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My Christmas Card Collection

Lynne Osborne·December 15, 2025

Christmas English Poetry

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My Christmas Card Collection

written by: Lynne Osborne

Scenes of fir trees bent with snow,
Couples under mistletoe,
Faces lit by candleglow –
My Christmas card collection.

Images of Santa’s sleigh,
Holly in a rose bouquet,
Sugar plums in sweet ballet –
Missives of confection.

Scenes of reindeer in mid-air,
Elves assembling toys with care,
Arctic foxes, snowshoe hare –
Holiday reflections.

Images of three wise kings,
Partridges and golden rings,
Cherubim with pearly wings – –
My Christmas card collection.

Scenes of frigid starlit night,
Presents wrapped in colors bright,
Hearthsides all infused with light –
Signs of fond affection.

Scenes of love and amity,
Laden shoppers on a spree,
Charlie Brown’s pathetic tree –
Palpable connections.

I save the cards in a silver tin,
Bring them out to read again,
Take them on a Yuletide spin –
My Christmas card collection.

About
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Lynne Osborne

I have written poetry for many years and have had works published in several college literary magazines. Two of my haiku appeared in the Christian Science Monitor. Most of my work is nature-related. Several years ago I began enclosing Christmas poems in with the cards I mailed out at holiday time. I like rhyme, meter and poetic structures. Makes the work more memorable, I think, and accessible, and fun to read aloud.

Jim Bartlett

After a long career tinkering in telecommunications, Jim Bartlett switched to tinkering with writing fiction, both requiring a stretch of the imagination. In the course of putting his fingers to the keyboard, he's been fortunate to have quite a number of his stories featured both in print and online in several wonderful publications, including a story selected for "The Best of Fiction on the Web, 1996 – 2017" anthology. While mentally he strolls along a warm California beach with his wife and golden retriever (shhh, she doesn't know she's a dog), physically they reside on a special little island in the Pacific Northwest.

Reaper by Sharon Frame Gay

As an orphaned son of an orphan, I always see the glass as half empty. I picture the water murky and lukewarm, a waterline etched below the rim. Maybe with an ash or two floating at the bottom, because that’s what I do for a living. I deal with ashes. The remains of the deceased. No matter how those who pass away see their glass, meager or full, they eventually end up in a satchel carried on my shoulder.
My business card reads “Morton Stark Transport.” I’m called upon to disperse the ashes of the dearly departed and honor their final wishes. People hire me to escort the remains throughout the world ...

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