8th December
… and this is the Austrian way to go Christmas
Shopping!
A Christmas tree! A Christmas tree!
With dark green needled memories
Of childhood dreams and mysteries
Wrapped present-like in front of me.
7th December
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
6th December
Every day is Christmas
When you have the kind of mind,
That stores up all the goodness
And the sweetness it can find.
When you don't need an occasion,
To spread a bit of cheer,
But just keep on a-giving,
Of yourself throughout the year.
Every day is Christmas,
With a daily wrapped surprise,
When you've learned
To see the friendship,
In someone else's eyes.
When you try a little harder,
And complain a little less,
Holding fast to all the favor
Of the faith that you possess.
Every day is Christmas,
When you've found that you can be
More concerned with words like "you"
And less with "I" and "me".
When it's fun to do a favor,
And to lend a helping a hand,
When being understood means less,
Than when you understand.
Every day is Christmas,
With a beauty deeply cast,
When you find it doesn't matter,
If you're first or if you're last.
When you can face your conscience,
And be glad of what you are,
Then every day is Christmas,
With a stable and a star.
5th December 2013
I'm waiting, waiting, waiting,
For Christmas to come.
It won't be very much longer
And we'll have lots of fun!
4th December 2013
Up the hill we climb
The old sled in tow
Snow flakes pepper my coat
As up the hill we go
Leaving footprints in the snow
They remind us where we've been
The trees have shed their leaves
No secrets to hide within
We stop at the top
Set ourselves to go
With a push of our feet
We're zooming over the snow
Past the footsteps laid
Past a path not yet worn
Veering left
Veering right
Hands covered in mittens
Frost bitten nose
Flying high
Adrenaline pumps wild in my veins
Over bumps
And spots of ice
When we stop
We really just make room
To start again
(Kelsi Brockway)
3rd December 2014
"Waiting For the Snow to Fall"
2nd December 2013
There is something old and beautiful
about the great dog men of the Snow,
cussed, crafty as they are
about their tricks of trade.
Trickery is for them serious business
sacred to the dog god as to the wolf god,
confessed, years later, in mock-serious tones,
slow smiles spreading among granite faces.
Young and fierce, they kept the silence
of snow, the blood-oathes of black cold.
Their hands are scarred like fishermen´s or farmers.
They´ll trust a good dog before a good man
and a good woman before either.
They share the broke bones and blood sagas
of bull riders. What saved them was a dog
or their wits, or some goddamned good luck.
What you feel, even if you´re not one of them,
is flint and fire, laughter out of cold stars
Michael Jennings, Author, Poet, Breeder and Judg NY USA
1st December 2014
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