Reflections Of Christmas Past

'I can hear sounds of bells, of that Christmas Day'
Another poet wrote, in their poetic way.
Of 'Peace on Earth, Good will to men.'
And still our earth seeks, that peace again!

Like Him, I bow in great despair
And pray that peace, be everywhere!
'Tho hate is strong, and mocks peace songs
Of Peace on earth, to those seem wrong.

But as the poet wrote, in time of yore
'Hate and greed shall be no more.
God is not dead, nor doth He sleep!
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail!
with, ' peace on earth Good will to men.'

When men put away all their hate and greed
And return to love and faith, for another's need!
Then we shall truly have again
'Peace on earth, and Good will to men! '

poem by Linda Winchell
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Grieving The Loss Of Stuff!

I just heard on world news tonight
that this generation of children
are grieving the loss of STUFF?
I couldn't believe what my ears had heard
they think they're all having it all so tuff?

Would they have grieved or missed it all?
If we as parents would have just given less?
And maybe not gone and filled their lives with STUFF
and given them, our parental best!

Grieving the loss of STUFF?
I can't believe what we have now become!
To place a price on the stuff in life!
and not that of what our lives
have given to the world and done!

So let this generation weep awhile!
they need to know what is really tuff!
And then they won't have time to moan

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poem by Linda Winchell
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Bedtime Story

I'm going to tell you a bed time story
it's the one my Grandpa told long ago to me.
But the bed time story I will tell you tonight
will become a part of, now your families history!

It will tell of the days of covered wagons
that once rolled across the prairies green!
And tales of hunting and fishing
you will invision all of my story telling scenes.

Of indians and cowboys!
around the camp fires and hunting buffalo!
And homes built from the lands trees
and those fields, that the farmers plows tilled to grow.

I will tell you a bed time story
that you will tell your own children one day!
I will tell it the way my Grandpa told it to me
then you can tell your story, in your way one day!

poem by Linda Winchell
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Garbage Pick Up

Place your garbage at the side of the road
all that was treasured at one time.
Bikes and some exercise equipment
they had seen their better of times.

Your child has grown up
and your now growing out.
He 's worn off the rubber riding his bike
clothes hung on yours, cause it got too tuff!

Golf clubs never used at all
because dad had that heart attack.
Maybe if he let you come along
you both wouldn't have got so fat?

Garbage pick up man is looking
at all that lay aside the road.
He's looking at it likes it's Christmas Eve
with wealth of gifts untold!

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poem by Linda Winchell
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Shoe Shine Boy

Chicago train station, midst their porcelain tunnels
You would hear this young voice cry.
' Shine! ', 'Fifty cents! '
As daily commuters rushing home would pass on by.

Sitting on a shoeshine box
In the cold dim of this porcelain maize.
While down a bit, was a man who would sit
and on his torn violin, some old time tunes he'd play.

These sounds are as I remember them
of an era long now passed.
While at that time, I thought these days
cries of a shoe shine boy
and violin old time music would last.

How naive was I then, to have ever thought this way
for all eventually will fade from view.
I shall always remember, the cries of the shoe shine boy
and the violins oldtime songs, of the Chicago that I knew.

poem by Linda Winchell
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It's Hard To Say, 'Im Sorry

It's hard to say, 'I'm Sorry'
quite humbling at best.
It takes a lot of strenght for one to muster
those two words, of challenging request.

It makes one feel like a child
and embarrassment for some.
We have to let our EGO go
and maybe for but a moment
feel a wee bit dumb?

But it is such an easy fix me up
when there's anothers heart that's broke.
It will only fester inside of you
holding back those words you choke.

I'm sorry, if I've hurt you
I'm sorry, if you feel that way.
I'm sorry, it didn't work out the way you'd planned
I'm so sorry, your having a bad day.

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poem by Linda Winchell
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A Party Of One

How many do you need to have a party?
For it doesn’t require a crowd.
While the party of one may torment you
In your personal retirement….imprisoned cloud.

Friends moved away…
Layoffs…death…the familiar vanishes now from sight.
While you set alone with your thoughts
Day-in ….day out…through out the darkness of night.

It is now time to look around
Like the Psalmist…and take inventory of your life.
Such as Paul and Silas imprisoned
As they spent…. Their then felt abandoned life.

Our Redeemers’ constant presence is with us
He will carry you through all of your lonely days.
“And surely I am with you always, to the very end of your age.”
(Math.28-20)

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poem by Linda Winchell
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Destiny

Flirt with me today
and you may lust for my tomorrows.
Seek the fate I have in store for you
And you may have not time for borrow.

Destiny has it written
Written down in every page well.
It is the fate we all must spend in life
Destiny has you under its destined spell.

Some may make it to the top
Then some not even to take a step.
But whatever you think you all deserve
It is but destiny in this life you'll get!

Some may seem to die before their time
Then others you wonder why they've not?
You see that is just their destiny
And it is all of what they'd got.

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poem by Linda Winchell
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Hunting Season Is Open

Gun hunting season opens tomorrow morning
my husband is gathering his hunting gear around.
He'll be getting up really early in the morning
way before the break of dawn.

He's trying his special orange hunting cap on
so that he's not mistaken for a deer.
Us wives always worry about that you know
it is one of a hunter's wifes greatest fears.

The weather is suppose to be very cold and rainy
my husband says that is the best weather for hunting in.
Because the deer are on the move much more
then when it's warmer like some recent days have been.

I will say a prayer to our Lord above
asking that He protect all hunters, on this opening day.
And that they all come back with that Buck or Doe their after
and no bullets from their guns shot go astray.

poem by Linda Winchell
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Bathroom Barber

I'm not a bathroom barber I've learned
gave myself a hair cut with my own two hands.
When all of a sudden I heard a loud noise
which took my mind off what hair to cut I had.

Then SNIP, it went off my head!
a large patch bald of hair is missing.
The dog looked at me puzzled and barked
and the cat raised her back and was hissing!

I must admit I looked a fright
with that large patch of missing hair.
When I got up nerve to look in the mirror
I even gave myself a scare!

I was only trying to save a buck
and give myself what looked to be so easy.
But with this patch of hair now missing
my head feels a bit more breezy.

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poem by Linda Winchell
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