Rumpelstiltskin

I used to love this time of year.

It used to thrill me, fill with cheer

The moments spent on mundane chores,

Like dusting shelves or mopping floors.

I used to count the days away:

An Advent Calendar. Each day,

An opened drawer with treats inside.

My joy was pure, and none derided

It. None theorized, these days’

Anticipation scored no praise.

None spoiled the joy with cynic’s wit,

Nor threw it down, nor trampled it.

None scorned my moments spent in prayer,

In awe of all that sparkled there,

In that old church. None spurned the pew

Where I was blessed with this worldview.

But now, we’re post-apocalypse.

We drink martinis, sip our bliss

And mock the blinking lights that pander

To our God, like mere bystanders,

Unappreciative and grim,

Blaspheming the Day that mentions Him.

It’s just like any other day.

We tuck our rosaries away.

The churches starve while screens a-glow

Instruct us. All we need to know

Can be discerned, scene after scene.

Our eyes grow weary. Thoughts obscene

Invade our heads, as characters

Created solely just to spur

Our basest tendencies and fears,

Wreak murder, mayhem, madness. Tears

Run down our face. We praise the work

And call it genius: this berserk

And warped portrayal of the riven,

Splintered world that we’ve been given.

Thinking back, my greatest joy

Was while my lad was just a boy,

And while my daughter, socks knee-high

Still had a sparkle in her eye.

Can happiness be only found

When childish innocence abounds?

Is worldliness compatible

With Joy? Is Joy collateral

We pledge, at risk of losing it,

To gain perspective on what is?

For now we hear no ringing bells.

No frolickers. None deck the halls.

A generation languishes,

Depressive–and in pain, I guess.

And no one dares to just believe.

We must have proof, not be deceived.

Will no one be a willing lamb,

And trust in God to give a damn?

No. Each is smug and bumptious, too.

There are no humble ingenues

To be caught up in light and sound,

To gasp at miracles all around.

And yet, we still will decorate–

While media cross-pollinate–

And God becomes more secular,

And Money, more molecular.

We speculate: He never was.

The Now is all we need, because

We are the reason for the season.

Ancient stories bore us. Freezing

Temperatures don’t threaten us.

With heating, we’re oblivious,

So, happy ho-hum holidays

And merry-making and malaise,

And grim stock-taking, all alone,

In what was once a happy home!

I dare you steal that spark from me!

Such acts would earn you infamy.

Go, sit in your depressive Hell–

But nonetheless, I wish you well.

For I’ll be writing out my cards

And choosing trees and hanging yards

Of wreaths and lights, and wrapping gifts,

And spinning joy from all that is,

Just like a Rumpelstiltskin elf–

A creepy doll upon my shelf–

I’ll gather children to my cause–

For children do not give a toss–

And show you cynics who is boss

By spinning gold, from so much dross.

Copyright 2022 Andrea LeDew

For a Florida Christmas story read Fifteen: A Christmas Story or The Next Best Thing to Snow.