When evenings shadows
start to grow small
as jack frost's finger
begins to draw
outside the window
silent snow flakes
begin to fall
bubble lights all aboil
silvery ropes of twinkle
icicles clinging to all
stockings on the mantle
lined up all in a row
Christmas wafting from room to room
blending with the sweet
scent of pine
wondering til I am claimed by sleep
which present is mine
I white your black anger
I cool your hot rage
For your shirt a hanger
And turn your book's page
Out there seek a manger
Come home to my cage
You may be a ranger
But here you're my babe
ho ho ho
c'mon snow
without it
my sled won' go
then what's in my bag
you'll never know
guten morgan Edgar .... mouseketeers
coffee black if you got it
Black's the only flavor coffee I got. Got to go to work in a few. Owners flew in from the west coast to inspect us (on our week end, with no compensatory pay). Ya'll feel free to make use of the facilities while I'm gone.
Thanks Rose ... Remember the magic of Christmas ............ it wasn't abracadabra type magic but a magic of the heart and mind. Angels lived on the top of Christmas trees ...... dad would amaze with feats of strength like cracking english walnuts with his bare hands. Grandma got run over by a reindeer and everyone sang about it ....
We all knew without a question that Santa exists.... I think he is out there still ... someplace..... waiting patiently for us to learn to love again .....
Merry Christmas
My vision of Christmas is a state of being the whole year long. When the tinsel and lights have been put back in boxes we continue to experience Christmas on the Earth.
I love everyones Christmas poetry...and a nice sentiment edgar. It inspired me to write this:
When the wrappings from the gifts
are scattered on the floor
And the sparkling tinsel glowing
is forgotten evermore
When the all the ornaments are put in boxes
and the bows are crushed and frayed
You must still remember Christmas
each and every day
The wind drifts blew o'er a mountain road
Across the canyon and sky
Who knows how much snow that old storm blowed
Before the wind chanced to die
In its wake a helicopter showed
The great machine seemed to sigh
Beneath the blades where it chose to slow
Lay a car flipped on its side
A crewman spoke on the radio
A man and wife crashed and died
On a black branch rested a scornful crow
Come to mock the baleful sky
I liked that a lot, Edgar; it was really powerful. What would you say is the main inspiration for your poetry, if there is one?
The moon made me a promise
To cast its flowing light my way
Making through the thickening sheets
Of darkening dreams;
I needed nothing on Earth.
Groggy thoughts awaken
Under a smoke gray sky
Night and dreams taken
From dawns sleepy eye
Seasons warmth is lost
Winter quiet surroundings
Painted with ghostly frost
Freezing ponds glazing
An intruding ray of sun
Moistens all it reaches
A Robin with eggs undone
She feeds and teaches
Returning color to creation
The coating seems to fuss
Light and heat relation
Melt away the icy rust
Winter says to rising sun
You hold this day but once
I'll return when earth has spun
And you beam your last response
Groggy thoughts return
Under a familiar gray sky
Sun dreams of a new burn
Night closes dusks sleepy eye
My inspiration is from a life of early abuse and tragedy, tempered in later life by natural optimism, influenced heavily by books and movies, with an added sense of mortality.
I like the poetry you both posted - Got to get back to work - Will return later on.
I shop
and shop and shop
til I drop
then I stop
then into my head will pop
my shopping list undone
then I twist
and turn til I spend
all the money that I've earned
but this is not the end
I have plastic in my pocket
so I can still consume
and spend and spend and spend
til the gifts fill up the room
this day that we call Christmas
can never end too soon
then faintly through the darkness
a melody of a silent night
came drifting with the snow
was it's innocence that shamed me
as deep inside I knew
we each need a Christmas
and it's message to our soul
The spirit of loot
Makes the season moot
The spirit of love
Fits like hand in glove
I somehow cannot produce a Christmas offering. The words to express it seem so overworked and trite within me as to belie the message I want to convey. Odd, because every year for the last twenty I have written a story or poem for the season.
Try three fingers of Dewars or a hot buttered rum . you'll be awash in creative juices....don't expect what you write to make any sense in the morning though .....
