Narrative Poem by Thomas Harrison Humphreys
I recall a Yuletide when merely a child,
Evermore an Eve in my memory filed.
‘Twas a restive night, I’d not closed an eye,
Though my siblings both in slumber did lie.
My mind mused o’er the morn soon to be,
Hoping he might well remember my plea
Of that one trove circled in that dreamy Wish Book
That I’d so often study, then give one last look.
In reverie’s midst, my father stole in
With a knowing hush and kindly grin.
He pulled me to him from that snug top bunk,
Then down the wee hall to the den we slunk.
And there HE then stood, framed in our front door,
‘Twas St. Nick himself, what child could want more?
He waved me to him, and Dad placed me down,
Then he knelt to me; I made not a sound.
He called me by name and named too that trove
That I so yearned for in fancies I wove.
He told me ‘twas time I did get to sleep,
For he had much to do and vows to keep.
He smiled my way and back to bed I went,
Soon, I in repose, nary a dream pent.
Christmas morn, it finally came ‘round,
And my siblings and I, from our bunks did bound.
Entreating Mom and Dad to leave their snug pall,
That our haste to the tree be made by us all.
Together we then crept, for not to disturb,
In case he worked still, his sled on the curb.
But he’d been and gone, all was hushed and still;
The room now waited to look ‘pon our thrill.
And then it exploded with our tiny cries,
The glow of our smiles, the wide of our eyes.
And there round the tree, that trove, my craved gift,
A racetrack snaking, electric and swift.
For hours we played, ‘Til time to enjoy
Grandma’s fine cooking, then show her our toys,
Christmas Day faded; Dad put me to bed.
I asked was it real, “Was it St. Nick?” I said.
He said with a smile, he believed himself
The man at our door was indeed that elf.
Then he told me more I will ever know,
That the real St. Nick would n’er really go.
I will always recall that visit that night
From the elf all in red, that best of all sprites.
But you must know by now, he stood not in the door,
Yet he was indeed there, by me on that floor.
For the REAL St. Nick made this all come about,
That the good in this life I’d no reason to doubt.
And then each night, he would be there again,
Putting me to bed and tucking me in.
Poem first appeared in Writers and Readers Magazine.
Thomas Harrison Humphreys, with a BS from the University of Lynchburg, is a history teacher in a small rural village and has had both poetry and short stories published in Westward Quarterly, Poetry Quarterly, Writers and Readers Magazine and Copperfield Review Quarterly.
