Another new year: two poems

Another new year

A SHORT WINTER POEM

Four bluebirds,

a sparrow,

balancing

in winter’s wind

on the thin

beautyberry

twigs, eating

what’s left

of the purple

frozen fruits.

~ ~ ~ ~

AND THEN I SAW IT WAS JANUARY

 (a Laurette sequence)

I looked around

some days beyond

December, found the year

had fled. Instead

the Janus month,

cold January’s here!

Oh, snow and ice

and bitter cold.

The north wind howls apace.

The schools are closed,

some churches, too,

but, oh! Bright winter’s face!

The old cat sleeps

 beside the fire,

 his paw above an eye.

 Before too long,

‘Mom Nature will

 blow January by.

~ ~ ~ ~

C 2018, PL, dba lovepat press

At the close of 2017: a Christmas Day poem

                                                              

A REFLECTION FOR THE END OF 2017

(an Octo Sequence)

In Advent, twenty-seventeen,

I’m doing what I love to do

at Ebenezer U. M. C.—

that’s play piano every week 

for worshippers and those who seek.

At Ebenezer U. M. C.,

I’m doing what I love to do

in Advent, twenty-seventeen.

Where needs and talents lie in sync,

I’ve always heard, a mission calls.

The Holy Spirit fingered me,

and I’ve been playing all this year,

selecting service music dear.

The Holy Spirit fingered me;

I’ve always heard a mission calls

where needs and talents lie in sync.

The church is fifteen miles away

with many curves and valleys, hills.

(My trusty Taurus runs just fine.)

At eighty-one, still sound of mind,

––my genes and angels have been kind––

 My trusty Taurus runs just fine

through many curves and valleys, hills.

(The church is fifteen miles away.)

As long as health and age allow,

I’d like to keep this music job

because I love the people here.

Unless the winter’s icy, wild

we’ll celebrate the Holy Child.

Because I love the people here,

I’d like to keep this music job

as long as health and age allow.

c 2017, PL

Third week of Advent: a poem

It’s Advent—twenty-fourteen now--
too many years since last I wrote.
I fill my time with hand bells, choir
--requiring diligence--and bills
and cats and house and med refills.
I fill my time with hand bells, choir.
Too many years since last I wrote,
it’s Advent—twenty-fourteen now.

I used to write an Advent verse
each year, till life got in the way--
especially after I retired.
I penned one novel, then one more.
Activities came to the fore,
especially after I retired.
Each year, till life got in the way,
I used to write an Advent verse.



I hereby vow to take more time
to celebrate the Advent Child,
to live expectantly each day
as if the second-coming’s near;
make ready, leave no room for fear.
To live expectantly each day,
to celebrate the Advent Child,
I hereby vow to take more time.

c 2017, PL

Second week of Advent: a poem

                                                          Advent

         I used to write

         a poem each year

         at this time, anticipating

         the Savior’s coming, but

         household chores,

         the yard, the holidays––

         I’ve made no time

         for meditation,

         writing, waiting,

.

         I hereby vow

         beginning now

         to take more time

         from this day on,

         to concentrate,

         to celebrate,

         prepare, like Mary,

         for the Blessed Child.

         Lord, help me live

         expectantly today

         and every day

         until the second-coming.

        I must make ready--

       again.

c 2017, PL

First week of Advent, 2017: a poem

                    An Advent wreath. Advent is the run-up to Christmas in liturgical churches

Years ago, I began what I hoped would be an annual happening: writing an Advent poem in the Octo Sequence pattern touted by Mary Harper Sowell, former president of Poets Roundtable of Arkansas. The online instructions are different from what Ms. Sowell used, that is, the fourth and fifth lines of the eight (octo) rhyme. Mine are rhymed. This poem described my life twenty-seven years ago in 1990.

ADVENT: THE COMING OF A CHILD

This Advent will be more serene
since I'm no longer organist--

no preludes, hymns or antiphons--

and time I spent in pressured haste

is now revered as private space.

No preludes, hymns or antiphons

since I'm no longer organist.

This Advent will be more serene.

The yuletide bustle will be less:

my school choir sang an autumn show,

releasing yet another night

for shopping with the family

or entertaining merrily.

Releasing yet another night,

my school choir sang an autumn show;

the yuletide bustle will be less.

Just when the season's simplified,

a grandson comes to live with me;

one curious, crawling eight-month-old.

(Did Mary want to rail and  rant

when Jesus tumped her favorite plant?)

One curious, crawling eight-month-old,

a grandson comes to live with me

just when the season's simplified.    

Published in variations, 1994

c 2017, PL

                                              The grandson, a few years later. He's now 27.