At Christmas…

Well folks, it’s been quite a year of world disasters, the usual corruption in politics and enough nasty Trump-induced breaking news to make my ears bleed. Seriously!

So as we turn our thoughts to gentler things at this time of year, I struggle to put all this behind me and think kinder thoughts of my fellow man. And in so doing, I am reminded of this beloved Christmas poem by Edgar Albert Guest.

It’s very simply the perfect Christmas reading. Everyone should have this one bred in the bone.

                        (Edgar Albert Guest, 1881-1959)

A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year;
He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season’s here;
Then he’s thinking more of others than he thought the months before,
And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for.
He is less a selfish creature than at any other time;
When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.

When it’s Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part;
He is keener for the service that is prompted by his heart.
All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile
And the true reward he’s seeking is the glory of a smile.
Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas he is almost what God wanted him to be.

If I had to paint a picture of a man I think I’d wait
Till he’d fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate.
I’d not catch him at his labours when his thoughts are all of pelf,
On the long days and the dreary when he’s striving for himself.
I’d not take him when he’s sneering, when he’s scornful or depressed,
But I’d look for him at Christmas when he’s shining at his best.

Man is ever in a struggle and he’s oft misunderstood;
There are days the worst that’s in him is the master of the good,
But at Christmas kindness rules him and he puts himself aside
And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is open wide.
Oh, I don’t know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be.

                                       =====

Now I’ll leave you something else I’ve borrowed – this time from Victorian Farm, which airs on the BBC.  Cheers!

Old Victorian Toast

Here’s a toast to them as we love,
And a toast to them as loves us.
And here’s to them, who loves them,
Who loves those, who loves those,
Who loves them, that loves us.

Only the sober can say it and only the drunk can understand it.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to one and all!

See you between the lines.

Pat Skene

A Gift of Rhyme at Christmastime

My boomer rantz are on a break,
It’s Christmastime for heaven’s sake!
So as I bid you all adieu,
Read on to find my gift to you and you and you and you…

Here we are again:
Another exciting Christmas season has arrived. Oh I know it’s a man-made circus of retail insanity, but there’s so much more bubbling beneath the surface if we look close enough; nice big fat juicy bubbles – like kindness, generosity, good cheer and family traditions. Most people are softer and more forgiving during the holidays, and that in itself is worth all the effort that goes into celebrating this magical time of year. 

I have 2 little rhyming gifts for you before I hit the eggnog. The first one is for the kids in your life, and the next one below it is for you.

                THE  PERFECT  PRESENT
                          by Pat Skene            

It was early Christmas morning when I tiptoed out of bed.
Did Santa get my letter? Was my present in his sled?

The strangest looking package lay beneath the Christmas tree.
It said, With Love, From Santa! Could this present be for me?

Well I’m older than my brother and the baby is too small.
I think a package of this size should be for someone tall.

The gift was wrapped with holes poked through, and tied with silver twine.
I read the tag – To Jonathan – this present must be mine!

But suddenly, the package moved! I saw it sure enough.
Two big brown eyes peeked out at me. Oh my! I heard, “Ruff-ruff.”

It jumped out of the wrapping, and then knocked down the tree.
It chewed the Christmas paper up and wagged its tail at me.

I loved the furry little face. Its coat was white and brown.
It pulled on my pajama strings and made my pants fall down.

In came my brother Sammy with my baby sister Sue.
They saw my perfect present and they both yelled out, “Yahoo!”

When Mom and Dad came down the stairs, the room was quite a sight.
They said, “It looks like Santa Claus has had a busy night.”

So Santa read my letter and he knew just what to bring me,
But I wonder how he got my Christmas puppy down the chimney?

                            MERRY CHRISTMAS KIDS!
——————————————————————————————–

And now my favourite Christmas reading. I’m sure Edgar wouldn’t mind my re-gifting this one:

                                                   AT CHRISTMAS

                                       (Edgar Albert Guest, 1881-1959)

          A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year;
          He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season’s here;
          Then he’s thinking more of others than he’s thought the months before,
          And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for.
          He is less a selfish creature than at any other time;
          When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.

          When it’s Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part;
          He is keener for the service that is prompted by the heart.
          All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile
          And the true reward he’s seeking is the glory of a smile.
          Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me
          That at Christmas he is almost what God wanted him to be.

          If I had to paint a picture of a man I think I’d wait
          Till he’d fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate.
          I’d not catch him at his labors when his thoughts are all of pelf,
          On the long days and the dreary when he’s striving for himself.
          I’d not take him when he’s sneering, when he’s scornful or depressed,
          But I’d look for him at Christmas when he’s shining at his best.

          Man is ever in a struggle and he’s oft misunderstood;
          There are days the worst that’s in him is the master of the good,
          But at Christmas kindness rules him and he puts himself aside
          And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is opened wide.
          Oh, I don’t know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me
          That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be.

 Here’s to peace and happiness from me and mine to you and yours. 
 Pat Skene