Christmas Blues

I found out my husband has to work on Christmas Eve again this year, and that makes six nights that he’ll be gone this week. He’s doing his 29th Christmas Eve. So I figured I’d write a blues song for him. It’s pretty silly, but maybe I’ll find a band to play it for him someday. So, here’s the to blues and hoping I won’t lose my husband to packages.

My husband’s a UPS Santa.
Hitched to his brown tractor-trailer all day.
On the twenty-fourth of December
It becomes a brown Holiday sleigh

I’ve got the blues, Christmas blues, darling.
The holidays blues came to stay.
I’ve got starry-eyed blues just hoping
That he’ll make home by Christmas Day.

I really want him to find me,
Bring me hope and good cheer,
It’s the same Christmas longing,
I’ve had year after year after year.

I’ve got the blues, Christmas blues, darling.
The holidays blues came to stay.
I’ve got starry-eyed blues just hoping
That he’ll make home by Christmas Day.

The decorated tree’s in the corner,
With lights, ornaments, and a star,
I’m the only one adoring
All the holiday things laying around.

I’ve got the blues, Christmas blues, darling.
The holidays blues came to stay.
I’ve got starry-eyed blues just hoping
That he’ll make home by Christmas Day.

Christmas is always upsetting,
Just makes me one case of blues away.
When the North Wind goes blowing
And takes my true love away.

I’ve got the blues, Christmas blues, darling.
The holidays blues came to stay.
I’ve got starry-eyed blues just hoping
That he’ll make home by Christmas Day.

What’s that noise on the rooftop?
Is that Santa Claus in time?
No, It’s a brown International with
My darling, my husband up there.

I’ve got the blues, Christmas blues, darling.
The holidays blues came to stay.
I’ve got starry-eyed blues just hoping
That he’ll make home by Christmas Day.

He’s says he’s waving a hand,
At me as he passes this way,
He can’t stay for the dinner
I’ve been slaving for day after day.

I’ve got the blues, Christmas blues, darling.
The holidays blues came to stay.
I’ve got starry-eyed blues just hoping
That he’ll make home by Christmas Day.

Christmas comes once a year,
With it packages, boxes and bags.
It’s much too much for old Santa
So UPS always lends him a hand.

I’ve got the blues, Christmas blues, darling.
The holidays blues came to stay.
I’ve got starry-eyed blues just hoping
That he’ll make home by Christmas Day.

Christmas gives me the blues each year.
It’s not national news, just retire and stay.
If he’s not home for anyway.
It gives me the blues on Christmas Day.

 

Two Cat Night

https://koolkosherkitchen.wordpress.com/2016/12/13/blog-party-and-a-charade/

A poem in celebration of Koolkosherkitchen’s monumental achievement in having 500 followers.

Two cats sat near my window sill,
Looking like statues of cute.
Long furred one, the other short,
Motionless sit watching me as
A reflection in the window passes,
I’m valued now by and for
Tortoise shell markings,
One striped orange mascara,
Green eyes watching closely,
One gold speck of mischief
Waiting for that sound,
That glorious sound, of a can
With a lid, a spoon and a dish.
Treasures of furry happiness.

Life’s Texture

https://narami.wordpress.com/2016/12/20/tuesdays-of-texture-week-52-of-2016/

Touch life, in a Chilean desert,
Where the sand is fine, rusty,
Pink with a sash of burgundy.

Feel life in a frozen apex above
An island of Canary, mountain high
As the ice covers and caresses.

Stroke the electric vibrations that
Emanate in mirrors, hiding the
Motion of nightlife, stirring it forward.

Pluck the purple passion found in
Tender petals. Surrounding you
Covering you with soft touches of pleasure.

Caress the swollen clouds that dangle
Teasingly just beyond reach. In the heavens,
Promising the cool breezes to passersby.

Manipulate the boulders, stacked by size
Treating the balance of gravity as
If the history of the world is on your back.

Trail your hands around the Austrian pattern
Swirling in a monastery as though
It was a moving footprint of a snail’s shell.

Splash against a sandy beach, scrubbing
The ocean’s waves. Feel the surging
Power that pulls away from your hands.

Touch a savage pattern, alkaline and dry,
Feel the salary of traditions old
A page of understanding that caresses as we learn.

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Cees Challenge: A Road, a Path, a Journey: poem and photographs

Cee’s Which Way Photo Challenge – December 21, 2016

I've walked them all, the roads,
The paths, walking as they call out,
"Here! Here I am!"
And the twists and turns from civility
To the brash encounters
That leave you breathless 
And thinking. I've walked them all.

The journey leads you to new
Thoughts and actions, people,
Dogs, the dogs are my favorite.
They teach me to look with my ears,
My nose, then my eyes.
"Here!" they bark. "Here I am!"
Tails wag and we part, friends.

The cities bustle and blend themselves
Into mirrors of bright reflection
Of the life below the windows.
The buses roar like dragons
Belching out smoke, foul odors,
And the bystanders standing
On the curb shout, "Here! Here I am!"

The bus lurches to a stop.
"Here! Here I am. Now board and 
Use the windows to see what you miss
When you don't walk."
It snarls, winds its engine and dreams
Of standing still in the tumultuous wind
And listening to the roar.

I stand alone on the bus stop,
Indecisively making a decision
To walk down the treed streets.
Strong armed trees holding the last leaves
Of fall. Autumn calls out,
"Here you are. Look at me."
And the beauty makes me weep.

I am the bystander, taking the road.
Calling my children to let them know
To look on a map and see me.
"Here! Here I am!" But invisible,
They see only the marker of 
Where I have been. I can call,
"Here! Here am I! See me!" They don't.

I have a secret. A wood's walk,
Where the king of the forest
Strode into my path.
"Make way. Make way. This is my path,
My road. Here I am."
And I see him, towering over me.
I answer, "I am here, too."

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The Smithy

http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2016/12/18/prompt-1942-visual-prompt-of-the-week-the-smithy/

It was work, good wholesome work, that held the nation together with each nail or mended wheel. The tools of the trade were honest, having no pretense or subterfuge like found in politics. Hard tools for making horse shoes and knowing that life was better for the way the shoe fit.

My great grandfather was a smithy. He and his wife formed a team that could take on the world. They followed the principal that hard work made for honesty. They were a partnership of American ingenuity and creativity, making things that would last and be valued. On Sundays, he became the minister and she the minister’s wife. Their congregation came to church to hear sermons that extolled virtue, charity, and kindness and left feeling that the world was a wonderful place to be in. They were all one generation that followed the pioneer spirit that led to the expansion of the United States, and they were proud.

Having followed the legacy of their parents, and having bloomed in the black rich soil of Minnesota, they cherished education and culture above all else. It was this passion that brought music, theater, literature and art and made them more than simple folk. And they took their congregation with them. They were members of the Grange, a society that stood for the good in mankind. It stood for the civilized expansion of farmers, blacksmiths, small town storekeepers and it kept life refined. She played the violin, he smoked his pipe and told the young ones stories from the bible. There were contests in spelling and grammar, the spelling bee being a way to bring children up, rather than see them running wild in the world. Everything had a order to it.

Generational families lived in a house or close by. Mothers were there to help Grandmothers. Grandfathers were there to teach the young boys how to become men. Life had a purpose, and the ideals of the middle class were brought to light in the fires of the smith.

My mother was sent to my great grandparents when her parents needed time to do things that a little girl might be a pest during. But she was welcomed, hugged, given a kiss and sent to play out in the gardens with grandmother’s watchful eye keeping an eye on her. Once when she wanted to play with a bee, and wouldn’t listen to that clear warning voice, she was shocked into behaving by the application of cold water from the hose her grandmother was using to water the kitchen garden. The cold water was followed by a hug and another warning that bees needed to be bees and little girls shouldn’t play with them. There was no trauma, no extensive punishing needed. There were rules and they were best followed.

Her grandfather would work in the shop, making things for the house when he had no customers for the day. Or he would create and set aside the makings for wheels and horseshoes so that customers wouldn’t have to wait. He was always thinking ahead. New inventions fascinated him. He’d quickly learn which parts might need fixing, which parts he could mend, for that is what a blacksmith takes pride in.  Somedays he would ask Grandmother to assist him in creating an order. She was meticulous in measuring and sizing. When she had down what was needed doing, she’d return the to house where there was always something that needed doing.

Neighbors would come to tea some afternoons. They would sit at the polished kitchen and discuss the community, but never gossip. Something would have to be done, and someone was designated to do it. A young lady needed advice, and grandmother would undertake that mission after clarifying why she needed the advice. She was the backbone of the women’s charity. Every summer and fall, between harvests, the women would meet to make quilts, or clothes. The pins and needles were kept busy.

You never talked badly about your neighbor. No, instead you would listen and make the comment to change the opinion of the other. If someone was afraid that civilization would fail, she’d bolster the person to make them feel positive instead.

When a fire burnt a neighbors house, the family would rally the church to go make things right. Supplies would be donated, windows glassed, iron reinforcements used in the corners of the wooden houses. When a death occurred, the husband and wife would be the first to help the survivors mourn.

It was the smithy that caused young men to go to school and learn. It was the minister’s wife who encouraged the women to go to college. If there were funds in the church budget, small scholarships would be given for those who needed the assistance. These were never in the form of a loan, but given with the idea that education would widen your horizons so you could help others.

I know that there were problems, medical science was in its infancy and so illness was an evil that lurked in the shadows. I know also that there were wars in the future. Eventually technology surpassed the smithy, lessening the need for his services. But they prevailed over those things too. It was the iron and the smithy that brought my great-grandparents to Minnesota in a time when they were needed. They were the backbone of the community, the innovators, the compassionate.

Sunday Trees, a poem and a photograph

https://beccagivens.wordpress.com/2016/12/18/sunday-trees-266/

There you stand, arms outstretched,
Gathering the last sun of a season
As the cold moves with infinite patience.
The crystals of frost will soon haunt you.
They spread from dawn to dusk, and infiltrate
Your woods at night to decorate with lacy
Precision, precision which creates chill and ice.
But beneath the earth, you grow and shiver
Living like ants on the stored food in your veins.
Your tenants, the squirrels follow your lead and nap.
Their nests decorating during the winter,
A barren decoration, brown, gray, but hopeful.
You create the roots of spring while waiting,
While knitting through the winter months.
Arms outstretched you gather the last rays, knitting,
Before the sunset of autumn and the dawn of winter.

 

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