me his name and treated me like his own son along with his own three children to follow by my mother; who I was separated from at the age of seven, only to ever spend one more week with him once at the age of thirteen; who died in 1985, when I was about 28 I guess, before he got my last letter to him (oh shit, there go the waterworks….); and whose birthday is coming up on Dec. 6th. The following is a poem I wrote for him a few weeks after I was told of his death, which was already a month after he was buried.
    (This poem was also set to music as the first song of a five-song-cycle written by an ex-lover of mine. The vocal was done by Peter Schlosser, who is the original Caiaphas in the original Broadway production of Jesus Christ Superstar. Perhaps when I do a memorial page to my dad, I will put that rendition in as the background music to the page.)

    Happy Birthday, Dad.

    Oh,
    You took him so warm and full in your arms,
    built a world around him that he would not feel so alien,
    and that world took him, stripped and
    redressed him in a shirt wove from rage,
    made his mouth speak faster, confused his mind,
    the mind you meant to mold when you returned,
    the baby’s body you meant to hold to catch his
    little boy tears and fears in the cloth of your
    soldier’s shoulder –
    but there you were in foreign lands,
    unable to see the hands of the dragon
    reaching out, snatching your little love
    away, unable to hear his frightened
    cries in the middle of a night of hurt,
    cries for himself and for you,
    Where are you, oh where are you Daddy!
    And then the rage finally did die,
    and the boy grew into a man and yes,
    you’d seen each other again,
    but the years were like glaciers between
    your fires, the others you must
    tend were nearer, none the less dearer,
    and he had his own horizons to
    explore, his own experiences of
    which you knew nothing would
    see him through, nothing you could do,
    the glaciers were too vast,
    his movements too fast –
    and his last letter so vague,
    promises to say more next time –
    and next time you were gone.
    Oh, such a miserable end, for a father and son.

    Candlegrey
    9-19-85
    Manhattan

  2. That was beautiful – I am not one for such things, but the way this was expressed was genuine, very heart felt, & it touched me deeply – One of my good friends was in the Army, he has been through a lot, & has also had his eyes opened to the world around him – Although the experience has made him hard it has also made him strong – I appriciate all those that have done their part in ways they see fit – I loved your poem – Just wanted you to know how your words affected me – I wish your father a happy birthday as well –

    Pleasantly Pleased, GothicPunk*^_^*

  3. I THOUGHT I TOLD YA… 😉
    i’m flattered by all this attention, all for little old me?
    i dodged the draft, but it really makes me sick how all these government rapists posing as goths in pvc are trying to imprison soul-searching philosophers such as myself.
    i still love ya santa, but i’m pretty busy right now.
    who knows, maybe we can meet up around christmas.
    -mystery-man

    p.s. hey eek, there’s nothing weak about rabid beavers tearing each other apart on an emerald field. 😉

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