Poetry Page

[Babi]

A Winter Myth Join Us! It's the Season for Winter Poetry Famous Poets and Poems about Winter Link to: Winter Poems Discussion Leaders: Barb & fairanna

The Miracle ~ Barbara Winkler Every gardener knows      that under the cloak of winter      lies a miracle ... A seed waiting to sprout, A bulb opening to the light, A bud straining to unfurl.   And the anticipation  Nurtures our dream.

Since we're speaking o' the Irish, here's one I like:

   Padraic Colum. 1881–
     An Old Woman of the Roads  
O, To have a little house!  
To own the hearth and stool and all!  
The heaped up sods upon the fire,  
The pile of turf against the wall!  
  
To have a clock with weights and chains          
And pendulum swinging up and down!  
A dresser filled with shining delph,  
Speckled and white and blue and brown!  
  
I could be busy all the day  
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,  
And fixing on their shelf again  
My white and blue and speckled store!  
  
I could be quiet there at night  
Beside the fire and by myself,  
Sure of a bed and loth to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!  
  
Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,  
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,  
And tired I am of bog and road,  
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!      
And I am praying to God on high,  
And I am praying Him night and day,  
For a little house—a house of my own—  
Out of the wind's and the rain's way.    

[BarbStAubrey]

Babi  poignant - reminds me of the song in My Fair Lady - "All I want is a room somewhere far away from the cold night air."

Found it...

t's rather dull in town, I think I'll take me to Paree.
Mmmmmm.
The mistress wants to open up
The castle in Capri.
Me doctor recommends a quiet summer by the sea!
Mmmm, Mmmm, wouldn't it be loverly?

All I want is a room somewhere,
Far away from the cold night air.
With one enormous chair,
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?
Lots of choc'lates for me to eat,
Lots of coal makin' lots of 'eat.
Warm face, warm 'ands, warm feet,
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?
Aow, so loverly sittin' abso-bloomin'-lutely still.
I would never budge 'till spring
Crept over me windowsill.
Someone's 'ead restin' on my knee,
Warm an' tender as 'e can be. 'ho takes good care of me,
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?
Loverly, loverly, loverly, loverly

 

[Babi]

 Ah, I did love that song.  The whole movie is one of my all-time favorites.  I think the thing that
I hate most about losing my hearing is all the fabulous new voices that have come up in the last
few years that I can't enjoy.   An interesting thing I've discovered, tho', is that I know when
people are speaking with an accent just from the shape of their lips in forming the words. It
does add to my enjoyment of shows like "Downton Abbey" and "Lark Rise to Candleford".  I
can 'hear', so to speak, the British accents.

[roshanarose]

Babi - A useful skill you have.  They say that if one "sense" is not so sharpened, another will compensate for it.  I am as blind as a bat and have been since age 16, but my sense of smell is more acute than most.  This can often be a blessing or a curse.

[BarbStAubrey]

    

The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is
to see something and tell what it saw in a plain way.
Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think,
but thousands can think for one who can see.

To see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion, all in one.
      
   ~ John Ruskin, English critic, essayist, & reformer (1819 - 1900)

The real voyage of discovery consists of not in seeking
new landscapes but in having new eyes.

 ~  Marcel Proust

[Babi]

 I didn't know that, ROSHANA. How do you manage to participate
in these on-line conversations? And yes, I can think of a number
of situations where an acute sense of smell could be most
unpleasant. May you be surrounded with fragrant blossoms and the
aromas of roasting coffee and baking bread!

 

To see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion, all in one.

  The more I think about that line, the more profound it seems.

[BarbStAubrey]

Water so Deep and Profound
 
Water so sinuous and devious,
And as mystifying as you.
Water is always hiding its true self,
Never in one form.
Water can be the shimmer,
Reflecting off the light of the pond,
Making the pond seem magnificent.
Water can be the rushing sound,
As it escapes the secretive pond,
And runes down into the vast ocean,
Seeking adventure and unfound dreams.
Water can be the feeling of calmness,
As it sits there, overlooking the pond,
With wonder and seeing how it made it what it is.
Water so supple and wondrous,
The pond is born from the water.
Water so deep and profound,
Just like you,
The pond so incomplete without water,
Just like your family.

[BarbStAubrey]

A Dream Within A Dream
          ~ by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

[BarbStAubrey]

From Spring Days To Winter (For Music)
          ~ Oscar Wilde

In the glad springtime when leaves were green,
O merrily the throstle sings!
I sought, amid the tangled sheen,
Love whom mine eyes had never seen,
O the glad dove has golden wings!

Between the blossoms red and white,
O merrily the throstle sings!
My love first came into my sight,
O perfect vision of delight,
O the glad dove has golden wings!

The yellow apples glowed like fire,
O merrily the throstle sings!
O Love too great for lip or lyre,
Blown rose of love and of desire,
O the glad dove has golden wings!

But now with snow the tree is grey,
Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!
My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,
See at her silent feet I lay
A dove with broken wings!
Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain--
Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!

[BarbStAubrey]

Shakespeare Sonnet XV

When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

[Babi]

 Ah, BARB, you seem in a somewhat despondent mood today. Poe,
Wilde, and one of Shakespeare's gloomier passages. Reflections on
decay and loss.  I must insert an antidote.

~A SYMPHONIC ZEPHYR~

I tried to catch the wind,
But it blew away from me,
And flew into some wind chimes
To play a symphony.
The music was uplifting.
The trees all raised their heads.
The flowers did a waltz in their autumn beds.
I zipped up my jacket when this zephyr danced with me.
If I owned a sailboat, I would take her out to sea.

[roshanarose]

Babi and Barb - Beautiful poems all. 

Thank you for that blessing, babi.  Back at you

[BarbStAubrey]

Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind
          ~ William Shakespeare   

Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As a friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

[BarbStAubrey]

January
          ~   Cornelius Webb

      COLD January comes in Winter's car,
      Thick hung with icicles--its heavy wheels
      Cumbered with clogging snow, which cracks and peels
      With its least motion or concussive jar
      'Gainst hard hid ruts, or hewn trees buried far
      In the heaped whiteness which awhile conceals
      The green and pastoral earth. Old Christmas feels,--
      That well-fed and wine-reeling wassailer,--
      With all his feasts and fires, feels cold and shivers,
      And the red runnel of his indolent blood
      Creeps slow and curdled as a northern flood.
      And lakes and winter-rills, impetuous rivers
      And headlong cataracts, are in silence bound,
      Like trammelled tigers lashed to th'unyielding ground.

       

[BarbStAubrey]

Desert Rainstorm
          ~ She Whispers

I listen to the sky with the vision
chambers of my ears
 
The ritual misty canyons and mesa's
welcome the dawn with emptyness
and with cold rain incantation
 
More offerings against a empty sky
my eyes see through the lightning
 rain crashing and the deep
rolling thunder that echos 

I can feel the ritual rumble...
as it leaves my rainy world
   as it plunges through the darkness

 I can almost see the dawning light
starting my new life alone
but I am not afraid .....

[BarbStAubrey]

Winter Rain
          ~ by Lorri Proctor
 
Rain beating on the ground.
Swift eddies flowing into gutters;
Sticks swirling in the grey mud flow.
Hasty umbrellas pop up like mushrooms in the air.
 
Girl slumped upon the ground;
The thin, the creeping rain
soaking her trembling, shivering body.
Sad girl leaning against the shop window.
Lights hurt-bright and goods all shapes and colours
glitter behind her to tempt the passers-by.
They stop a fleeting, captured moment, then move on.
But she, sad, weeping girl, ignored.
 
Relentless stream of people; a stream
Casting humanity aside like flotsam
Cast up on a bank.
In winter rain.
 

[BarbStAubrey]

Winter Time
          ~ by Robert Louis Stevenson

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding cake.

[Babi]

 Ooh, all these wintry poems have me hugging myself for warmth.  I
need a poem about a cozy fireplace,  I think.

 “Home is where the hearth is” - Author Unknown

The Hearth am I...the deep heart
of the dwelling.
A pleasant nook for ease
and storytelling,
Where friendship’s flame shall find
a glad renewal
While mirth and kindly chat supply
the fuel.

[BarbStAubrey]

We are just a few days away from Robbie Burns nicht - here are some sites that can get us into the glory of the man and his work...

 A new Burns museum in Scotland...
http://www.burnsmuseum.org.uk/

http://www.bbc.co.uk/robertburns/

Robert Burns Poems
http://www.worldburnsclub.com/poems/translations/index.htm

All about the traditional Burns Supper
http://www.scotland.org/culture/festivals/burns-night/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burns_supper
http://www.worldburnsclub.com/supper/burns_supper_intro.htm

[BarbStAubrey]

Oh my - from Burns to Petrarch

During the 1300's, before card stores and chocolate manufacturers conspired to commercialize the true spirit of love, passion, and romance, Francesco Petrarca literally wrote the book on infatuation. The collection of Italian verses, Rime in vita e morta di Madonna Laura (after 1327), translated into English as Petrarch's Sonnets, were inspired by Petrarch's unrequited passion for Laura (probably Laure de Noves), a young woman Petrarca first saw in church.

   It was the day the sun's ray had turned pale
with pity for the suffering of his Maker
when I was caught, and I put up no fight,
my lady, for your lovely eyes had bound me.

It seemed no time to be on guard against
Love's blows; therefore, I went my way
secure and fearless-so, all my misfortunes
began in midst of universal woe.

Love found me all disarmed and found the way
was clear to reach my heart down through the eyes
which have become the halls and doors of tears.

It seems to me it did him little honour
to wound me with his arrow in my state
and to you, armed, not show his bow at all.

[Babi]

I've never heard of a 'Robbie Burns nicht',BARB. when and what
is that?  Whatever it is, I'll love the excuse to plunge into
Burns and his lovely Scots brogue.

  I like Petrarch's image of the eyes as the 'halls and doors' of tears.
 I especially liked those closing lines:
   It seems to me it did him little honour
to wound me with his arrow in my state
  That speaks for so many vulnerable souls.

[BarbStAubrey]

"Storm"
          ~ by Robert Pack

Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
The surge of swirling wind defines
As if your human shape were what the storm
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.

 

"Midwinter Thaw"
          ~ by Robert Pack

Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
This third day of our January thaw,
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Merely a mockery of spring
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
In search of brighter green to come. No way!

[Gumtree]

Today just happens to be Australia Day - so here's a poem for you -

Australia Day poems verses -poetry verse #2


This is an old land
For ever nurtured and nourished
by the spirit of the Rainbow Serpent.
The land of the Darug people,
Of the Darginung and the Dharawal,
The Gundungurra and the Guringai.

An old land.

This is the new land of the convict and the refugee,
Of the European settler,
Of the Asian and the African,
The American and the Islander.
It is the golden hope-filled land.

A hope-filled land?

This is the silent sun-baked land
Of the gibber plain and granite outcrop
Of the waterhole and the rain forest
Of native title and pastoral lease
Of skyscraper and empty reservoir.

A golden land?

This is a land battered and blackened by bush fire
But look! a land of grass trees green-shooting
in the still dark-smouldering ashes;
Of wildflowers in the sun-heat-blighted desert
And of cities glistened smog-free by an autumn wind.

A sacred land!

This is the Dreaming land, the land of spirit ancestors
Of campfire and corroboree, of rock art and cave painting
A land of mosque and temple, of prayer book and philosophy text
A land of tribal elders and politicians.

And how slowly we have learnt, 60,000 years slowly, how to live with this land
And how slowly we have learnt, 200 years slowly, not to abuse this land
And how slowly we are learning, day-by-day slowly, how to share this land.

We who are black of skin, and white and brown and yellow
And sunburnt pink
Native and newcomer
Blue-eyed and brown-eyed and black-haired and fair-haired

We will live in harmony in this land
Because this is the Land of the Rainbow Serpent
And we are the Rainbow People.


©RAF 26.01.2007

[Babi]

 Reading Robert Pack's "Storm", I'm afraid it conjured a most irreverent image. I am trying
to imagine his lady(?)'s 'ghostly form' in the shape of a snow-covered pine tree. Hardly
an inspiring picture.

 Lovely, GUM. It is the phrase "Dreaming land", the land of aboriginal dreamers who followed
the old paths, that appeals to me most. I love to read about the dreaming and the spirit
ancestors.

[roshanarose]

Gum - A Beautiful poem indeed.  Even a cynical old duck like me was moved to tears while watching a rather special Australia Day.  I know that you will understand what I mean.

[BarbStAubrey]

Ah so Australia Day celebrates the day when the first fleet entered Sidney Harbor - considered the day Australia was founded - I guess as we celebrated Columbus Day - was not aware of this holiday -  are there special things you most often do on this day - I bet any celebration is on hold in the area where the floods have rampaged. -  The poem is stirring and is filled with great affection for the land - the place - so glad  you shared this with us -

I am supposed to meet a friend for lunch and I am so tired today after having worked so hard  yesterday  only to have her fade in the midst of a 'horse race'  with  5 offers on the same property - she was so close and then lost courage listening to those who  had no stake in the outcome - too bad but I am worn out playing cheerleader while trying to arrange what was needed. I would love to go back to bed for awhile and then spend the rest of the day behind a good book - ah so at least my friend is easy to be with.

Babi that form confused me as well - I thought he was talking about a house - onward there are so many poets...

[Gumtree]

Roshanarose : Yes, a very emotional Australia Day for me too. Quentin Bryce almost always moves me to tears.

Babi :  the dreamtime gets to anyone who loves this land. It's so quintessentially Australian.

Barbara : Yes, we celebrate the arrival of the First Fleet in 1788 but so much more as well. I think we look to where we've come from, where we are and where we hope to be in the future. It's a day for naturalisation and citizenship ceremonies, awards and honours but also for picnics and parades, fun, family and fireworks. This year was especially poignant in the light of the recent and current flooding.

[JoanK]

Just coming back after a week of being without a compuiter. So I had no idea that Rose and family were in the midst of the floods. I'm so glad everyone is allright.

I've been staying up at night watching the Australian Open, and saw something of the Australia day celebrations in Melbourne. I will miss the pictures of Australia when it's over (although I will get more sleep).

[BarbStAubrey]

Glad  you are back on-line Joan - amazing how we are so dependent on the internet that is what only maybe 14 or 15 years old if that...

Swan
          ~ by Mary Oliver

Did you too see it, drifting, all night on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air,
an armful of white blossoms,
a perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings: a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
a shrill dark music, like the rain pelting the trees, like a waterfall
knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds—
a white cross streaming across the sky, its feet
like black leaves, its wings like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

[Babi]

 Do let me add to the poem of the swan this one about the loon.

    The Laughter Of The Loon
by Nancy Ness
The secrets of remote lagoon
From morning's blush of dawn,
Till rise of eve's nocturnal moon
Sung by her eerie song.

Such wonderment from wint'ry surd,
Soliloquy's mere tune.
Grand jubilance in summer's heard -
Uncommon sounds the loon.

Bespeckled pinions, grace in flight,
Resplendent is her plume.
Bemusing splash to see her light
Cavort about the flume.

Her serenade's a proud regale,
A songbird so unique.
How wondrous her falsetto wail
Reechoing mystique.

I'll not divulge the secret song
Of this remote lagoon.
I'd rather hearken years along
The laughter of the loon.

[roshanarose]

JoanK - Thanks for your thoughts.  The floods have cut a swathe through the Eastern States of Australia, i.e. Queensland, New South Wales and Victoria.  Even though there were many warnings, the people of Queensland really had no idea of what was to befall them.  I phoned my daughter's house the day before the maelstrom and was incredulous when my SIL told me that they were "going to go under".  It seemed to me he was in panic mode unnecessarily.  It turned out he was not.  Considerable damage was done to my daughter's home = many dollars as the home is not insured against flood damage.  Two weeks after the disaster their pool is still filled with sludge.  We don't grumble about it however, as many people lost everything as the flood waters consumed their homes and some lost their lives.  The community support has been truly incredible.  Volunteers walking the streets with shovels, wheelbarrows and even bobcats ready, willing and able for when and where they may be needed.  The pollies and powers that be expect that it will take at least 12 months (some say more) before things return to some kind of normalcy.  As for me - if I hadn't heard what was happening via the news I would not have known there was a flood at all.  The only way it impacted on my life was that I was not able to get to see my daughter for some time as the roads were closed.  Such is the fickle nature of Nature.

[BarbStAubrey]

long...but too perfect not to share!

A Possum Entering the Argument
          ~by Tom Healy

We’re talking about
when we met
and you say

it was easier
to fall for me thinking
(I’ll remember

this pause)
it was likely I’d be
dead by now.

Talking. Falling.
Thinking. Waiting . . .
Have I

undone
what you’ve tried to do?
You say no.

You say the surprise
of still being
is something

being built—
the machine of our living,
this saltwork of luck,

stylish, safe,
comfortable and
unintended.

Meanwhile, I haven’t
had the opportunity
to tell you, but

our lovely little dog
has just killed
a possum.

Maybe it’s unfair,
a possum entering
the argument here.

But I lay it down
before us:
because an ugly

dying  possum
played dead
and didn’t run,

its dubious cunning
was brought to an end
outside our door

by our brutal, beautiful
and very pleased
little dog.

So how do I say
that this is not
about death or sadness

or even whether
you really
first loved me

waiting, thinking
I’d be
dying young?

It’s just that
standing there
a few minutes ago

holding a dead possum
by its repellent
bony tail,

I was struck by how
eerily pleased I was
to be a spectator

to teeth, spit,
agony and claw,
feeling full of purpose,

thinking how different
in our adversaries
we are from possums.

We try love—
the fist of words,
their opening hand.

And whether we play
dead or alive,
our pain, the slow

circulation of happiness,
our salt and work,
the stubborn questions

we endlessly
give names to
haunt us with choice

[BarbStAubrey]

1912.
             ~ By Boris Pasternak. Translated by Alex Miller.

February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.

Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.

To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.

Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out.

[BarbStAubrey]

February Twilight
          ~ Sara Teasdale
 
     I stood beside a hill
Smooth with new-laid snow,
A single star looked out
From the cold evening glow.

There was no other creature
That saw what I could see--
I stood and watched the evening star
As long as it watched me.

[BarbStAubrey]

Picture Books in Winter
          ~ by Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer fading, winter comes--
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story-books.

Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon;
Still we find the flowing brooks
In the picture story-books.

All the pretty things put by,
Wait upon the children's eye,
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,
In the picture story-books.

We may see how all things are
Seas and cities, near and far,
And the flying fairies' looks,
In the picture story-books.

How am I to sing your praise,
Happy chimney-corner days,
Sitting safe in nursery nooks,
Reading picture story-books?

[BarbStAubrey]

Laughing Mary
          ~ by John O'Brien, written in 1910

With cheeks that paled the rosy morn
 She bounded o'er the heather,
And romped with us among the corn
 When we were kids together.
Her mother's help, her mother's mate.
 Her mother's darling daughter,
When riper mind and more sedate
 The rapid years had brought her.
As pure as air from mountain snows,
 As dainty as a fairy,
As fetching as the native rose,
 And always-Laughing Mary.

A little mother round about,
 The happy sunshine bringing-
You'd see her bustle in and out,
 A-working and a-singing;
And then the soul of Casey's place,
 The love, the light, the laughter.
When friendship showed its cheery face,
 And music shook the rafter;
And many a lad went home to find
 A haunting sweet vagary
Was rambling softly through his mind
 Because of Laughing Mary.

But when the smiling stars were blurred,
 And someone's heart was bleeding,
She flew as flies the homing bird,
 With balms of comfort speeding.
An angel in a sweet disguise,
 She filled the measure over,
While tears stood sparkling in her eyes
 Like rain-drops on the clover;
And many a head bowed low to pray,
 Howe'er her skies might vary,
The years would bless her on her way
 And keep her Laughing Mary.

[Babi]

 I liked the Stephenson child's poem.  I haven't read that one before.
And I loved 'Laughing Mary'.

[bellemere]

Thanks to all for making this nightmare day of snow and wind more bearable. Barb and Babi, such wonderful creations.  The Australia Day poem was fabulous.  Please accept the following amateur effort: February to us means our vacation in a little Mexican town, where I always ask this lady to make me something.

Homage to a Costatura

 Brilliant garments  swirl and flash   above the  crannied shop,
The banners  of her life’s  crusade, magenta, purple,  lime ;
 Below,  a graying head above  a dream  machine,
Faithfully  stitching  seam to seam, stitching the future to the present,
Stitching love to labor, dream to reality, a university to a daughter.

[bellemere]

The New Yorker Book of Humorous Writing has some "recently discovered letters to Santa"
This one seems appropriate:

Dear Santa,
     I hope you can find the way to our house.  Most people take the wrong road.  You will be tired after traveling all those miles, but then you will be able to get a good night's sleep.
                                                                                                           Bobby Frost

[BarbStAubrey]

bellemere where in Mexico do you winter? Don't  you just love the riot of color and your poem brings that out - a delightful picture comes to mind while reading your poem - thanks.