The Possibility Tree

THE POSSIBILITY TREE

There is a tree somewhere

Hung with all the ornaments

That pre- or post- trimming

Were broken

Crushed underfoot.

Sprung loose from the wire

Batted around by the cat

Lying in pieces in the box.

We gave up on these ornaments

Scooped them up

Tossed them

Vacuumed well

Maybe shed a private tear

Fussed at a careless child

Shopped E-Bay for replacements.

I believe that someone

Call him Santa’s Super-Glue-Man

Busily repairs all the broken ornaments

With the brightest metallic glue

Silver, gold, copper

Just imagine this tree

Lights reflected in jagged glue lines

Some say the repairs

More beautiful than

The ornament all by itself.

I have for you the top entries

In a contest to name this tree;

Tree of Lost Causes

The Reunion Tree

Tree of Many Crackpots

The Tree that Zigged and Zagged.

You, my dearest friends

Get to choose a name

Or make one up

That might create

A private holiday space

Where all our repairs

Don’t seem quite so impossible.

Happy Holidays

Wherever you are

However you celebrate.

By: Mary L. Barnard 

12/1/2010

Poem: Christmas on the Farm, 1955

Christmas on the Farm, 1955


Leaden skies turn into spitting rain.
Daddy stokes the fire and grins.
Got the day off.
Get to eat my fill.

By Judith Stanton                                                           

12/18/10                                                                        

Poem: Gold LIght IV

GOLD LIGHT IV


"Unto us a child is born..."

Every ordinary human birth, a miracle,
that out of the full womb comes this
head of hair the mother's pangs and
wrinkled brow have birthed. That little
cry, the mother's arms reaching, her shift
from agony to joy, from seeking comfort
as she clings to the hands of husband and
mother, to comforting her baby, quickly
wrapped to lie upon her breast:
"Oh, Bobby, it's okay. We love you, Bobby."
The human greediness for love, there
from the beginning. All our lives we fight
to know that we are loved, and then,
once reassured, we turn to pour our
blessings and affection on young and old
alike.
The cold clear air of December, the sun
alive in the sky light. The carved Russian
goose, suspended, its wings spread
for flight, moves slowly. Outside the pines
wave their brushes, the dead grasses stir,
the last ragged brown leaves of the oak
dance.
Our child arrived safely. Wrapped in his
blanket, he turns his head toward food,
mouth open, seeking his first experience of love:
to be fed, to be held and warmed.
I celebrate birth
at Christmas, the Nazarene's, who shaped
our centuries, our laws and sense of justice,
our wars for equality and liberty, our value
for each person, no matter his race or religion,
his clothes or income level, his education or
background-poor or luxurious.
I also celebrate
the turning of the sun back toward our planet,
the saving leap of the goat in Capricorn.
And the sun that warms us and keeps green
life even when the earth is frozen, the air
chill with hoarfrost.
We live and try to love,
and when we fail, we are forgiven. We wait for
the coming of love, its reckless strewing of the
flowers of spring, its Madonna of the Earth in
her red robes, the blissful dance of the goddesses
in their Grecian gowns. Hades must surrender
the bride he stole away, and Paris has not yet
started the Trojan War, a blissful moment
when Spring arrives mid-winter.

By: Judy Hogan                                                    

12/4/10                                                               

Mary['s Secret

MARY’S SECRET

mother of wisdom

more strong than weak, more bold than meek,

she knew she was worthy

MARY PONDERED

Voices of custom and convenience

had no hold over her.

She listened to angels.

GOLD, FRANKINCENSE AND HER

three Wise Women arrive

see the Light of who you are

bear gifts for your journey

By Sharon Blessum

12/3/10

Christmas poem 12/01

A Christmas Lament

An old, old story that has been oft retold.

Of a special time, of a night still and cold.

A new-born infant, and where does he lay

But out in a stable, in a manger of hay.

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Calm and serene the dear Mother lay there

Hearing the sounds in the cold, night air.

Of shepherds and wise men coming to see

This special new baby, this Savior to be.

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Each year at this time, we retell this story

How Angels were singing, in splendor and glory.

And like them our loud hosannas we raise

And fill our churches with music and praise.

But then immediately head back to the store

To buy and buy, to get more and more.

Until sometimes we really don’t know

Just how much we have, for it's all just for show.

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Perhaps it's just me, but I don't understand

The hustle and bustle that's all through our land.

Forget the baby, for that's long gone by

The important thing now is how much can we buy.

An old, old story that has been oft retold.

Of a special time, of a night still and cold.

But don't ask of us where does he lay

For we no longer know. We have lost the way.

By: Al Manning            

12/1/10