Christmas Eve Program

Here it is, a couple of days late: 

CHRISTMAS EVE PROGRAM

Magic it was for us children,

chattering in the Ford’s back seat,

driving through snow light as linen,

with heated bricks warming our feet.

We made it to church just in time

to hear the steeple bells ringing.

We slipped in before the last chime,

happily joining the singing.

I tried very hard not to fidget,

all dressed up in my new red dress.

Mama’s picture in my locket--

I promised her to do my best.

I stepped forward, into the light,

reciting from Luke, chapter two,

all about that magical night

when Jesus came for me and for you.

Shepherds portrayed by the big boys;

Mary, by a ten-year old child.

Toddlers gave baby Jesus toys,

while grandparents looked on and smiled.

We gave our Sunday School teacher

a hanky and a pretty card.

Fat oranges from the preacher

were handed out in the churchyard.

Back in our car, our bricks cold,

singing with glee kept us warm,

 with all of the joy we could hold—

anew in our hearts, Christ is born!

Note:  This poem took first place in the December challenge.

Christmas poems

Here it is, the eve of Christmas eve!  It seems to come earlier every year.  Here is a poem I've written on the subject.

What is it about December

that amplifies expectations?

Most Christmases I remember

left me pondering these questions.

Why do we scurry store to store

buying our kids shiny new toys?

They have so much but still want more

of things that all make lots of noise.

We tell them absurd fairy tales

of Santa Claus and helper elves.

We build them up but it all fails

to thrill while we wear out ourselves.

We try instilling magic into lives

who already are full of stuff.

Get down to basics; what survives

is knowing we all have enough.

Hear the true meaning of Christmas:

No magic here, but history.

Earthmaker’s Son, alive in us.

Heaven touched earth. Sweet mystery! 

The Pilgrim Way

      Today I received word that my first attempt at blank verse placed FIRST in the Siloam Springs Writers monthly challenge.  Here it is:             

    THE PILGRIM WAY

In writing her last will and testament

she deeded cherished silver to her sons.

Her mother’s sewing—needlework so fine—

her daughters should receive, and would, with thanks.

Still, none of them would fully comprehend

what tales those precious heirlooms might relate

if they could speak of their long journey here.

When first she chose what she should pack, she hoped

those trunks would carry all her valuables.

Did she lament the things she could not take   

with her aboard her ship, the Mayflower?

Or count that loss surpassed by her great gain

when four weeks hence her feet touched New World soil?

At last there she could freely worship God,

and pray without restriction or reproach.

“The breaking waves dashed high,” one Pilgrim wrote

about the wild New England coast. The folks

who lived to tell of ruthless seas they sailed,

then set about assembling tools and plans,

cleared trees for farms and from that wood, built homes,

and laid foundations for our liberty.

We are not nomads here but pilgrims too,

while on our way to New Jerusalem.

We too face heavy storms and breaking waves

before we stand at last on that bright shore.

We wonder as we contemplate our lives;   

our time here on this dry and weary land

is nearly gone. Will what we leave behind

submit itself to parchment and the pen?

Oh, may the faith of daughters and of sons

make glad our hearts!  Our earthly riches pale

and fall away as we respond to Him

Whose presence lends us strength to persevere.

The glory we shall share when comes that day

we see true wealth stored up for us who left

our fortune in the lives of those we touched—

a legacy of gratitude and grace.

Poetry challenge updates

I have learned that two of my poems won prizes in the annual Siloam Springs Writers Workshop.  Full of Sap placed third in the "Free Verse" category, and The Attic of My Mind placed second in the "Sonnet" category.  Here they are: 

    

Full of Sap

Psalm 92:14

Full of sap

and very green.

Green.

Green as grass, as leaves

of lilies poking through

green ferns, fairy fresh

and aspen shimmering,

quaking with life,

celebrating.

Lupine spears

spiking the sky,

blue bonnets held high,

yet still green.

Like cedars proudly tall

minding not at all,

lower needles browning,

falling,

seeds sheltering

new life,

full of sap

and very green,

fruit bearing into old age.

Still.

And still green.

The Attic of My Mind

The many-gabled attic of my mind

is hiding cobwebbed thoughts from days gone by.          

At times I search for hours and fail to find         

a loved one’s name, or why we said goodbye.         

Despair might draw me down and hold me fast.

Shall I lose myself in bewilderment?

With long years left, will my good senses last?

Or will I fade and become insentient?

No, I believe my wits will quite suffice.

I know enough. More words would but confuse.

To be at peace I heed my own advice

and soothe myself, all anxious fears refuse.

     So I intend henceforth to take great pains

     to celebrate each day with what remains.

The Dirty Thirties, a Ballad

My grandmother and her three sisters were probably the age I am now on the day I remember. They were sitting around my Aunt Susie's round oak table talking about the Depression and what they called "the dirty thirties" in the Dakotas. 

The challenge of my poetry group for September first was to write a poem in the form of a ballad, and so I wrote about that memory. The judging is finished and I have learned that my ballad took second place. Here it is:

I was born at the end of it

but I’ve been told the tales,

of ruthless sun, of need for rain,

of cattle deaths and crops that failed.

My Grandma and her sisters wept

recalling want and pain

of others, but the four of them

still refused to complain.

“O sister, how them cows did bawl!”

They tried to meet their needs

but cows can’t live on seedless straw

or prickly thistle weeds.

And when the day grew dark as night

they hoped, they prayed, come rain!

But clouds of dust were blocking light.

Their hopes seemed all in vain.

They stuffed old rags in all the cracks

and still the dust prevailed.

Dirt and grit were everywhere.

Their greatest efforts failed.

Day after day relentless wind

howled over open plains

until a few hard-working men

lost heart and went insane.

When the wind died down, locusts swarmed

devouring all things green.

First the dust, then the locust plague

with no reprieve between.

Nineteen hundred and forty one

hard times came to an end.

How blessed were those whose faith held fast

and rain brought hope again!

Other stuff

I've decided to keep this blog mostly for my poetry, especially the contests.  I recently entered twelve poems in various contest, and will let you know how they fared in the competition.  Update:  I pretty well bombed out of the contests; I received one second honorable mention.  I am suitably humbled.

I've also published older poetry on another blog, http://www.gr8teful.wordpress.com/  You are invited to check me out there for a wider variety of writing--essays, photo-prompts and even a whole novel, although I can't figure out quite how to make it possible to begin reading at the first chapter. Pretty sad, I know.  Maybe one of my readers who is more skilled at blogging can help me out?

 I have published there an essay I wrote:  In Defense of Doubting Thomas.

Promise

Here's the cinquain I entered in the challenge for that poetry form.  This poem tied for third place.


Promise

Be still                                  

Hear him whisper

all you desire to know

about what is to come…just that

He’s there.

Cinquain Poetry

The challenge this month was to write a poem in the Cinquain form. I am posting five poems in this form.  I will wait until after the judging before posting the one I submitted.

Here they are:

Children

Children

are delightful

with their sweet innocence,

except, of course, when they are not

your own.

Light 

A lie

exposed to light

will fall apart and fail

but set you free when you embrace

the truth.

Last Service 

Take me

to the church house

and roll me to the front...

lift up the heavy lid and see

I’m gone.

Music

I think

my song might rise

to greater heights and win

fortune and fame if I could sing

on key.

The Truth 

Truth lives

inside a heart

given over to God

but can be quenched by unbelief

and die.

The People Free and Brave

A bugle sounding taps at close of day

sends echoes over time and noise of guns.

I hear the cries of mothers when they say

the wars must cease. We cannot lose more sons.

The soldier stops while trudging through the sands

to recognize a moment to respect

the flag he vowed to honor, for he stands

for you and me whom he swore to protect.

One hope remains: if we repent and pray

our God will hear and he may heal our land.

We’ll bare our souls; we’ll call on him today

and pledge ourselves to truth. Strike up the band!

     Salute our flag, and may she ever wave

     to symbolize a people free and brave.