The stockings where hung by the chimney with care, and every year all I wanted was a Mohawk shaved in my hair.

Actually we never had a chimney growing up, we hung the stockings on a book shelf at the bottom of the stairs.

I did really want a Mohawk every year, and the rest of the stories in this poem are memories from multiple Christmas experiences.

A few years ago a friend of mine asked if I would be interested in going to, and performing some poetry at a Christmas party inside a prison for some of the inmates.

After struggling with trying to decide is I should do something I had already written or do something new I ended up writing the poem Mohawks and Missletoes.

After sitting and talking with the men I realized most of us are just a few life decisions away from being in the same place they where.

And some of us were just never caught, when by whatever fate you believe in they had been.

One of the most eye opening things I realized is they miss their families, wish things had turned out differently, and for most would not be seeing any friends or family for the holiday.

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