During the summer, I was inspired to compose this year's Christmas poem as an actual song. When the inner voice speaks, I grab a pad and start writing without judgement, even if strikes out of a dead sleep. The scribbles can later be translated during conscious hours. Thus the 39th edition of the poem was going to be a pleasant surprise to all, especially me!
And then the ugliness of our political process started to envelop this country like a fog. I still believed in the innate goodness and wisdom of our populace only to discover that the literary "dark night of the soul" could actually occur in the real world. The emotions that overwhelmed me were some of the worst feelings that I have ever experienced. And now the song of joy that was close to completion was going to remain unfinished. All of the light channeled into it had been extinguished.
I knew in my heart that an answer would arrive to help me process these events and that the Christmas poem might actually be a vehicle of healing.That's when the movie "It's a Wonderful Life" projected within my mind; I popped in the DVD and watched. And there it was, the ethereal skeleton that would form the frame of this year's poem. The Henry F. Potters of the world are our call to a greater, active level of love, growth and acceptance. This powerful thought will help us all win our wings now and forever.
By Richard Perrotti
Into each life, some Potter must fall.
(Henry, not Harry, I’m afraid.)
Who see a “discontented, lazy rabble,”
And to their lesser angels, tirade.
“Sick in his mind, sick in his soul,”
George Bailey’s dad did opine
He would fight for the families and children
That Potter would scorn and malign.
“I’m an old man and most people hate me,”
Said Potter with scant to believe in.
“But I don’t like them either,” he roared
“So that just makes it all even.”
“Your father’s so called ‘high ideals’
Without sense could ruin this town.”
Potter’s shadow surrounded George Bailey
And his dreams began to break down.
The price of battling such blackness
Is a painful, spiritual shove.
You become a “warped, frustrated young man”
Neglecting all those that you love.
Help arrives in a manner quite odd;
An angel, sans wings, to fulfill
Your request to vanish this Bedford Falls life.
You awaken to “Pottersville.”
With goodness and decency naught to be found,
Confusion and chaos will reign.
You search for the town so dear to your heart
To find a city, embattled, in pain.
“Strange, isn’t it?” the angel does say,
“Each life touches so many others.
When you’re not around, the hole that you leave
Effects countless sisters and brothers.”
Let despair not overtake you
Or darkness lead you astray.
You may not be a “praying man”
But you can ask to be shown the way.
Peace be with you, my sisters and brothers.
May love be the song your heart sings
As bells proclaim joyful tidings;
Our better angels “winning their wings.”