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 Salutation
The Lesson Of The Past Is That Nothing Can Last. Good, Bad, Happy Or Sad, It Will Pass Away, And There Is Little More To Say. Happy New Year, And Have No Fear, The Way Ahead Will Become Clear.
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 Last Rites
What Can We Say When All Our Hero’s Have Been Taken Away? Faces That We Carried In Our Mind, But Can No Longer Find? The Ranks Thin And How Shall We Replace Their Laughter And Sweet Grace? The Old Year Dies As Well And For Solace, We Recall Until They Fell, We Had Them All.  Politics
When He Is Betrayed And Samson’s Seven Braids Are Cut, He Is Forced To Tread A Basement Rut Grinding Grain, In Mortal Pain. So Has Our Nation Fallen Low, Now To Be Led By A Moral Foe, But Our Strength Will Grow Sooner Than Our Enemies Can Know, And We Will Once More Take The Helm Of This Sometimes Noble Realm.  Winter Feast Day
As Has Been Said, A Cold Coming We Had, Our Goal To Seek And Lift Our Soul, To Find A Way To Put Meaning In The Every Day. But That Hope Has Dwindled Away Through Empty Cant And Mindless Chant, And Left Us With No Definite Sway. Yet, We Rise To Rejoice And Once More Lift Our Voice To Praise A Distant Star, In Hope Of Knowing Who We Are.  Damp
Fog Furs The Trees And Blurs The Street And I can’t See Where Earth And Sky Meet. It’s Winter’s Joke, To Make Sweet Air Smoke, Lest We Forget Rain Is More Than Wet.  *Susan Seddon Boulet* Winter
The Solstice Came While No One Took Heed, Or Saw No Need To Pause Like The Sun, To Count The Cost Of Daylight Lost Or Remark The Sudden Early Dark. So It Is And Has Been Through Time, And I make This Useless Rhyme To Note The Spot Of What I had, And Now Have Not.  *Jane Peterson* Adieu
In My Other Life I would Be Living Well In Gay Paree, Singing Piaf And Jacque Brel, Giving La Publique Hell, Breaking Every Heart, My French So Smart, My Couture, My Hats And Shoes Enough To Give Faint Bourgeoisie The Blues. Ne Me Quitte Pas Would Be My Song, That And Je Suis A Toi. Oh, How I long To Flee Far From Everything I see, And She, The Woman Before You Calmly Drinking Tea, Would Not Be Me.  Brrrrrr
I wake In The Night, Before Any Light As Gusty Wind And Sharp Rains Blow. In The Northern Sangria De Cristo There Is Falling Snow On Mountain Tops Where I won’t Go. Too Wet, Too Cold, And I’m Too Old, I fear, To Slide Down Hills And Chill My Rear. So If You Please, I’ll Stay Right Here, Warm, Dry, And At My Ease.  Ornaments
The Holly Tree Which I can See From My Table Is Now Hung About, As High As I was Able, With Large Balls Of Red And Glossy Pink. I think They Make A Jolly Show But Can’t Know If Those That Hurry Past Will At Last See What Constitutes A Holiday For Me. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
August 2024
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