Category: Christmas

Kalanchoe

~ Toastingfork
flaming katy 1

Kalanchoe

Last year I bought a flaming Katy
To mark a change from mistletoe –
As red as holly, green as ivy,
As pretty as any on show.
With buds like baubles till they burst,
For long after the thirty-first.

This year I still have that Katy –
Bulletproof, she just goes on,
Though all the year her stem has bolted,
And her blooms are long long gone,
She’s clearly no perpetual rose,
But then, that’s just the way she grows.

She was so pretty once, my Katy,
As a hothouse cultivar –
But she escaped to be a tree
Who’s reaching for the Christmas star
She’s tall and ragged, but it’s daft –
I feel I can’t deny such graft.

Last year I bought a flaming Katy
Who I water faithfully,
Yet she and I, we both us know
She’ll never bloom again for me.
Some plants we keep not just for show,
I guess that’s just the way we grow.

flaming katy 2

December the First

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first door of advent

December the First

All through November,
We dash into Winter –
Not me.
November’s November,
And I’m not a sprinter
When leaves are still falling
And afternoons glinter,
You see.
All through November,
I’ll take my Autumnal sweet time.
I’ve no wish to onrush
The noise and the crush of the big pantomime.

But finally, here comes December –
From season of mist to the season of mistletoe,
Nip becomes frost becomes why-won’t-it-snow-?
Finally, finally, on comes December –
And finally, even I unleash the cheer…
So haul up the streamers and load up the larder,
For now is the season of twinkles and ardour –
Throughout a whole twelfth, and for only a twelfth, of the year.

Advent in November

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christingle

Advent in November

I remember we’d troop off to Grandma’s old church,
(My parents not having a church of their own),
And there, with my brothers and cousins, we sat
Through the joyfulless carols and reverent drone
That tried to cajole in us love for lord Jesus,
And bribed us with candle-and-currant Christingles.
We’d dutif’ly queue up, us kids, at the rail,
For our symbolic fire-risks – and catch the first tingles:

The season had started !  The countdown was counting !
And even before the first door was prized open,
The tension was banking, the pressure was mounting –
The avarice simmering, quaintly called ‘hoping’.
Our candles were dripping, the service was over,
So back home to Grandma’s for crumpets and cakes,
And writing our lists from the big book of Argos,
And tingles that gradu’ly built into shakes.

The Sisters McBloom

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Photo by Elle Hughes on Pexels.com

The Sisters McBloom

The first to blossom was Daisy,
Yet still a rather homely lass –
Though pretty in a common way,
She spent all year within the grass

The next to blossom was Iris,
Bursting out in the warming Spring –
Showy, delicate, desirous,
Over quickly – just a fling.

The next to blossom was Poppy,
A gothic girl in crimson red –
A heady mix of sharp and soppy,
Fascinated by the dead.

The next to blossom was Rosie,
A redhead maid with cheeks of pink –
Nothing about her was boring or prosy,
And lasting longer than you’d think.

The next to blossom was Heather,
Just as the leaves were starting to turn –
Sturdy and tough, whatever the weather,
And hiding a heart just waiting to burn.

The last to blossom was Ivy,
Much maligned, but on the climb –
Her bauble buds were small though lively,
Coming of age at Christmastime.

The Gifts of the Magi

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magi
detail from The Adoration of the Magi tapestry by Edwin Burne-Jones, Wllliam Morris & John Dearle

The Gifts of the Magi

The Magi came to Bethlehem
As guided by a rising star,
And there a newborn greeted them
Beyond the busy brisk bazaar.
So three wise men each bore a gift –
The other nine just looked-on, miffed.

The first brought gold – a solid lump –
An ingot, so the paintings show.
That must have made young Mary jump
As Caspar flashed his gift aglow.
But prizes prising gasps aghast
Should surely be withheld till last.

Then Melchior with frankincense
To sweetly burn at times of prayer –
The sort of thing we all dispense,
To hosts and strangers ev’rywhere.
Safe and useful, just the thing
To give to clients, in-laws, kings.

And finally there came the myrrh –
Embalming oil for the dead.
A tactless gift to give, for sure,
That only brings a parent dread.
Poor Balthazar had left them cold –
And wished he’d also thought of gold !

Leftover Sprouts

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sprouts

Leftover Sprouts

The first discarded tree on the pavement,
The first house not to turn on its lights,
The first fallen card not to be re-hung
And we still haven’t reached Twelfth Night.
Yet the Tudors partied the dozen-long,
But we’re back to work by the Second of Jan –
Once New Year’s hit, we’re done with it,
We’ve season’s-cheered as much as we can.
But the Magi had to go the long way –
A little less gold, woulda made it in a week !
I don’t think our waistlines will last to Epiphany,
This really is no season for the meek…

Robinless Rounds

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christmas present
The Ghost of Christmas Present by John Leech

Robinless Rounds

Pass another mince pie, then,
And oh, another tot ?  Why not !
Now don’t hold back, I’ll tell you ‘when’,
Is this the only one we’ve got ?
I’ve plenty others, I could swear,
At least a dozen…Gone, you say ?
Ah well, I’m sure I had my share
When you came round the other day…
But no, of late I haven’t written much,
Who wants that slog ?
I’m not concerned I’ve lost my touch –
They’ll flow again, just like this grog…
I say, this is a cosy time,
A cosy time, I always say,
Who cares about the bloody rhyme ?
I’ll write some verse another day.
Def’nitely, though, come next year,
Give or take a month or two,
But well before the Spring is here
I’ll knuckle down to something new:
Sonnets, ballads, villanelles
I’ll drink to that !  Hang on, I’m dry –
Here, fill me up, a double Bells,
And ooh, is that a mincemeat pie…?

The Annunciation to the Shepherds

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shepherds
The Angel Appearing to the Shepherds by Govert Flinck

The Annunciation to the Shepherds

An angel found some shepherds
In the lambing pastures, not too far,
All keeping one eye out for wolves,
And one eye on that bright new star.

And the angel said:
“Behold !
Upon this night so cold,
I bring you tidings great with joy !
In David’s royal city, a saviour-son is born !
Go see – for swaddled and mangered,
Is a strangered, innocent boy,
A cheat of death,
Who takes his breath
So calmly on this bold, still morn.”

Some shepherds found an angel
In the lambing pastures, glowing gold,
And after all its urgings,
They sat and thought on what it told.

And the shepherds said:
“That’s nice,
But we must watch our precious ewes.
For all your holy light,
We cannot leave and risk to lose
A single suckling sheep tonight.
So go tell folk in Bethlehem –
Those townies love to be beguiled…
But we must keep our trusting lambs
As safe as any child.”

Whatever the Sconces, they all take the same Candles

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menorah

Whatever the Sconces, they all take the same Candles

Menorah candles on Christmas day
To brighten up the early dark –
Never mind what some may say,
We’ll take the spark.

Mistletoe above the door
To bring some green into the gloom –
Never mind the ancient lore,
It cheers the room.

Buddha beads upon the tree,
Tinsel draped about Ganesh –
Who cares if the fusspots see,
We like the mesh.

Dinosaurs within the crib,
Gandalf decked in red and white –
Who cares if it’s all a fib,
It’s ours tonight.

Swan Song

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swans
detail from Move Out! by Morten Storstein

Swan Song

Christmas morning, along the canal,
As we strolled passed the swans who had lost all their grey,
Between the old works and the back of the mall,
We watched as the swans chased their cygnets away.

The cob and the pen were a pair of old thugs,
On Christmas morning along the canal –
They drove out their rivals for duckweed and slugs,
And sent their kin flying off over the mall.

Frozen or starving or prey to a fox –
Their parents don’t care, but then that’s nature’s way.
We watched as the swans taught their children hard knocks,
Along the canal on a cold Christmas Day.

I would just point out that ‘canal’ and ‘mall’ do rhyme, despite the current trend to ape the Americans.