Poetry from the Light
Dedicated to Our Trauma Volunteers
Dedicated to Our Trauma Volunteers
Christmas 2018
Compiled and Formatted
by Anthony Servante
by Anthony Servante
Introduction:
Our poetry selections for the 2018 Christmas column has been filled with poems by our volunteers from the Trauma & Therapy Updates 1-9 (I am entry number 6, the writer). My only instructions to our participants was to write what they felt this Christmas holiday. One entrant withdrew their poem at the last minute. Thank you to the other eight for braving this first time venture into sharing your thoughts in this strange format. I took the liberty to edit the poetry for grammar and spelling. Nothing more. I'd also like to thank Martin Ryan, the only non-trauma volunteer, to submit poetry.
I did not use the names of the participants (as I did with the Trauma Updates) and instead used their vocations (in some instances, their former vocations). I also added information about their trauma experience and applicable therapy very briefly.
Now, let's get to the poetry.
The Poetry and The Volunteers (Bless you all).*
Titleless
I went to England for my vacation.
Saved up from my vocation.
From LA to the UK
I wish it were one-way.
I visited museums and sites
By day and evening lights.
The winter there chilled my pores;
I warmly dressed to stay outdoors.
I flew back home for Christmas time,
I left behind the land sublime
But here with friends and family
I am again where I should be.
2. Instructor: Hands held in ice. Loss of faith, agoraphobia. N/A
Two-Sided Knife in the Road
You know when you forget your lunch
inside the kitchen
and have to return to retrieve it,
that you've entered another dimension.
You are no longer you.
YOU didn't forget anything
and are now in your car
headed for the beach.
However,
if you hurry, you can still catch up to YOURself,
pass him, and beat him to the beach.
Then he'll be fated to pick up
where you left off - heading for work
without the paper lunch
that you forgot.
But in all likelihood, he has foreseen your detour
and consigned to kill you
before you could get in your car,
brown sack lunch on your lap.
It is not his first time, YOU know.
YOU've detoured off YOUR own course
countless times before.
Sometimes you reach the fork in the road
and create new dimensions.
Other times you reach the knife
and kill yourself to unsplit the road
and unify the course
between back and forth
and back and forth
back and forth.
Between.
3. Driver: Trapped in darkness. Homeless, shoplifting. N/A
Sometimes you reach the fork in the road
and create new dimensions.
Other times you reach the knife
and kill yourself to unsplit the road
and unify the course
between back and forth
and back and forth
back and forth.
Between.
3. Driver: Trapped in darkness. Homeless, shoplifting. N/A
My Christmas Coat
My Christmas Coat has many pockets
inside and out;
some you can see,
some you must figure out.
The plainclothes Santa's helpers
scurry 'bout the store;
they look for forlorn faces
in the crowded store.
But they do not see me,
though my pockets are full;
for I am smiles and toothy,
a frantic shopping fool.
Or so they think--Santa's elves
as one eye feigns interest in toys
and one eye follows the forlorn;
yet I am hidden in happy joys.
My pockets fill with goodies
deprived of UPC surprise;
I rip the seal off in cheer,
and squish them into pies.
Then ho-ho-ho I go,
my pockets full of wares,
eager to find a Christmas home
in pawn shops here and there.
Christmas Comes at Night
It's Christmas Eve again
No family or friend
The night is dark and cold
The routine's getting old.
The check is late, you slob,
My ex yells at the mob
As I walk away;
How'd she find where I stay?
Who's watching the kids?
I hid here in the skids.
How'd she find me here?
Kneedeep in wine and beer.
But that was yesterday.
Christmas Eve today.
Free dinner served by stars.
Dollars handed from passing cars.
But now it's time to go inside
The hotel where I hide.
At midnight the lobby will be full
With Christmas songs and bull.
Sermons sweet as candy canes,
Eggnog spiced by purple veins.
Finger sandwiches and bible books
Wrapped with ribbons for us crooks.
By 12:15, it's back to our rooms;
The staff retrieve their mops and brooms.
From my window the sirens blare.
Into Black, Black Christmas I stare.
5. Private Work: Trapped with broken bones. Born Again Christian. Religious
I Saw the Light
I saw the Light inside the Dark
I felt the Lord inside the Dark
I smelled the pine behind the sulfur
I tasted Jesus's flesh in the wafer
I heard the song of Christmas born
Inside the Dark, Inside the Dark,
I sensed the Glory of the Light.
Brothers, It is Time
My hands were held in fire
But I had FAITH and did not burn.
The flames bit my flesh
But I did not scream.
And round and round the horses rode
Against the wintry wind of hell;
Flames of ice, and icy fire,
A clime for undead celebration.
Demons press their faces to mine,
But I did not cry.
For I was being tested,
Was I. Fear was not my sibling there,
Nor Terror, Horror, or Death.
I had thee FAITH,
God Bless The Dammed,
Forgive the Fiends,
Melt the fire,
Light the ice.
I placed my hands into the white flames
And held them there myself.
Merry Christmas, Demons of Hell,
My Brothers, it is time to gather
Ourselves for Xmas Eve;
The horses ride round and round.
7. Maintenance: 80% loss of sight. Alcoholic, divorced. AA
Poem withdrawn by contributor.
8. Public Service: Severe burns on arms. Schizophrenic onset. Outpatient care
Christmas Heals All
Christmas will heal all the scars on my arms
Christmas will cover all the cuts on my legs
Christmas will take me far, far away from the pain
Merry Christmas, for it heals all.
9. Law Enforcement: Unknown, due to Possible Clinical Denial. Counseling outpatient
The Spilled Milk Blues
I have seen better days than Christmas Day itself:
The wedding to my wife.
The birth of my son.
The grandkids first Xmas Morn.
The snow on the mountain tops.
The cops busting the drug dealer.
The kind man who took me home.
The stranger who returned my phone.
The second chance my ex gave to me.
The smile my son had when I came home.
The warm bed at the new hotel.
The Christmas card from my PO.
The first and last Christmas card from my son.
The new shoes the hotel clerk gave me.
The day the cops caught the robber.
The day I sobered up for the trial.
The day he got sent away.
The victim fund in time for Christmas.
The baseball glove I bought my son.
The letter saying, I'm grown up, Dad.
The day my son was all grown up.
The Christmas Day I remember all this.
The Christmas Day I remember every year.
I've seen better days.
And I'll see them some more.
10. Martin Ryan
I have seen better days than Christmas Day itself:
The wedding to my wife.
The birth of my son.
The grandkids first Xmas Morn.
The snow on the mountain tops.
The cops busting the drug dealer.
The kind man who took me home.
The stranger who returned my phone.
The second chance my ex gave to me.
The smile my son had when I came home.
The warm bed at the new hotel.
The Christmas card from my PO.
The first and last Christmas card from my son.
The new shoes the hotel clerk gave me.
The day the cops caught the robber.
The day I sobered up for the trial.
The day he got sent away.
The victim fund in time for Christmas.
The baseball glove I bought my son.
The letter saying, I'm grown up, Dad.
The day my son was all grown up.
The Christmas Day I remember all this.
The Christmas Day I remember every year.
I've seen better days.
And I'll see them some more.
10. Martin Ryan
Christmas
Mourning
Around the house,
crisp white snow lay
The place oddly
silent for Christmas day
Tommy dared not speak
nor cheer nor cry
For fear the old man
might die
In the wreckage of
his humble sleigh.
It had been Tommy’s
cunning plan
To prove Santa was no
ordinary man
He devised a trap
from wires and cans of coke
His father thought it
just a joke
But Tommy was a smart
young man
Tommy’s family died
in the blast
Now Santa is
breathing his last
With Blood oozing
from every pore
Santa’s dying on the
kitchen floor
But Tommy tries to
remain steadfast
He sniffs back a sob,
leans in and with a tear
Asks ‘does this mean
I get no presents this year?’
Started 12th
November 2018
© Martin Ryan
Precious Christmas
Squeals of laughter
ring through the classrooms
As the school bells
rings its last.
Even teachers are
caught up in the frivolity
As their merry
charges rush on past.
Free at last they run
for home
Not a care for the
cold and the wet
‘See you after
Christmas,’ they shout to their friends
‘Don’t forget to DM
me what presents you get!’
Images of gifts
wrapped in shiny paper
Beneath trees
glistening with tinsel and lights
Games and food and
fun all day fill their minds
And a chance to stay
up late at nights.
Sammy avoided all the
talk
Of gifts each more
expensive than the next
And crowds of horrid
relatives with sweets by the bucket-load
His Christmas would a
little less – complex
He lives on the other
side of town
Where no-one has cash
to spare
Their only gifts,
Pandora’s boxes
Filled with
exhaustion and despair.
‘Happy Christmas,
Sammy,’ Mrs Johnson calls
‘You too, Mrs
Johnson,’ Sammy waves back with a wide grin
He wonders what her
Christmas will be like
As he pulls his thin
jacket tight to his chin
There is no tree in
Sammy’s home this year,
But Sammy doesn’t
care, too much
No bucket loads of
sweets and fancy fare
Sammy has no time for
such.
Yet he walks slowly
home
With a smile on his
lips as he feels the whisper soft kiss
of the first
snowflake on his cheek
Sammy makes a
Christmas wish.
He breathes deep the warm
tang of smoke
from a log fire,
carried on the still air
and wishes for warmth
in his life
and a life without
care.
Putting off going
home,
Sammy knocks on the
doors of all his neighbours
He often does, to ask
if they have any jobs need doing
Tonight he just
wishes them Christmas favours.
‘Is that you, Sammy
love?’
His mother calls excitedly
when he gets in
He follows her voice
into the kitchen
Lit by the light of a
single gas ring.
Smells of sweet
deliciousness
Fill the air like
never before
His mother, beaming,
wraps him in a hug
As soon as he steps
through the door
‘All this is for
you,’ she points to the table
Laden with small
treats and gifts crafted with care
And handmade thank
you cards
From the neighbours
he’s helped through the year
It is a meagre affair
By the standards of
his friends
But the hand-made
toys and clothes from wool scraps
Are more precious to
Sammy than all their expensive odds and ends.
‘But they have no
more than us,’ Sammy says
His mouth watering
for the pudding on the hob
‘They can’t afford to
give us all this,
We must give them
back,’ his voice breaking on a sob.
‘Don’t you dare,’ his
mother glares
‘All year you help
them out with errands and chores
This is their way of
thanking you
For raking leaves and
painting doors.’
On Christmas morning
after sweeping snow
from old folk’s drives
Sammy and his mother
snuggled together
For one of the best
Christmases of their lives.
20th November
2018
© Martin Ryan
*************************************************************
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all my readers. Please continue to support our trauma participants and all sufferers of trauma. And don't look at this as a negative experience. When a trauma victim opens his heart for all to see, it is always a time for joy and relief.
See you all soon.
*All the poetry was submitted in paragraph form or as notes. I was entrusted to format these notations into poetic form. I did not change any word or phrase. I merely gave the words poetic form (stanzas, breaks, rhymes where they fit, etc). Sometimes first time poets have the words in their heart, but need an assist to find the form to make the words shine. I hope I helped capture your thoughts and poetic musings.
Anthony S.