Christmas Poem by Frances Ridley

I am delighted to publish this poem by Frances Ridley, a fairly new member of our Stanza group. This poem was written as a result of my workshop on writing Christmas poems suitable to send to friends. We looked at some of U.A Fanthorpe’s, and the Candlestick Press’ lovely Christmas pamphlets, then wrote our own poems.

 

20171211_145907.jpgA Christmas Spell

 

Mistletoe and warm mince pies,

Evenings sitting round the fire,

Ringing bells and jingling sleighs,

Robins brighten winter days:

Yes, it’s Christmas time again!

 

Carols sung by candlelight

Herald happy holidays;

Red and green, the holly wreath

Invites our friends and family in.

Sparkling lights and tinsel shine,

Twisted round the tree’s rough boughs;

Merry children laugh and shout

And merry adults drink mulled wine.

So have yourself a starlit

 

Merry Christmas!

Advertisements

Poem by Maureen Weldon

CHRISTMAS, AND THE RUSH HOUR

 

 

The bus I am sitting in has a full belly.

Bursting thoughts float like ghosts.

 

The man next to me nods in his book

a bottle peeps from his jacket.

 

Ruffled mother, pram-deep in plastic bags

and rolls of Christmas paper

gives her baby some sticky drink.

Hush now.

 

While tinselled teenagers like mosquitoes

giggle in the rear.

 

We pass the cemetery, slowly;

eighteenth century I have read on the stones;

for their day, clip-clop, clip-clop.

Hollied logs. Braziers popping chestnuts.

Mulled-wine. And the goose is getting fat

 

Clipity-clop, clipity-clop.

Horse-dung, carriages, carts.

 

Now rain drips through trees

I rub the misty window

see between the lip of a cloud

a sickle moon.

 

Nothing much changes… except

the traffic lights are on green.

 

 

Maureen Weldon

 

First Published, Poetry Scotland

bus

Midwinter Poem by Lisa Rossetti

Global Sacrifice

 

The sky is full of blood;

the moon a dirty fingernail.

We hear the roar of the Wolf,

hide our children in the dark –

we cannot find the magic

to save them from the madness.

Horror eclipses our lives;

in the cauldron of Hecate

our flesh melts like silver.
Lisa Rossetti

 

 hecate