Some Christmas Help

[MightyGem]

The Daily Mail has a readers contributions column called "Peterborough". Readers are invited to contribute anecdotes, jokes, observations and so on. It also includes a "Poem of The Day".

For the past three years I've sent in the Soldier's version of "It Was The Night Before Christmas", but to no avail.

So, this year I'm thinking that it's time for a Maximum Effort. If you've a mind to, please send it to:
[email protected]

Many thanks.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
in a one-bedroom house, made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney, with presents to give,
and to see just whom, in this home, did live.
I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by mantle, just boots filled with sand,
on the wall hung pictures, of far distant lands.
With medals and badges, awards of all kinds,
a sober thought, came through my mind.
For this house was different, it was dark and dreary;
I found the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly.
The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone,
curled up on the floor, in this one bedroom home.
The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder,
not how I pictured, a professional soldier.
Was this the hero, of whom I’d just read,
curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?
I realised the families, that I saw this night,
owed their lives to these soldiers, who were willing to fight.
Soon round the world, the children would play,
and grownups would celebrate, a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom, each month of the year,
because of the soldiers, like the one lying here.
I couldn’t help wonder, how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.
The very thought brought, a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees, and started to cry.
The soldier awakened, and I heard a rough voice,
“Santa don’t cry, this life is my choice;
I fight for freedom, I don’t ask for more,
my life is my god, my country, my corps.”
The soldier rolled over, and drifted to sleep,
I couldn’t control it, I continued to weep.
I kept watch for hours, so silent and still,
and we both shivered, from the cold night’s chill.
I didn’t want to leave, on that cold, dark, night,
this guardian of honour, so willing to fight.
Then the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure,
whispered, “Carry on Santa, it’s Christmas day, all is secure.”
One look at my watch, and I knew he was right.
“Merry Christmas my friend, and to all a good night.”

[slatsgalore]

Email sent. Nice one. I don't read the Mail, so look forward to you reporting a result!

Good luck.

SG.

[Combat Cookie]

Just read this poem and it is very apy for me as my hubby is one of those away over the festive period. I was in the services myself, and know it is par for the course missing special times together, however it just makes the times you do get together even better. I will definately follow your link to the Daily Mail and hope it gets published. Thankyou for printing it and to all the service people away from where they want to be this year stay safe and you are all in our thourghts.:)

[exscribbler]

At Christmas, I too shall be comfortable in my home surrounded by my family. At the start of our meal, I shall propose a family toast to our brave boys and girls who are far away from their families at sea, on land or in the air.

We will acknowledge that as long as our country can produce men and women such as these, we may well sleep safe. We will thank God for those people prepared to put their lives and health on the line for their Queen and Country and ask for His protection of and blessings for all of them.

If you think this is OTT, then tough - it's the way we feel in this house. :ok:

[MightyGem]

No success again this year. However, they did print the following, which is of a similar vein:

A Candle In The Window


A candle burns and flickers
in the window of her room,
the way it has each night,
and she prays that this will
be the one that guides her husband
from across the ocean,
to its soft and welcome light.

While the cold winds of December
beat against the outside wall,
safe inside, a young boy snuggles down to bed,
but no Daddy’s bedtime story for one so small.
For his daddy is a soldier
and has gone where war has led.

It’s so difficult explaining
just why daddy isn’t home,
and why other boys have
two grown-ups to care,
and why, when he wakes up crying
only Mum comes to his room,
and why all his friends have daddies,
while his own is never there.

And, when she decorates the Christmas tree,
why do the lights not work,
and the wrapping on the presents look a sight?
And why is the turkey scrawny
with a texture just like chalk,
and her hair one complete puzzle
that she can never get right?

With moistened eyes she thinks again
of strong and loving arms,
and that warm embrace
which overcomes all stress.
Oh, just to feel that sometimes
when her world comes tumbling down
that he could be there beside her
to help clear the mess.

But tomorrow will be Christmas,
when she’ll watch her child at play,
and will brace herself to once more face the test.
For although his chair will be empty on the day,
she will look down into eyes of blue,
and know she’s Heaven blessed.

Then that night when all is silent,
she will offer up a prayer,
for her God to show his grace and end the fight,
so the man she loves may hurry home
to find them waiting there,
with a candle in the window,
and it’s light still burning bright.