Come Winter

There can be no doubt that we are firmly residing in Winter. Yule is here soon and the logs are already burning. But in amongst the cold and snow that blankets everything people bustle along, busy as ever, capable now of moving again and it seems to me that they have forgotten to look around them. To slow down and really notice the changes. Hard to you say? Well yes I suppose it is but it is also important too. Despite the modern day appliances and so called civilization Winter still levels the playing field. The elderly and young alike need more care. Jack Frost doesn’t mind their ages, only gleeful that they might not be able to keep him out. So some of us have agreed, we will take note of who our neighbours are. Remind ourselves of the community again and try and help. Even if it’s only to pick up a pint of milk or to bring some companionship to them for a while. So here’s the challenge, learn the name of your neighbour before Yule and offer a little bit of that most important thing you have to give; some time and friendship.

The following poem is from someone who falls into the above category yet stubbornly refuses help at times being mentally and almost completely physically independent still at the grand age of nearly 92. A cantankerous fellow, but always there in our hearts and in his own way a leveller too. Oh the fun I have had watching him with Littleun, 80+ years separating them, but both gleefully laughing as they watch “Tom and Jerry” together (“originals minds you, none of this newfangled rubbish”) or as they enjoyed the hotdogs and mince pies on fireworks night in the heated conservatory. Anyway, hope you like it:

COME WINTER

When the bold little robin sings his sweetest song,
And the lanes and meadows are cold and white:
When the nights that follow are dark and long,
Then nature sleeps through the winter’s night.

While, at the break of dawn, stillness keeps
Bar meadow pond where the waters slow,
And snug, the barren hedgerow sleeps
Beneath a mantle of drifting snow.

See how the winter spreads its snowy shield,
Blending church and cottage into one:
The snow-faced clock, its time concealed,
Save for the bell and the chimes that run.

Beside the stream, the mill in hoary mist
Is still, while nature sleeps in settled snow,
And ice bounds trees whose branches twist
In restless dreams, while northern breezes blow.

So softly tread this carpet white, hinder not
The fragile warmth the distant sun may bring:
For soon, there’ll be no rest in nature’s cot,
When dawn awakes and morning turns to spring.

Poem © PRISM

Photo mgk_online's

Scarecrow Poem...

A Jolly Good Fellow

The scarecrow in the Farmer's field is spruce and nicely dressed,

With a pink and yellow neckerchief and a rose pinned to his chest.

I always give a smile to him on days when passing by,

And he will wave his glove to me then nod and wink his eye.

He's a very friendly fellow

with his tie of pink and yellow,

And in my heart I know

That he'd never hurt a fly.

He stands there all alone in the fields of corn and wheat;

with rooks , crows and magpies, pecking at his feet.

They make a merry party and he joins in with the fun,

Playing with the field mice that scamper in the sun

He's a very decent fellow

With his tie of pink and yellow,

And he'll wave his arms to warn them

Should the farmer raise his gun.

When the summer sun is shining and the hedgerows are in bloom,

I change his pretty rosebud for a spike of yellow broom:

Then brush his tweedy jacket and straighten his cravat,

And tidy up the head of straw that lies beneath his hat.

For he's quite a handsome fellow,

With his tie of pink and yellow,

And to any scarecrow lady

He would make a perfect match.

When the harvest in the farmer's field is reaped and stored away,

And the birds have fled the fallow where the field mice came to play.

When the yellow leaves of autumn are descending from the trees,

He'll wave goodbye to all of them while dancing on the breeze.

He's a very merry fellow

With his tie of pink and yellow,

And while he's warm and mellow,

You will never hear him sneeze.

©PRISM 2010

Dreams

I dream of the seas where the warm winds blow,

Neath a dome of pale blue sky;

Where sunbeams play on the silver spray

As cresting waves race by.

Of early morn where a green-blue sea

Is kissed with golden light;

Where the main deck dries in tropical heat

as day succeeds night.

I dream of the swell of freshening seas

Where chasing dolphins leap:

Where flying fish, like raindrops, fall

To shower the ocean deep.

Yet in my dreams on a moonlit sea

I search o'er the luminous foam,

For a distant star to guide me true,

Through my slumbers safe at home.

©PRISM 2010

Looking back

The school-bell hangs in silence now,
Its tolls will ring no more,
To herald from the streets and lanes
Young children by the score.
For the school has been converted
Into flats and maisonettes
The halls for recreation, with
The rich in “Private Lets”

They have this snobbish tendency
To think it rather fun,
To live in Mew and warehouses
Where honest work was done
Behind frilled curtained windows
The tenants smartly dressed
Relate the tales of idle hours
That leaves them tired and stressed

And in the playground car park
Now lined and marked in script,
The boys played with their peg tops,
And pretty girls once skipped.
And by the sloping pathway there,
Where winter slides took place,
They've planted shrubs and rosebeds
To give an air of grace.

But do they give a caring thought,
To the aged who may sigh
With open eyes and amazement
To ask the question “Why?”
Who may not see the “Private” signs,
Nor cameras on the masts,
When listening with a tear stained eye
To voices of the past.

© PRISM 2010

Winters End

Persephone, Goddess of Spring,
Who chases away the winter chill,
And light and life doth with her bring,
Sings forth from every meadow and hill.

Out of Winter’s cold and icy chains,
She delivers a desolate dormant land;
The blooming beauty of a warm spring rain
Is the bounty of her benevolent hand.

The Baroness is a picture of grace,
With a lively mind and sparkling eyes;
Friendly and inquiring of each new face,
One will find her witty and wise.

With festival and martial display
We celebrate her natal day.

Jeffrey Stultz

The Pixies

Have e’er you seen the Pixies, the fold not blest or banned?
They walk upon the waters; they sail upon the land,
They make the green grass greener where’er their footsteps fall,
The wildest hind in the forest comes at their call.

They steal from bolted linneys, they milk the key at grass,
The maids are kissed a-milking, and no one hears them pass.
They flit from byre to stable and ride unbroken foals,
They seek out human lovers to win them souls.

The Pixies know no sorrow, the Pixies feel no fear,
They take no care for harvest or seedtime of the year;
Age lays no finger on them, the reaper time goes by
The Pixies, they who change not, grow old or die.

The Pixies though they love us, behold us pass away,
And are not sad for flowers they gathered yesterday,
To-day has crimson foxglove.
If purple hose-in-hose withered last night
To-morrow will have its rose.

by Nora Chesson 1871-1906

The Childs' Wonder

Found this poem whilst wandering the net, made me smile so I thought I’d share. The author is listed as unknown, if anyone knows who it is I’ll gladly credit.

The Childs' Wonder

"Daddy", she said, her eyes full of tears,

"will you talk to me and quiet my fears?

Those bad boys at school are spreading a lie

'bout the impossibility of reindeer that fly.

There's no Santa Claus, they say with a grin

there's not one now and there has never been.

How can one man take all of those toys

to thousands of girls and boys?

But I told them Daddy, that they were not right,

that I would come home and find out tonight.

Mama said wait until you come home.

Please tell me now that I was not wrong."

Her Daddy looked at her questioning face

and puffed his pipe while his frantic mind raced.

He had put this off as long as he could,

he had to think fast and it better be good.

Whispering a prayer, he began with a smile,

"Remember at circle how we learned to pray,

asking the Goddess to take care of us each day?

And you know how we say a prayer before each meal?

To this same Goddess whom we know to be real.

Though we never see her, we know she is there

watching her children with such loving care."

"The Goddess started Yule a long time ago

when she gave us herself to love and to know.

A spirit of giving came with that gift,

and her generosity filled the whole earth.

Man had to name this spirit of giving

just as he names all things that are living."

"The name Santa Claus came to someone's mind

probably the best name of any to find.

There is, you can see, and I think quite clear

Truly a Santa who visits each year.

A spirit like the Goddess, whom we never see,

She enters the hearts of your mother and me."

"Each year at Yule for one special night

we become him and make everything right.

But the REAL spirit of Yule is in you and in me

and I hope that you are old enough now to see

that as we believe and continue to give,

our friend Santa Claus will continue to live."
~Author Unknown~

My Cat the Dangler

My cat is a lazy sort, doesn’t like the outdoors and would rather lounge about the warm house. She is good though at knowing when a gentle nudge from her head or a purr to say “I love you” is needed.

They say I am a dangler a dangling sort of cat,
No matter where they place me I dangle that’s a fact.
I dangled from the shoulder and often from the knee,
Then dangle from the forearms of ladies taking teas.

When sleeping on the telly they say I intervene,
The music makes my tail swing and dangle ‘cross the screen.
But when I’m in the garden, oblivious to a call,
I dangle in the sunshine upon the garden wall.

And perched above the sidewalk, I need to be discreet,
For silly dogs go walkies, beneath me in the street.
I tempt them in their leaping to shatter my repose,
By letting one leg dangle, an inch above their nose!

copyright prism books 2001

One hour to delay the coming Winter.

This weekend gone we have changed our clocks back from British Summertime to GMT and the difference is immediately noticeable. The coldness has snapped back in, though that’s probably due to the wonderful cloudless sunny days we’ve had and we have the sharp smells of coal and wood fires being lit as we walk home in the early darkness. With eagerness I find Autumns treats knowing that Winter is around the corner. I love this time of year. It’s good for reflection and starting anew, becoming more aware of our surroundings as everything seems clearer after the heated haze of summer. As this is also the time of year when we remember our ancestors I thought I’d share a poem that my Grandfather wrote. Hope you like it.

One hour to delay the coming Winter.

‘Tis winter time, wind back the clocks,
We have an hour to spend:
A bonus from the day in spring
When time was free to lend.

Waste not that hour when the clock strikes two
In restless sleep unplanned;
For we may live luxuriously,
With golden time in hand.

Across the hills, let’s greet the sun,
That fades the waning moon,
And wake the birds upon the bough
For we may call the tune.

And tread a path through autumn leaves,
In woodlands golden brown,
Or in the breeze that sweeps the street,
Lets dance throughout the town.

Feel free to spend each precious tick,
On treasures quaint and rare,
Or give a moment to a friend
Now that we have time to spare.

And if one part of summer-time
Was rashly spent before,
Then hold my hand and take this chance
To spend that hour once more.

copyright sja2001/PRISM Books