To Lucy

Dedicated to “Lucy”

In Timor-Leste, the children laugh and smile as they play…
Soccer on a riverbed or beachfront, all dusty and gray.
They run, dance, and dive into the waves.
Beautiful children on a peaceful, Sabbath Day!

Youngsters, born in a freedom we all take for granted.
A mere decade ago, since this independence was planted.
Their parents saw a horribly tough times of fear and loss,
While Indonesia remained the country’s strict ruler and boss.

Thank Heaven for the goodness of the United Nations,
And Australians who never forgot young boys who stood by the WWII soldiers at their stations,
And all of the people in the rest of the world…
Who supported the Timorese as their flag was raised and a new peaceful time unfurled.

A young mom, a sister, and her toddler stopped by the open market in Dili one day,
Visiting with an American on a three week stay.
They communicated on a September afternoon while little “Lucy” played.

Typing on their phone, a message in Portuguese,
They translated and read, “We’d like to visit America! Please!”
As the American, in her heart, “adopted” the “Timorese.”
She listened and replied, advising the beautiful, hopeful, young ladies,
“Learn as much as you can to fulfill your dreams,
To travel the world, and go overseas.”

In Timor-Leste, the children laugh and smile as they play…
Beautiful children on a peaceful, Sabbath Day!

“Merry Christmas, Lucy! I hope all of your wishes and dreams come true!”




Coal for a “Scrooge”


A chunk of coal is all you get
To warm your toes while you sit.
A chunk of shiny, dark black coal
To warm your cold heart and your soul.

A chunk of coal adding weight to a stocking
For generosity simply lacking.
Reciprocity works two ways–
Getting, giving, receiving, presenting praise.

So pick up your stocking and inwardly gaze
Towards a lump of coal inside where it lays.
This shall not arrive to you as a surprise
A gift inside–you could never surmise.

So upon the eve of our Savior’s birth
Move toward enlightenment, wisdom and mirth.
Forget not the gifts He has shared with us all
And the gifts we should share with each other; both meek and small.

The things that you hoard for whatever intentions
Stand in the way of God’s blessed redemption.
Selfishness, greed and hurtful attitudes
Bring condemnation–not self-latitude.
Therefore a chunk of coal hereby shows gratitude
For gifts you have given so equally bad and crude
Portraying behaviors so sad and so rude.
You heed not withstanding your brethrens’ advices.
You fall spiralling helplessly to your own devices.
If you smugly continue this path despite warnings and pleadings,
You will be betrothed with an epitaph reading,
“He followed his smirk all the way to this grave–
Here lies a jerk–he became Satan’s slave.”

P.S. Here is the chunk of coal that I gave.


Tumbleweed Christmas

Written by
Valerie J. Kolle
Some nights at the “Dollar”
there’s a dude named “Steve,”
Who claims,
“I drifted to this town on a tumble-weed!”
“I grew up on a prairie-dusted track of land.
I’ll return when I retire to help out my ol’ man.”
As he drew in a puff and let out an exhale,
He reminisced briefly about this fine tale.
“When we were kids, at Christmastime,
My dad gathered tumbleweeds with a lassoed line.
Then, he’d start drawing the weeds in a circle in the dust,
Plus, he’d stack them up in a tall cone for all of us.
With buckets full of water, he’d splash cascades on the weeds,
Till they dripped into a ‘chandelier’ full of stalactite-like icicle picks.
Next, he’d weave through the stack, with colorful lights forth and back,
Until, it was all lit like an icebox full of fruit-flavored, Popsicle sticks.
With the Spring-time, the crystallized mass disrobed its cloak made of ice,
And my ol’ man, ever so gently, unlaced the corral made of lights.
At last, with a his determined boot, push, and shove,
Assisted by dusty bellows which blew, scooped, and swept down from above,
Rolling freely, the tumbleweeds seemed to instantly disappear in the wind,
With greetings to the vast, open prairie like long-lost, old, vagabond

Centered, this poem resembles a Christmas Tree. VJK


Another Christmas

The following were written for a coworker of who was lost to cancer. I remember when he was “Santa.”

David’s Soul

Little children climbed up on his lap to whisper their wishes for their gifts to be placed under their tree
A camp counselor mentored more children each summer during his vacations when he was still healthy and free.
He enjoyed watching his children, and grandchildren, their activities, their accomplishments, and hockey.

His sense of humor grew more alive as he met challenges in his health and well-being.
“I Feel Pretty!” from West Side Story became a theme song with attitude he unabashedly started singing.

Once, when I was lunching out with a couple of ladies to Santa Lucia,
He stood up tall in his overalls, slightly used, which were frequently worn,
His broad smile, even brighter than the top of his head recently shorn,
Announcing, that he was joining us, followed by a play-act of rejection, and “See ya!”

As I returned with the ladies, I told him his attire would have actually fit in,
For a toddler in overalls with a head lacking hair, resembling him,
Was with a family, at the restaurant, as we dined there within.

I know he was worried and wanted to grasp any possible Hope of a chance,
But no matter what, you knew, whenever he looked at you — you could read in his glance,
That whatever his future was going to be — he accepted God’s plans,
His Spirit was strong enough to face it all — and dance.

Val J. Kolle
August 3, 2005