The moon – haiku – the season of goodwill – pictures – my Christmas poems.

Out of the darkness
comes moonlight and reflection
time to care and share

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The Santa Special train

My train to Pulborough to meet up with Mandy Pannet and other wonderful poets was cancelled at the last minute. In my haste I got on a Santa Special!

Luckily managed to change at Three Bridges by which time dozens of excited children had been singing ”Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer!’ As I got off  a tiny Santa helper gave me a packet of love hearts! Yay!

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I had a really beautiful present from my middle grandson who now lives in Japan (keeping it a secret) but included this tiny origami swan.

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My grandson had been invited to a Japanese wedding by a friend, which was an honour in itself. Apparentely the brides grandmother had made over 300 tiny origami swans, little more than the size of a thumb nail that were used like confetti. How special is that!

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Christmas poems –

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When I think about Christmas paper chains still come to mind. I notice they have started selling kits to make them in Brighton. But they were only strips of coloured paper made into a long garland. I haven’t got any new Christmas poems so repeating two that I have published in the past.

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Paper Chain

Snow falls like flakes of memory
tucked under a warm blanket

cheeks pinched with cold
the window a filigree frost

rough sawn logs stacked in the grate
a comforting casserole in the oven

the smell of honeyed baked apples
stuffed with raisins

‘Gales in the Hebrides, snow expected
to continue in the Highlands’

Mr Crick the newsagent hanging a single
dusty paper chain in his window

Busy sparrows in a flurry of snow
spinning on the bird feeder

Mrs Kettle in her cottage with her goat
and cat huddle together to keep warm

The letter  ‘We are sorry your great
aunt died two months ago.

We are sure she would
have liked your letter returned herein.’

Another old favourite has to be Allsorts.

Allsorts

Everyone helped on Christmas eve, the children in the living room
trusted to make neat crosses on sprouts bottoms,
peel potatoes and prod the hot chestnuts

We’d laugh at my mother’s story of corn beef roast during the war.
Now a few years on it was a roast chicken killed by Grandma
out in the garden and hung in the scullery for two days

Grandpa staggered up the hill from the underground at eight
with apples, pears and nuts from our greengrocers in Goodge Street,
gifts from fellow shop keepers, glace fruits being our absolute favourite

Grandmother insisted all through the war there would be no unofficial dealings
her Methodist beliefs could not sanction anything dishonourable.
“Pity”, said Uncle Jack in later years, “we could have had butter, eggs, all sorts.”

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