Bows for Her Hair

All that she wanted was bows for her hair.
She already had a teddy bear;
his name was Rusty, his color was too,
a little bit faded but still she was true to that bear,
carried him everywhere. She didn’t see him as tattered
and old, instead she saw his heart of pure gold.

She didn’t mind having no shoes, but my
how she wanted some scarlet bows
to pin in her long curly hair.
Hope grew in her heart that maybe this year
Santa would bring her some bows
for her hair.

She would stand outside
and stare through the window
of the dry goods store,
past all the candy, and so much more
until her eyes would happen to spy
the ribbons in colors that made her sigh.

Not purple, not yellow, nor orange she adored.
She looked and she hoped for the scarlet bows there
and dreamed how they’d look in her long dark hair.
Old spinster, Ms. Wilson, had never been noted
for generous portions nor balances unquoted.
She ran her shop with profit in mind
and that waif at the window
was not spending a dime.

With no trace of a smile, she went to the door,
What is it you want, you ramshackle girl?
With a smile only the innocent have been known to wear,
the little girl said, I’d like some bows for my hair.

Her blue eyes were wide and free from all guile
and the frugal old spinster glared down at the child.
Do you have money to buy them? If not, go away.
Go on now, do you hear what I say?

The little girl struggled with the tear
that would fall and squaring her shoulders
and standing quite tall, she said in a voice
with never a quaver,

All right, Miss, I’ll go, I didn’t mean no harm. 
It’s just when I look at your ribbons and bows,
I forget that it’s cold, they make me feel warm
and pretty too. I’m sorry that I’ve upset you.

With that she turned and started away,
but even the spinster felt the spirit that day,
Wait! Can you sweep a floor?
Do you know how to dust? Where do you live?

Can I trust you to come here each day
and straighten the shop? I’ll pay
in copper pennies and ribbons of red, I’ll make
you a dress, and see that you’re fed.

And suddenly the old lady stopped short
with a laugh,
My goodness, she said, It is Christmas at last.

 

 

A Gift

May this gift warm when winter’s breath blows cold:
The classic knot clasped ’round a single bloom
wears glitter from the night sky’s fiery show.
The sparkling stars conspired to ease all gloom,
then soft the night wind sealed it with a sigh.
A pine bough gave a final tender tap
as moonbeams from heaven’s gate did fly
to burnish gold the simple homespun wrap.
This package small I send to you with love;
it’s bathed in rainbows of a dewdrop’s tear
and borne on velvet palm of morning’s glove
into the gentle hush of dawn’s sweet air.

….Beneath this rosebud’s bloom there is no thorn,
….These gathered dreams, a gift to keep you warm.

 

Issues with Reader

I have been having issues for about a year now with having my posts show in reader. I found that by posting them twice they usually appear  However that means that email
followers will get two emails including the same poem which is a nuisance  (I am sorry…
beyond my control)

Today, when “Interlude” did not appear in Reader I contacted WP techs again.

Wp:
What you can do is try publishing another post or change the title to see if that helps.
Smz:
How about adding the poem manually. That is what they have done in the past
Wp:
I would suggest creating a new post with the post with a different title or modify the title.
~
~
~
~
Smz
A note to the “Happiness Team”
I am not happy.
.
.
.
The good news is,  having made another post has caused Interlude to show in Reader.
I can only hope it has not caused a third copy of this poem to go to email followers.
If that happens,  I beg your forgiveness.  It truly is beyond my control.

Interlude

 a cryptic escape
that minuscule moment
between breaths

the world on pause
thoughts in limbo
the sky not visible
the ground unaware

and then
that immense
exhale

the storm began
the storm will end
it’s inevitable

Miracles

God made us in his image
and yet, somehow we stray.
That he doesn’t throw his hands up
and quit...that is a miracle.

In the kitchen and in the glen,
all is innocence.
A flower blooms and dies
and is born again.

How entirely human to think
of grafting to make a bigger bloom,
a sweeter perfume and in the thready
atmosphere of need,

to turn the task to feeding the starving.
Yes!  In the force field of the cosmos,
there is a greater God than greed.
If evil is a trait of man, so too, is good.

Both theoretical and empirical,
It is not man’s faith in God
but God’s faith in man,
that is the miracle.

That’s Life

Complicated,
a day in early December
when nothing was going right.

Trying to turn troubles around,
I filled a bath to the brim
for there is no angry way to say bubble.

I fumed and I muttered,
Come on,  inner peace,
I don’t have all day!

So much for relaxation…
It goes without saying
meditation was out of the question.

As a last option
for civil maintaining
I ordered a pizza, plain.

All I wanted
was for one single thing
to be simple.

A wee glimmer
of hope,  it arrived  on time
but still I struggled with strife

and why not?
In a square box,  a round pizza
cut into triangle slices…

That’s life.

To Be a Tree

This poem,
plain and uninformed,
dreams of being a tree…
a friend of the wind but rooted,
buffeted but steady in its destiny.

Snow-flocked but not cold,
maybe a red bow for the season,
or maybe a cardinal caroling from its limbs,
mixing song with the piney scent
of balsam.

It really
doesn’t want to be a mountain
but it has a  certain envy  for mountains
standing stoic and immune
through harshest storm.

Clovers at its feet
would fit the dream, but
it doesn’t want to be them.
They last a short season
with a tenuous hold on memory.

This poem
is young and uncertain.
It knows what it wants to be
but the fear of blight and storm
reins it in.

Poems
are a lot like people.
Early on, they have to learn
one must shed their fear
to be a tree.