The Christmas

Soft, relieved-of-suffering face.
Smooth and shining so gentle.
Looking with reflective eyes,
Weary in body, but spirit still full.
A miracle, a mother, Mary.

Joseph, concerned, sweat-beaded brow,
With love-mellowed wondering eyes,
And attentive manner,
Watching his Mary, a mother.

A miracle, a miracle birth.
Baby born with crumpled, red face,
Moist hair.
New life noises from his fresh, air-filled lungs.

Jesus, this babe, Prince of Peace.
And angels shout, hosannahs at His coming to be Savior.
Healing hands touch blinded eyes,
Darkened spirits, to cleanse sin-weary souls.

Son of the Most High God, diety,
Powerful in virtue,
Able to overcome death,
Command all things.

Master, a loving, forgiving, atoning Master.

Christ pure and clean to give us life.
A miracle, a mother,
This Lord and King,

Baby Jesus.

The Secret of Christmas

It's not the glow you feel when snow appears,
It's not the Christmas card you've sent for years,
Not the joyful sound when sleigh bells ring,
Or the merry songs children sing.
The little things you do on Christmas Day
Will not bring back the friend you've turned away.
So may I suggest the secret of Christmas
Is not the things you do at Christmas time,
But the little things you do all year through.

Edgar Allen Poe

Edgar Allan Poe
1809–1849
Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts, and raised in Richmond, Virginia, by a foster family. In his poetry and fiction, Poe explored the dark inner workings of the mind. He is credited with being a forerunner of horror fiction and of the short story as a literary form. After years of depression and alcoholism, Poe died mysteriously at age 40.
From the poetryfoundation.org

Annabel Lee
By Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

After Apple Picking

by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still.
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.
I cannot shake the shimmer from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the water-trough,
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and reappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
And I keep hearing from the cellar-bin
That rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking; I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall,
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised, or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

A Halloween Poem

Jack-o-lantern smiling bright

Witches flying in the night
Ghosts and goblins, cats and bats
Witches with their funny hats
A full moon can't be beat
As we go out to Trick or Treat

F.A.T.H.E.R.S.

"F" aithful.
"A" lways there.
"T" rustworthy.
"H" onoring.
"E" ver-loving.
"R" ighteous.
"S" upportive.
-Author Unknown

Gifts

What shall we give the children?
Christmas is almost here.
Toys and games and playthings,
As we do every year?

Yes, for the magic of toyland,
Is part of the Yuletide lore
To gladden the heart of childhood,
But I shall give something more.

I shall give them more patience,
A more sympathetic ear,
A little more time for laughter,
Or tenderly dry a tear.

I shall take time to teach them
The joy of doing some task,
I'll try to find time to answer
More of the questions they ask.

Time to read books together,
And to take long walks in the sun,
Time for the bedtime story
After the day is done.

I shall give these to my children,
Weaving a closer tie.
Knitting our lives together
With gifts that money can't buy.

-Richardson-

An Errand of Duty

By Sara Erickson
As the wind slowly blew the leaves up the street towards the place where I was to meet, an old friend that lived his life to its end with nothing but a spirits worry to lend. He glided along the street where no one was out. Only I had the gift to see him about. His eyes with no life searching for me, I knew it was his turn to be. It was only us two that could share this body’s will. I slipped myself out and left the body still. The trees were the only witnesses in their watchful way, as the other slipped on its clothes for the day, leaving me with nothing but an eye, to see people passing lively by.

The task in life that the old witch left us, was kind enough to leave us this much, a shabby old man with his clothes dangling white, with elephant wrinkles that were a sight. His only tooth was brushed with care, that glistened with his greasy hair.

Our duty was to find the silver spoon. The only one that sings the noble tune. The tune that makes the bright sun to rise, with harmony that not one could despise. With the respected body getting old and weak we have finally reached a clue to speak. In overhearing a town person’s talk of the rose garden with gigantic stalks, lays a spoon of a silver shining, but he could not pick it up, not even slightly. There was power sensed as he grew near. He didn’t get too close because of his fear. He ran as far as he could to leave it’s presence, for not all spoons were with that sense.
The excitement my friend and I had pushed us to go onward and be glad. We could only run to this garden of sweet roses. In no time we reached it as it enlightened our noses. We had no problem grabbing the wondrous spoon, the hard part was getting to the witch soon. Will this old man help us finish our task? Or will he wither away, dare I ask?

The life long journey is coming to a close, for we had found the spoon next to a rose. My partner shall be the great one to head toward the light of the sun, where the witch lives at the highest peak, of the tallest mountain by the glittering creek.

My friend had the impossible to climb, and I could do nothing but be a guide. The excitement was driving me on, but for the old man he was almost gone. “Grab a shrub and pull some more, Only a few more feet to her door.” With the spirit’s will in his eye gave strength to the body to reach the sky. The night swooped in and came my turn, we switched places and I right then learned that climbing this mountain was harder than thought, but with the other urging me on, I couldn’t stop.

As I reached the door in weariness, the witch received me with happiness. The spoon she took with tumbling delight and set it with the singing fork and knife. The trio sang a breath taking song, and the body that I had belong, withered away with honors and gratitude. It had done its purpose just to us few. It left my friend and I ever so free, to continue our spirit life to every degree.

My Dad

When I was just a tiny kid,
Do you remember when,
The time you kissed my bruises,
Or cleaned by soiled chin?

You scrambled for the balls I hit,
(Short-winded more than not,)
Yet, every time we'd play a game,
You praised the "outs" I caught.

It seems like only yesterday,
You wiped away my tears,
And late at night I called your name,
To chase away my fears.

Though time has changed your handsome grip,
Your hair is snowy white,
You gait's a little slower now,
Thick glasses help your sight.

Oh, do I thirst for years gone by,
To be that growing lad,
Re-living all of the memories,
Of growing with my dad.
(by: Anonymous)

How The Great Guest Came

By Edwin Markham
Before the cathedral in grandeur rose
At Ingleburg where the Danube goes;
Before its forest of silver spires
Went airily up to the clouds and fires;
Before the oak had ready a beam,
While yet the arch was stone and dream-
There where the altar was later laid,
Conrad, the cobbler, plied his trade.
* * *
It happened one day at the year’s white end-
Two neighbors called on their old-time friend;
And they found the shop, so meager and mean,
Made gay with a hundred boughs of green.
Conrad was stitching with face ashine,
But suddenly stopped as he twitched a twine;
“Old friends, good news! At dawn today;
As the cocks were scaring the night away,
The Lord appeared in a dream to me,
And said, ‘I am coming your Guest to be!’
So I’ve been busy with feet astir
Strewing the floor with branches of fir.
The wall is washed and the shelf is shined,
And over the rafter the holly twined.
He comes today, and the table is spread
With milk and honey and wheaten bread.”

His friends went home; and his face grew still
As he watched for the shadow across the sill.
He lived all the moments o’re and o’re,
When the Lord should enter the lowly door-
The knock, the call, the latch pulled up,
The lighted face, the offered cup.
He would wash the feet where the spikes had been,
He would kiss the hands where the nails went in,
And then at the last would sit with Him
And break the bread as the day grew dim.

While the cobbler mused there passed his pane
A beggar drenched by the driving rain.
He called him in from the stony street
And gave him shoes for his bruised feet.
The beggar went and there came a crone,
Her face with wrinkles of sorrow sown.
A bundle of fagots bowed her back,
And she was spent with the wrench and rack.
He gave her his loaf and steadied her load
As she took her way on the weary road.
Then to his door came a little child,
Lost and afraid in the world so wild,
In the big, dark world. Catching it up,
He gave it the milk in the waiting cup,
And led it home to its mother’s arms,
Out of the reach of the world’s alarm.

The day went down in the crimson west
And with it the hope of the blessed Guest,
And Conrad sighed as the world turned gray:
“Why is it, Lord, that your feet delay?
Did you forget that this was the day?”
Then soft in the silence a Voice he heard:
“Lift up your heart, for I kept my word.
Three times I came to your friendly door;
Three times my shadow was on your floor.
I was the beggar with bruised feet;
I was the woman you gave to eat;
I was the child on the homeless street!”

Halloween Poetry

Haunted House

by Jack Prelutsky

There's a house upon the hilltop

We will not go inside

For that is where the witches live,

Where ghosts and goblins hide.

Tonight they have their party,

All the lights are burning bright,

But oh we will not go inside

The haunted house tonight.

The demons there are whirling

And the spirits swirl about.

They sing their songs to Halloween.

"Come join the fun," they shout.

But we do not want to go there

So we run with all our might

And oh we will not go inside

The haunted house tonight.