Christmas Cards

Take time this season

to listen to the melody

of a child’s laughter…

hear the holidays minted

in the black and white stories

of your childhood…

taste the tradition passed thru

the hands of generations…

know the warmth of family and

of friends who are family…

and – above all –

for this – or any season –

always believe…

Wayne M. Joseph © 2002    

A winter's s snow glistens

in the new day’s frost…

Footmarks mingle with hoof prints

cracking tracks in the iced fields…

The incense that is

burning wood hovers…

cardinal and crow

harmonize a season’s song…

and a family gathers

to holiday another memory…

Unwrap the gift

of family…

Wayne M. Joseph © 2003

There is a door behind which

we discover a room brimming with

cherished stories…

favorite photographs…

and the vibrant

sweet smells of the season…

As we swing open this door

we resurrect all that is our holidays

and breathe life back into 

our family traditions

This season, prop that door open

a little longer -

and let the love flood in…

Wayne M. Joseph © 2004

(for Evan Garack Joseph)

The sturdy hands of his great grandfathers 

release lineage’s arrow.

With gentle strength they launch him toward

a century we can only imagine.

The child of my child

cannot surmise the destiny he has already fulfilled.

What is the weight of the name he will carry -

The immensity of hope he’ll clutch in his tiny fingers?

Growing together

parent and boy -

grandparent and dream recognized.

All the sacred feminine 

with beauty and grace in abundance

will fuel his blood

like a river seeks its ocean.

The son of my son

will bear the burden of stewardship.

A choice, not his, just fortune’s.

The boy of my boy

will cherish laughter while he somersaults through childhood

and fills his parents’ hearts to overflowing .

The heir of my heir 

will inherit the elegance and warmth 

of his grandmothers.

He will learn from

the halo of the moon -

and fire on the sun

He will grow on the prayers of his ancestors.

Their spirits will guide him.

an unexplained, yet welcome, beacon …

The child of my child

will marry our wishes and our imaginings -

a life born

a miracle witnessed

a love made real…

Wayne M. Joseph © 2004

Santa’s figure

carved to minute detail

was Grandpa’s offering -

his beard fluffed by gentle, skilled hands.

Grandma quilts the room

warm in color…alive with ‘long ago’

Hers will drape the love seat…redundantly.

Dad’s best-loved ornament

commands its place of honor

completing the annual Douglas Fir ceremony.

While the scent of Mom’s memorable meal

chases through the decorated house.

At the centerpiece,

you take fire to wick

and a candle lights the holiday world…

and that flame flickers across

his newly born face -

reflecting in eyes

the width of seas…

Tis’ the lore of December -

the tradition of family -

the blessings of the season…

Wayne M. Joseph © 2005

As the caroling fades to frozen echoes,

the fire’s embers wither

and the very last of family

heelprints the snowy blanket

away from our homes.

We will seek to make this moment endure.

It seems an unspoken mission.

How do we keep this feeling close

for more than these few frenetic weeks?

For the sharing strengthens us, 

and the traditions unearth 

the treasure of the season.

Holidays alive,

unbent by the scuttle,

resurrected in a child’s bliss

that pauses us for this instant.

And we cleanse our memories in times ‘ago’

when a wishing star shone thru our windows

and our limitless imagination 

gave wings to angels

and flight to reindeer.

We yearn to hold those moments close again

and again -

It is the innocence of belief

and the sanctuary of faith

that we yearn to preserve

for more than a fleeting December.

As you gather to warm yourselves

by the fading cinders,

hold open your hearts

to the perpetual calling

of this season.

Capture that feeling 

and carry it through your year…

Wayne M. Joseph © 2006

It was  

the whirring of a toy train

  or a tattered rag doll -

It was  

a father’s treetop star

or a mother’s lilting carol -

It was 

the candied skin of an apple

or the perfume of the festooned pine…

Each year this holiday

rouses quieted moments

with its singular caress…

This season

reach out for those memories

and allow them to touch your heart.

Wayne M. Joseph © 2007

It is the near charcoal sky of an imminent snowfall.

It is the ornate detail of a simple snowflake.

It is the snap of firewood from a crackling hearth.

It is the memories of holidays ago triggered by 

a faint scent.

It is the treasured ornament that hangs, 

as if museum piece.

It is the effortless recall of the season’s lyrics.

It is the checkerboard of lights

that necklace the garlanded houses.

It is the hushed din of a gathered family.

It is the clasping hands of a quietly offered prayer prior to feast.

It is the recurrence of tradition that swathes you in nostalgia.

It is in these moments

where celebration commemorates -

where holiday rejoices -

where soul renews -

It is this season’s renaissance of spirit

that restores faith -

that rekindles mood -

that resurrects…

Wayne M. Joseph © 2008

The pyramidal evergreen 

its branches bejeweled and weighty

embraces tinsel in hurried clumps

and an eclectic collection of bulbs…

A faded angel with its fir spine

sets in ornamental silence high above

the countless Claus’s -

the Radko relics -

and the hand-made stuff of children…

Stars, in wait, dreaming of the summit

sentenced to position by dull wire hook…

Knick-knacks held captive

in garland and festoon…

Ribbons of lights glimmer

as dots on the holiday landscape

and to each of us – on our tradition tree

there hangs a treasure

 that is a reflection -

a moment’s recollection

 that brings us home… 

Wayne M. Joseph © 2009

Tradition stares back 

from the skinny tree and fat Santas

scenes swathed in deep red melancholia 

and ever green memoirs.

Rituals arrive on the same winds

that breeze the russet leaves into momentary corners

and swirl the recognizable chill of a readying winter.

Carols noel themselves familiar

and lyrics trip from your tongue

as committed memories learned by heart.

As convention dictates,

you still count the days

‘til the shining wrap and radiant ribbon 

are discarded as ceremonial debris

Whether the gifts bestowed meet

an approving nod or subtle disregard

 matters not.

It is the repetition of custom,

the slender tree and thickset Clauses,

the gathering…the sharing…the laughing…the minting…

These are the sacraments of December.

Wayne M. Joseph © 2010

We choose white lights,

for you already bestow the color 

and the ornaments unique

you convey with elegance -

 suspended as if on canvas…

We choose an unlit, ornate star…

for you provide its sun

and elevate it to its zenith

as you raise us all - an effortless tide. 

We choose modest trim

for you are the intricate garland -

the ribbon that binds us.

There is so much history draped

on the slender forever green,

…the wizard swing

…a renaissance born from a child’s mistake

…a calendar collection in ceramic and glass

…and always  - a family  

stage by stage

memory by memory…

I choose you to celebrate

for you are the perfect gift -

the season – always…

Wayne M. Joseph © 2011

As match flashes to holiday wick -

in the shimmering wisps of flame -

we listen to the noiselessness that burns…

 as thoughts free-fall -

and traditions revive…

We rouse the ritual routines of customs 

- novel - and not so… 

What is Christmas if not

the stillness of times gone by -

the character of now -

the panorama of the potential… 

Amidst the raven curls of smoke

our musings turn to holidays past -

We recall the uncomplicated faith of children

and their unbending trust in the magic of December…

What is Christmas if not

the presents of family and friends

the ceaseless wonder of childhood 

and the simple peace of seasons ago...

Wayne M. Joseph © 2012

The 1946 Detroit dawn 

worked the horizon into morning. 

The frost confused November for deep January.

J. L. Hudsons’ twenty-five stories 

fashioned shadows

upon saucer-eyed children and 

families restored.

Now in the uniform of fedora and wool,

a father’s overstuffed shoulders 

became child-seat..

Tradition paraded by…

on the streets he had freedomed

from the sacrifices he made 

for a world twice at war…

Tradition carnivaled by…

balloons of cartoons - 

pom-pommed contraptions -

and a fat man in crimson as caboose..

On this Thursday, the cobbled bricks of Woodward Avenue

became universal Main Street. 

Under a country’s flag one-half-acre grand

this boulevard pageant commenced the holidays.

This avenue procession,

staged for re-huddled masses,

renewed ritual…

On that Thursday, tradition passed by…

and was to be handed down 

  from a reconnected father 

to a child with a vista of all the world- 

and on to a family giving thanks…

 Wayne M. Joseph © 2013

Angels We Have Heard  On High

 sweetly sounds as perfect background.

Resurrected from its undusted world,

 the storied box of assorted baubles

awaits rediscovery…

    Just strong enough wires dangle

 ornaments to their pine host -

 The evergreen bough bends ever slightly

 accepting its glass treasures…

Each knickknack provides its own narrative -

'A pre-school clay handprint once mistaken for coaster…'

'The generations of comic heroes and children's faces…'

 'The yarn star your sister made...'

Year by year, they assume their eminent stature

 amid the ribbon and the dated Rockwells

 and the back-of-the-tree exiles…

It is a Christmas tree of life -

 adorned in tribute

 teeming in memory - 

 rooted in custom…

Once bejewled, the tradition is alive anew…

You sense the fragrance of your ancestors

and their simple lesson to trust in ritual.

It is their bridge that will direct you

 to where holiday finds a home…

 Wayne M. Joseph © 2014

  (for Samantha Joseph Dick)

I catch a glimpse of her instinctual stare

absorbing wide-eyed the excited lights and 

splashes of painted ribbons…

Five months new – not yet brown or hazel –

those saucered eyes process the

bloom of holiday for the first time…

Nuzzled against my shoulder, we tour the festival of rooms 

where the glint and glitter spellbind… 

aromas of balsam and cinnamon flood her senses.

The pewter rocking horse elicits a coo -

Soapstone Santas amaze…

Her forever stocking with hand-stitched name 

crowds the standing-room-only mantle…

and a deliberate pause under the mistletoe

justifies my constant kisses…

Her slow blink signals approaching sleep–

I whisper my wish for a splendid life -

Snoozing in the cradle of my arms

I celebrate the miracle of you… 

 Wayne M. Joseph © 2015

Hands entwined

Heads bowed

The intoned prayer 

blesses the absent -

beseeches health of mind and body – 

communions good will -

In unison, family and guests, amen…

In unison, aromas rush the senses…

Hand-written recipes -

faded yet prized -

passed down and 

passed around.

The clatter of spoon to bowl -

ancestral bouquets rise up from 

platters brimming -

Impromptu toasts 

of opaque cabernet

praise each gathered face –

And laughter rackets the holiday table -

with stories, and stories, 

and stories…

as one truth reveals itself - 

Time spent in tradition

is time well spent…

 Wayne M. Joseph © 2016

A child’s wonder never leaves your heart.

A blurred memoir of Decembers gone, mark time like a metronome – 

the rhythm of life - the cadence of years.

Customs assemble memories - 

construct nostalgia.

The young listen to the voices longstanding 

and to their words -  the echoes of tradition.

The treasure that rises in aromas becomes their Christmas perfume.

They absorb the symbols of a gathering family.

They note the presents of presence.

In every inch of love embraced -

In every toast proclaimed -

all those beaming faces

learn at your hand.

In each anecdote –even folklore - that you share

you build holiday for them.

In return, each season, as you practice ritual

you add chapters to the writing of 

their story of you.

 Wayne M. Joseph © 2017

His was an Al Kaline baseball mitt by Wilson. Asked for, yet unexpected. A boyhood hero’s name burned into the stiff leather and forever etched on a young boy’s stunned heart. Sixty years on and he still recalls the joyous chill ascend and widen and lift him off the floor that December 25th morn. A foot of gray black snow lined the concrete outside. Temperatures wintered away his chance for a first catch. And tossing a hardball inside never made it past the ‘No’ in his parents’ eyes. So he would prep the thirsty cowhide instead. The Wesson oil kneaded into the absorbing skin. He twined a scuffed Rawlings ball deep into its pocket and swaddled the glove in an old towel. It would be his teddy bear that evening. 

What was in your letter to Santa?

With a misspelled “Pleaze” did you ask for a pinball machine, or a Big Wheel or a model plane made of balsa and glued with Elmer’s?

With an “I’ve been good” in your favorite red crayon, 

did you request a Cinderella Dress or an Easy Bake Oven or that life-like doll wrapped in cellophane?

What made those presents indelible, was that hoping actually paid off.

Hope is a powerful thing.

Like the belief in the magic of a red-nosed flyer or the wonder of a North Pole elf.

Hope is an elevating thing.

The anticipation …then realization.

And its reward is a child’s dream recognized.

And the gift giver’s full heart 

knowing it’s not the size nor cost 

but the miracle you deliver when you play Santa.

  Wayne M. Joseph © 2018