Category: Seasonal

April Smarts

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bloom blossom branch flora
Photo by Tabitha Mort on Pexels.com

April Smarts

We sense the sun is on the scout,
With Winter nothing but a pout,
And Spring a whisper to a shout,
And mornings quite the charm.

But hold, before we’re dashing out
And leaving coats to hang about,
For dressing down, not dressing stout,
Could lead us into harm.

I know the sun is warm today,
But sneaky Spring has form, they say –
He loves to send a storm our way !
Yet no cause for alarm…

Just run your mornings by the book
And take your coat down off the hook,
To lodge it safely in the crook
Of a shirt-and-cardy arm.

Moveable Feast

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cactus
Hatiora gaertneri by Peter Coxhead

Moveable Feast

My poor, befuddled Easter cactus –
Sometimes early, sometimes late,
But never can it bloom in practice
On the actual Easter date.
We set a day for April Fools,
We set a day to change our clocks
But Easter follows loony rules:
The first full-Moon from Equinox.

Early April’s worth a shout,
I reckon, for a stable day –
It’s warm enough for going out,
And far enough from busy May.
But all this shifty, ancient mess
With sense as empty as the tomb,
Is why my cactus cannot guess
The week in which to bloom.

April Howlers

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papers
Newspapers by Ol.v!er [H2vPk]

April Howlers

“ROYAL PRINCE TO JOIN THE SCOUTS”
The 48-point headline shouts.
“LANDLORD CLAIMS HIS PUB IS CURSED”
It must be April First.

“SOAP STAR’S THREE-WAY LOVE-NEST ROMP”
“COUNCIL RUMPUS OVER SWAMP”
“iPHONE MADE APPENDIX BURST”
It must be April First.

“MP’S SON HAS NIGHT ON TOWN”
“CANCER RISK FROM SITTING DOWN”
“BACK-TO-BACKS TO BE REVERSED”
It must be April First.

“LEFTIES BAN ALL KNOCK-KNOCK JOKES”
“ROCK STARS CLAIM THEY’RE AVERAGE BLOKES”
“GOALIE SEES THE GHOST OF HURST”
It must be April First.

“VICIOUS LIES TO REAP AND SOW”
“NOTHING HERE YOU NEED TO KNOW”
“WE CONFESS ALL: WE’RE THE WORST”
Now that would be a first !

“JOBLESS SCROUNGERS PREY ON FOLKS”
“GLOBAL WARMING: JUST A HOAX”
“IMMIGRANTS MUST BE DISPERSED”
Please make it April First !

Bashful Bulbs

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white petaled flower
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Bashful Bulbs

Snowdrops, pale and shy and still,
As if they’re afraid to face the bracing breeze.
Downcast propellers, silent in the chill,
So loathe to disturb the hush beneath the trees.
Always huddled together in their crowds
With the neck of a swan and the wimple of a nun;
Tensed to bare the worst from the clouds,
And wilting away in the first warmth of the sun.

The Second Week of January

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17095178280_513b4aa99b_k
A Sad Ending by Rasputina2

The Second Week of January

Christmas is done with,
The New Year is come,
The feasting is over,
The outlook is glum,
Our work is resumed
And the weather is cold,
So uproot the glitter
And out with the old.

They’re sprouting on pavements
And swarming on greens,
They loiter on verges
Like unruly teens,
They cluster round dustbins
And litter our lanes –
Straggly and soggy,
These sorry remains.

They served us so proudly
A fortnight ago,
They warmed up the winter
And gave us a glow.
But now they are cast out
With scant a goodbye –
Destitute, homeless,
And waiting to die.

The council is working
To round up the strays
And shred them to chippings
For Agas to blaze,
Or sit beneath see-saws,
Or borders to don.
By Twelve Night they’re coming,
By Burns Night, they’re gone.

Resolutions

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resolutions

Resolutions

Soothe the fridge its fears of less abundancy,
Let it know it must cut back its stocks.
Tell the ashtray straight of its redundancy,
Warn the sofa and the gogglebox.
Brace the bathroom scales still anticipating weight:
Notify them of reducing bulk.
Rouse the bike and treadmill from their hibernating state –
And disappoint the wine-rack – let it sulk.

The Seven Days of Christmas

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needles

The Seven Days of Christmas

On the first next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
The final gift beneath the tree,
With label lost, its contents still a mystery.

On the next next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A pair of robins foraging,
To brighten up the garden ere the Spring.

On the third next-day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
Three late cards of season’s best –
There’s still just time to hang them with the rest.

On the fourth next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A four-log fire and easy chair,
And a draught-free door to shut the world out-there.

On the fifth next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A five-petaled weed who thinks it June,
And flowers far too late, or far too soon.

On the last next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A half-a-dozen sugared dates,
To see the old year out while the new awaits.

On the new next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A day of rest and taking heart,
With a long-drawn breath for a brand new start.

Goodwill

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candles celebration cutlery dining
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Goodwill

The days are so short, late of the year –
Won’t you come on in ?
When the sun is down, and the frost is near,
And the gales begin.
But there’s always a shelter under our gable,
There’s always an extra chair at the table
For any stray stranger who’s hungry, and able
To pay us with only a grin.

The weather gets cold, this time of year –
We’re chilled to the skin.
It gets so hard to volunteer
And rattle the tin.
But there’s always a welcome here in our home
To help turn the grey to polychrome,
For unlucky souls who unwillingly roam,
While the wheels of fortune spin.

The season gets busy, every year,
And we just can’t win,
With the thanks so small, and the price so dear,
And our patience thin.
But there’s always a place at the table that’s set
For the unbidden guest coming-in from the wet,
In time to remind what we often forget:
That there’s always room at the inn.

Frost Song

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blur bokeh close up cold
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Frost Song

On the second morning afterly
The Feast of Middle-Winter,
I walked-out with my true-love
Through the brittle lambent-glinter –
I walked-out with my true-love
Till our cheeks were flush with pinking,
And I asked my wind-teased beauty
To me whisper of her thinking.
The said she thought of Crystal Jack,
A diligent delinquent,
Who caught the sun and shone it back
As glistered-golden clinquant.
I walked-out with my true-love
’Cross the sparkled, gelid loam,
And so we warmed each other’s breaths
Until the starlings bid us home.

Foxing Day

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snarl

Foxing Day

On the Second Day of Christmas
We rode out with the pack,
And we galloped through the woods
As we waited the attack.
On the Second Day of Christmas
We cast the braying hounds
As they scurried for the scent
And they ran the fox to ground.

So blow the horns and raise the cries,
Let slip the hounds and shred the prize,
And show to all your blameful eyes
This menace needs controlling.

On the Second Day of Christmas
We wished for peace on Earth
As we hollered for the fox
As we wrenched it from its berth.
On the Second Day of Christmas
As we cantered through the mud,
And wished to all goodwill
As we slathered for the blood.

So blow the horns and raise the cries,
Let slip the hounds and shred the prize,
And show to all your blameful eyes
This menace needs controlling.