The Imp
Inside a shell, in deep a swamp,
lived lonely and sad a little scamp.
Its ears were black, its fur was white
was e’er around, but ne’er in sight.
For people feared elves and critters,
much-preferring pups and kittens.
No long teeth or knife-sharp tusks
or all those things, men seek on masks.
When play-time started, yelled the young:
“The last one there’s a scamp-in-dung”
Hearing this, our little hero; shuddered
and wondered why he’d ever bothered.
Quite the hopeless, old endeavor,
scamps and men in love to tether.
He had tried by acting cheery,
even though it felt quite eerie.
He had gathered many bundles:
trinkets, sweets and colored candles.
Door to door from night to day
he would roam and loudly say:
“Happy Yule, all ye good people,
gifts and blessings, b’neath the steeple!”
And come they did the honest laggards,
only to swiftly turn to buzzards.
Picked and slashed through every wrapping,
while in essence simply clucking:
“This food’s tasteless, this toy’s dull!
That is all? I’m still not full!”
Lost in rage and indignation,
a feeling rose of desperation.
Could this be the world he lived in?
Fought for, struggled and believed in?
“if that is, so,” our scamp decided
“I shall, not again, be incited.”
He would leave and travel far,
lest more men his vision mar.
Long he walked on breezy grasses
and made his way through secret passes.
Crossed the vicious land of fire,
slipped by monsters in the mire.
At last, tired, leaning on a stump
he looked up to see, he’d found a swamp.
He stayed and settled all alone,
in effort, as if, to atone.
The years passed with little glory,
time intent on his parade.
Pain and fear exchanged for worry
and guilt now serving as a shade.
It was a fateful-almost evening
pierced by sudden tiny cries.
A voice so strong in earnest grieving,
upon hearing, a part inside you, dies.
Our scamp might have been hurt and bitter,
but never heartless or so lost,
that he’d ignore some beings’ litter
despite the size to his life cost.
He approached the tiny bundle,
tightly wrapped and well-secured.
Slow and wary grabbed the handle
and so his damaged soul was cured.
Inside this little fate-brought present
lay a boy as pure as snow.
Yet untaught, unmarked and pleasant
and in his eyes a dull soft glow.
He would be, the unsought banner,
thought the scamp and hugged him close.
One of them, as warrior and as planner
and thus they each the other chose.
The boy grew strong and proud in bearing,
his father hovered through it all.
His knowledge based on love and sharing,
with sparse the presence of a ball.
The years passed with many a story,
festive, intimate and small.
And as the son longed for some glory,
the time was ripe for one more fall.
His wrinkled, shriveled, loving father
lay senseless in his shaking arms.
Now bereft of him and mother,
he begun to roam the farms.
“Happy Yule, all ye good people,
gifts and blessings b’neath the church.”
All showed up from young to cripple,
crowding every single bench.
“You’ve been called here for a trial,
accused of life-lived without love.
There is no cause to claim denial,
all your crimes are known above.”
Stepped he slowly in pondering manner,
called each soul by its own name.
From mighty lord to lowly tanner,
each he bathed in his own shame.
“You’ve been cruel and often greedy,
you’ve been craven and a cheat.
You are ever thoughtless, silly.
In all your hearts there’s but a pit.
Deep and dark, its span is ages,
the true homeland of your birth.
Love, like stories, lost in pages
much debated is her worth.
Did none share, life’s big secret?
Know you not, the hidden price?
That if your pleasures are too frequent,
strife, slow but steady, ever nighs.
One might fear or cry in fury,
hide in darkness, like you all.
One can run or die of worry,
yet her judgment none can stall.
And if sadness, resides often
in your heart and on your neck.
She won’t drive you to your coffin,
your endeavors she can’t check.
She’s the hidden motivation,
bids you strive with sharpest tongue.
And if you lack the inclination,
she shan’t let you rest too long.
None of you recall my father,
giving gifts for heart’s delight.
I’ve no sight or sound of Mother,
but your loss is more the blight.
All he wished for was acceptance,
all he met was cold contempt.
He never prayed for your repentance,
he longed for just; one more attempt.
So hear, one and all, his wishes,
best for you, you pay them heed.
He does not tell, but only teaches,
no crops would grow without the seed.
All that matters, sits beside you
all who care, in this room.
The biggest change need be inside you,
in crippled love, resides your doom.
Hold your loved ones ever closer,
lest they one day stray too far.
Value baker, priest and grocer.
Take their kindness not at par.
Love thy tired, pest’ring parents,
keep your children’s hearts ere safe.
Suffer mutely through all errands,
don your bonds despite their chafe.
T’is a life devoid of meaning,
one without the gift of love.
T’is a race that none are winning,
charged to live as wingless dove.
Leave and hurry to your houses,
let these words be wasted not.
Pray thy doubt, your blindness douses,
all that’s vain be left to rot.
If but one of you’s a-changing
then my father’s fate be just,
as his sight from my mind’s fading
may each soul regret their past.
Look but ever to the future
there lies, redemption true.
Bid his kindness be your tutor
and as he lived may hap will you.
