What Makes a Christmas Tree Beautiful?

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Is it the shape of its branches?

The color of its twinkling lights?

The sparkle of the ornaments?

The number of presents beneath it?

My tree, although large, has seen many Christmas seasons come and go. Each year, when we pull it out of the garage and remove its storage coat, the branches become a little more weak, a little limper, and more transparent. This season, our old reliable tree stands a little less erect and prefers a slight lean to the right. (Kinda like me) But it is a proud tree, one that continues to carry the weight of its ornaments. (Again, kinda like me.)

My ornaments sparkle, but not from the lights. They sparkle withs the reflection of times past.

Some remind me of activities I once did.

Or that I still do.

Others remind me of places I have been.

Some memorialize my parents.

I see my children when they were young,

and the ornaments they made long before they became parents.

I see my four-legged friends that I have lost years before.

And the one I have recently lost.

I see faces of my friends when I hang their gifted ornaments.

And some ornaments I chose simply because I thought them beautiful.

Thank you, old reliable Christmas tree for holding my memories.

If you have a Christmas tree, what do you like about it?

Original Christmas Song for Your Little One

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I wrote this many years ago when I was the director of a Child Development Center.

The tune is to “I’m a Little Teapot.” Happy singing!

I’m a little Christmas tree short and stout

see my branches sticking out

Decorate with tinsel and colored lights

my star on top is shining bright (speak: blink, blink, blink, blink)

See the presents under the tree

One is for you and one is for me

tear off the paper

pull off the bow

Santa’s been here, HO HO HO!

Lyrics by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham

Where Monsters Bake Cakes

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I live where dragonflies spew tiny fire to light my non-harmful cigarettes

and grass grows blue and trees sprout leaves of fuchsia.  

I live where the monsters bake cakes that, when eaten, guarantee good dreams

and snails give piggy-back rides through golden mountains.

I live where three-legged dogs drive jeeps and give free rides to the carnival

and carousel horse take breaks so you can feed them granola and honey.

I live where every living being is peculiar and wondrous, wearing their mix-matched clothing or none at all.

I live where lies that spring off tongues evaporate before they reach the air and meaningful words are collected, free for consumption.

I live where injuries and sicknesses are healed by blowing dandelion tuffs

and the only disaster is when the flavor leaves your gum.

Would you like to come for a visit?

Image credit

Sarcosuchus Castle – a true story

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The giant crocodile guards the mote. I take comfort in that.

Still, I have been betrayed by the two youngsters.

Only moments before I, the former queen, had taken the royal noodle and knighted them. I addressed them formally, calling them “Sirs”, then watched as they leaped into the concrete pool, both with smiles on their young faces.

Pleased to have done my duty by making two boys happy, I settled upon my noodle horse.

“It’s a great stallion,” I said, peddling my legs in the water.

Sir Paddy, the younger one of only 5 years, scoffed. He threw an invisible something my direction.

“Now,” he said. “You are riding a snail.”

The nerve of that rascal!

“How could you?” I demanded.

Laughter.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, Sir Paddy wasn’t finished with me yet. “Whoosh. And you are now a chicken.”

How quickly one can be thrown from greatness into insignificance.

I bwok, bwoked in a pitiful and timid display as I tread the water at a snails pace.

Seven- year-old Sir Russ (the one who taught me what a sarcosuchus was in the first place) had another idea. Poof. “You are now a dragon chicken.”

Things were looking up.

I flew off my snail, flapped my wings with enough force to swell the pool. My bwoks roared. Fire erupted from my beak with enough heat to put the ninety-seven degree Texas heat to shame.

Quickly, before the two tricksters had any more ideas, I flapped out of the pool toward my water bottle and for a bit of respite.

Because, occasionally, grandmother dragon chickens need their rest.

Spearing the Pearl

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“The world is my oyster” means the world is yours to enjoy. Happiness is at your fingertips. Such a positive statement. Or is it?

Yes, there might be a pearl inside but an oyster is hard to open. Even Pistol from Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor (who coined the phrase), was ready to use his sword to steal his fortune (get to the pearl).

Well, we can’t steal happiness.

An oyster is hard to open.

I suppose we could fork out the $50+ bucks for an oyster machine on Amazon. But that would be like having our joy handed to us on a silver platter at the cost of no effort.

An oyster is hard to open.

To start with, you have to have the right too kind of knives and a durable, cut resistant glove. Metaphorically, you need to have power and a thick skin.

Do we agree that opening our oyster to find the pearl is not an easy task?

But aren’t the best-reached goals the ones reached with grit and determination?

Although some of the oysters I managed to open over the years had no treasure inside, I still managed to collect many pearls. I hope you have, too. And probably like me, some were harder to obtain than others. Were they worth the effort?

Let’s toast to our pearls, past, present and future.

Patience

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How I hate the passing moments

my missing Muse with no bestowments

lying in a barren field

her eyes shut tight, lips tightly sealed.

Evading me, my patience, wanes

my inspiration muscle strains

She hides between the narrow cracks

a fruitful pen now turned to wax

But who I am to rush her pace

while she attends the marketplace

of bold ideas, the fresh, the new

and delivers them in rendezvous