Ode to Christmas

(guest post by DH aka Alan Pennington)

Ode to Christmas

It was the day before Christmas

Sam in his bed,

Melanie coughs up a lung,

And Claire baking bread.

The Y was half empty,

A chin up, a sit up,

A squat and a lung,

Not too much work out but still had some fun.

Sam made the pumpkin bread,

Already half gone,

Claire made the sour dough,

Not quite ready, but it won't be long.

The packages are half wrapped,

The house is a wreck,

Clothes are all dirty,

Except for my sweats.

Though tattered and scattered, our lives may be,

I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.

My son and my daughter, getting along,

And Melanie, though groggy is coming around.

Santa oh Santa,

On this Christmas eve,

Help us remember,

Help us believe.

Christ in the manger,

Mary so calm,

The stars watching over,

The savior has come.

Lord lift my heart,

Draw us all tight,

Share with us joy,

And if is not too much trouble, could you heal my wife.

Merry x-mas all!!!

Bread -- {saturday poetry}

BREAD

"Be gentle when you touch bread.

Let it not lie

Uncared for,

Unwanted.

So often Bread

Is taken for granted.

Beauty of patient toil,

wind and rain

have caressed it.

Christ often blessed it.

Be gentle when you touch bread."

- Freda Elton Young

Saturday Poetry -- Autumn Fires

Autumn Fires

In the other gardens

And all up the vale,

From the autumn bonfires

See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over

And all the summer flowers,

The red fire blazes,

The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!

Something bright in all!

Flowers in the summer,

Fires in the fall!

Robert Louis Stevenson -  1913

Saturday Poetry: Names

there were names
always names.

Welty, O'Connor, Updike, and Sinclair.

words on pages,
of such enormous import.

Hemingway, Melville, Faulkner, and Hawthorne.

books to be
sheltered and revered.

Milton, Capote, Anderson, and Twain.

papers written by him.
read by him.

Our Town, twinship, diaries, and sermons.

where did the little girl fit in?
who were all these people 
why were they so important to him?
their stories so much more important than hers.

--mlp 2011

Saturday Poetry -- Surprise

i said

if i told

my father would never speak to me.

my mother would have a nervous breakdown.

my oldest brothers would be exposed and get sick.

their perpetrator friends would deny -- and then laugh.

my sister would hate the chaos and gain weight --

all the while denying.

my youngest brothers would not understand --

but they really would

sexual abuse runs in families you know -- a filthy epidemic.

society would point their fingers.

i sure do have a lot of power.

the world sure does revolve around me.

well nothing much happened

the world continued to spin on its axis

everyone denied

and 

i

got

healthier.

Cecilia, an abuse survivor

Saturday Poetry -- Fairies by Rose Fyleman

THERE are fairies at the bottom of our garden!

It's not so very, very far away;

You pass the gardner's shed and you just keep straight ahead --

I do so hope they've really come to stay.

There's a little wood, with moss in it and beetles,

And a little stream that quietly runs through;

You wouldn't think they'd dare to come merrymaking there--

      Well, they do.

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!

They often have a dance on summer nights;

The butterflies and bees make a lovely little breeze,

And the rabbits stand about and hold the lights.

Did you know that they could sit upon the moonbeams

And pick a little star to make a fan,

And dance away up there in the middle of the air?

      Well, they can.

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!

You cannot think how beautiful they are;

They all stand up and sing when the Fairy Queen and King

Come gently floating down upon their car.

The King is very proud and very handsome;

The Queen--now you can quess who that could be

(She's a little girl all day, but at night she steals away)?

      Well -- it's Me!

Saturday Poetry -- Litany by Billy Collins

Litany

BY BILLY COLLINS

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine . . .
Jacques Crickillon 

You are the bread and the knife,   

the crystal goblet and the wine.   

You are the dew on the morning grass   

and the burning wheel of the sun.   

You are the white apron of the baker   

and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.   

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,   

the plums on the counter,   

or the house of cards.   

And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.   

There is just no way you are the pine-scented air.   

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,   

maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,   

but you are not even close   

to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.   

And a quick look in the mirror will show   

that you are neither the boots in the corner   

nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.   

It might interest you to know,   

speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,   

that I am the sound of rain on the roof.   

I also happen to be the shooting star,   

the evening paper blowing down an alley,   

and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.   

I am also the moon in the trees   

and the blind woman's tea cup.   

But don't worry, I am not the bread and the knife.   

You are still the bread and the knife.   

You will always be the bread and the knife,

not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.

Billy Collins, “Litany” from Nine Horses. Copyright © 2002 by Billy Collins. Reprinted with the permission of Random House, Inc.

Source: Poetry (February 2002).

Check out this post for more Billy Collins fun:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVu4Me_n91Y

Saturday Poetry --- A Book by Emily Dickinson

A Book

There is no frigate like a book

To take us lands away,

Not any coursers like a page

Of prancing poetry.

This traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of toll;

How frugal is the chariot

That bears a human soul!

Saturday Poetry -- The Revenant by Billy Collins

I am the dog you put to sleep,
as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
come back to tell you this simple thing:
I never liked you--not one bit.

When I licked your face,
I thought of biting off your nose.
When I watched you toweling yourself dry,
I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.

I resented the way you moved,
your lack of animal grace,
the way you would sit in a chair to eat,
a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.

I would have run away,
but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
while I was learning to sit and heel,
and--greatest of insults--shake hands without a hand.

I admit the sight of the leash
would excite me
but only because it meant I was about
to smell things you had never touched.

You do not want to believe this,
but I have no reason to lie.
I hated the car, the rubber toys,
disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.

The jingling of my tags drove me mad.
You always scratched me in the wrong place.
All I ever wanted from you
was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.

While you slept, I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
It took all of my strength
not to raise my head and howl.

Now I am free of the collar,
the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater,
the absurdity of your lawn,
and that is all you need to know about this place

except what you already supposed
and are glad it did not happen sooner--

that everyone here can read and write,
the dogs in poetry, the cats and the others in prose.