Christmas never changes.
In the exchange of gifts and greeting
there is a meeting of hearts and it starts.
Thoughts of voices that have been silenced
and smiles that have faded into misty memory.
Melancholy peeks through the windows
of a heart broken soul; a token show of
love for loved ones long vacant.
At some point you anoint these recollections;
a status of legend and immortality takes hold.
We remember Christmases of long ago as if
they are visions of a changeable future.
It nurtures us and give our sorrow rest.
The tomorrows are the best when our steps
are guided and propelled by the lessons learned.
Through our losses, we remember the wonder of love
and we will be healed by it; the gift of Christmas.
A < > V V A week remains. All the prep- arations are nearly completed. The house is clean and dressed up. Boughs of green- ery hang in sweeping arcs, bringing symmetry to a celebration well planned. Every boy, girl woman and man, join hands in bowed prayer for a day molded on peace and love; above all else, the birth of a child brought to the world to sacrifice in order to make a nice life rife with meaning. And taking time to share in that spirit, aside from the hustle and bustle of hurried desperation seems to get lost in the shuffle. But, when evening comes to call and all will gather in heart, near hearth or around the tree, a communion of love lights every happy face brightly.
reprievesfrom me in a stretch. A call to the stable,
assuringthis latest chapter of the fable goes off without a hitch.
Thesuitis pressed. Theboots shine next to the white fur, setting
thebrightcrimson ablaze;a staple for the Holidays. Am I crazy, or has
Decemberco me more rapidthan eagles? It feels like it to me. Time flies
when I’m hav ingfun.I scanunder the tree with a twinkled eye, spying the
presentsdisplayed.Everybrightly wrapped package becomes the bestprize, never
taking away from the next, at best joining each box in wonder and richness. But,
there is one gift that draws myattention. Did I ever mention my total love of Christmas? It
is in that spirit that I take upthis Gift so inconspicuous, yet soutterly necessary for
this day. For in my hands, Ihold perfection. Atcloser inspection, I am certain. No giftof
Christmas was ever so right; soaccepted. So loved. Remembering the verse, “…and the greatest of these, is Love”, my heart swells, a tellingsign that Christmas lives within me. This Gift soneeded, fills my hands with its girth,and makes myheart wor thythrough all that it espouses.It houses purity,and sanct- ity. It represents love. The Truest of All Love. And so it is with this First Gift of Christmas. I bow my head; a silent prayer prepares me for my jour ney. “God so loved the wor ld that he gave his only son…” and I ret urn The Babe to His manger, the love of Christmas fills me. I raise from my knee, coming to stand near the tree. I am Santa Claus, chosen to be an icon of the season. I am humbled to receive “The Gift” I represent Who gives it a reason. Walking in silence and reverent thought, to a waiting sleigh and a day of love.
Red, yellow, blue.
Green and white; burns all night, bright.
Beacons of light in a mid-December snowfall.
Offering a brilliance not seen since early fall.
Silent, accenting vignettes of serenity.
A Christmas amenity:
strung and hung,
eclectic and electric.
Red, yellow, blue.
Green and white, burns all night. Bright
It comes and goes
when the west wind blows
and we're in the throes
of lake effect snows.
Jack Frost, the leader of my foes,
is drowning out my Ho, Ho, Ho's.
These ten little guys have surely froze;
the way it goes with popsicle toes.
for many years.
Tell me why I’ve never
noticed before. Why is it
even the naughty ones get nice
at this time of year? I don’t mind, since
it means they want to get on my good side.
Tell me why that is? I understand that every child, woman
and man, don’t always believe in me, but I can see the good-
ness in every person. I really do know. It’s a talent passed down
from generations of Clauses. A telepathy maybe, or a knack. A
crick in my back, or a tingle in my fingers. It lingers throughout the year
and I hear a voice in my head that fills me instead with a compassion.
I fasten my belt and get down to business. And my business has al-
ways been Christmas. On the Eve of my big day, the elves load all
of the gifts
in to this
sl ei gh.
Then it’s up, up and away. Tell me why you still believe? I am Santa!!!!!
Brown, in layers,
much like it pours.
an acquired taste.
A shame to let any waste.
So much better with
a cold nose.
She grows on me.
long and lean,
a playful bark,
a stark difference
from when she was rescued.
As she's viewed,
an acquired taste,
glad my daughter didn't
let her waste. Thickly,
rich little dachshund,
brown, in layers
much like she pours.
Not much of a beer drinker,
but I thinks I can love me
Two months to a new year. The disheartening fact of the matter is that last night, Halloween had me listening to the "Sounds of the Seasons" channel on Music Choice section of our local cable. Rather raucous and rambunctious renditions of "This is Halloween" by Marilyn Manson, and "Feed My Frankenstein" by Alice Cooper. Every sinister and macabre song, sound and effect at the touch of my remote.
Step into November. A cup of coffee, leaves meandering out my window and a brightly colored Christmas tree upon my TV screen with Bobby Darin crooning "Silent Night". It's been in the stores. It is filtering into advertising. But it doesn't infiltrate into my house until at least Thanksgiving. The seasons changed on me overnight. I should have had some warning. And so it begins...
He walks by night
flashlight at the ready,
he holds it steady
to keep his prey at bay.
Creepily, he slinks; fisher by day,
and by the way, he’s good at his craft.
You’d have to be daft
to walk in the shadows
in the dark moist night
they’re right under foot
as night owls hoot and they scoot.
Creepily, they slink, earthbound
and round, for now off the hook.
But as the day breaks
he’s got what it takes,
and anglers, they wait;
they always take the bait.
Just the earthworms he’s chosen.
Two bucks for a dozen.
Temperatures be damned, in a week we enter the "official" start of the fall season. With the Autumnal Equinox at hand, we accept that all good things must come to an end. It was a great summer in Buffalo (an oxymoron, to be sure), and although I hate to see it go, it is time to move on. We're doing a lot of that now-a-days; not always willingly,but neccessary in all cases. So in re-prioritizing our lives on the business ends of this Great Lake, we cling to what matters most. Family. True Friendship. The odd poem, from time to time.(And if you read my and Marie's work, you'll agree we hit that mark all too often. ;) We'll try and keep the warmth at a comfortable level here "Across the Lake", not too cold - not too hot. Just write, Right!?
The final third of 2010 inches to completion. It has been a tumultuous, yet productive year for both of us here. The holidays are drawing near; a chance to put those familial lifelines to good use. Thanks to all who have visited M. E. and me here at "Across the Lake, Eerily", and have offered encouragement or have been touched by our heartfelt muses. You tell us we matter, and that's always a good thing. It just helps us all draw nearer.
a world gone viral and lacking in decorum, no forum for discourse,
just the forces of nature in coercion with the latest version of humanity without sanity.
The vanity of every man, woman and child had taken a wild turn, spurning tradition and
heading on amission to destroy all good things. Presidents and Kings, lacking in insight,
fight for their agenda, hardly mending fences and fostering the pretense that they strive
for the common good. But, no man had the ability to change things, no hope was ever
offered. We asked not what we could do to achieve that city on the hill amidst a thou
sand points of light. All we did was fight. In a country of excess, we came to lose the
ability to express, we would digress, a less civilized purpose; a banal circus of
illusionists and clowns. Cities and towns, centers of populations and industry,
armies of force and destruction laid barewithout care.
The inevitability of a
world wide revolution,
a universal solution
to pollution and
brought all the
problems to the
to solve. We
had evolved into
for each other;
sister and brother,
Father and mother.
Pulling together in
the same direction.
Not striving for per-
fection, but working
to keep the peace.
Poets became the keepers of wisdom, wordsmiths
and scholars, knew it got better before every verse. But first we needed
to join our hearts and minds to find our footing; a good way to start. No longer were
we right of left.Conservatives and Liberals ceased to exist. Republican and Democrat
were not viable concepts.Too bad we had to destroy all we held dear to get to
here. Maybe in the future, we'll remember.
over Great Lake
waters.An eerie sense
of finality raises over the
horizon and blends frantically
with the darkening cloud patches,
traces of Summer becoming fainter
memories. Autumn waits ever impatiently,
fighting for a dominance; prominence, meeting
resistance. In the distance, a lone boat tracks, sail
billowed in the stiff breeze, a genteel serenity commands
the late afternoon. You swoon over the beauty as it faintly
waves of emotions and Erie's redundant tide.
A whiff of warmth lingers, as you can count the fingers on one hand
the number of the times the lake had disappointed. Turning
toward shore, the shifting wind brings the single
sailor homeward. Summer sets sail.
All the heat of a million suns
baking; no mistaking your influence.
For in the confluence of words,
the only thing heard is the sound
of a heart beating, greeting the stares
and glares with a clear head
and a passionate fire. It has been your desire,
to progress in talent and scope,
a sincere hope that success comes
with all the trimmings. Skimming your heart,
stepping out of your comfort zone, alone.
Taking your place on stage finally,
tempering your sanity and fighting
off your critics not ready to release you.
It pleases you that they hold you tightly,
but rightly, you have more stages to grace
in search of your rightful place.
Taking the world by storm and being warm.
In the spotlight, never let them see you sweat.
A morning calls, freshly whispering in the vacant shadows of night,
a sunrise in sight on the horizon, rising ever-upward to her perch.
The church of this new and blessed day dawns upon us. We pray
that every new day possesses her beauty and grace, a place
where the angels stand, hand-in-hand, offering their songs in the
rustle of each leave, the hush of the breeze and in every newborn's sneeze.
A morning; as new as any beginning for which we can wish.
A day, as precious as the life we offer to Him in our every action
It is pleasing in our sight that this right moment is presented to us;
this gift is given to us. Accept this new day in the spirit of life.
For no matter what the mortal men predict, it is a new and blessed day.
If clouds should form, it is a sign to appreciate all you have when the sun
sits high in a blue sky. If rain should appear, know that it will eventually clear,
leaving the bloom of flowers and the freshness of a start anew.
Any obstacle was placed before you, to teach you. To teach you to persevere.
To teach you acceptance of the things you cannot change. To give the lesson
that all God offers in each new day is a blessing. It is never more than we can handle.
It is always a manifestation of His love for us. Embrace this gift for it is given in love.
Embrace this day, your life, your family, your friends, and the time you have to embrace.
This is a great place that emerges from the shadow of night; this day so given.
Graceful and heartful, smart,
full of vigor to fight the rigors of life
as defined. You don't mind
because at your side, having your back,
is a friend. In need, indeed;
when not needed, wanted just the same.
The game is simple. Having a friend is being
a friend. Faceless, replaceless
never graceless, with a spacious heart.
From start to end, a Good friend is priceless.
Good as gold, and then some. Without end.
Take me back to sixty-nine,
the year, not the...never mind.
I keep reverting to that time,
when life was simpler; sublime.
In the throes of puberty,
feeling music course through me.
Songs of the day,
artists of the time,
albums of the year,
in my mind, they all shine.
For music was where I found my "voice",
those melodic poems were my choice,
when I ran out of notes, the lyrics popped,
(and for a span of twelve years I completely stopped).
But back with a vengeance I came roaring
to hear my poetry take flight, now soaring
beyond all expectations, my fait accompli;
my celebration of mind, and words and me.
If I had to pinpoint where it began,
'twas the "Summer of Love" kick-started this man,
and so as I venture to continue in rhyme,
I toss my once-upon-a-mane to Nineteen Sixty-Nine!