Labour's Reward

The short cold days, and long cold nights,

The people to the fire invites.

Now happy they who furnished are,

And did, in summer-time prepare

For victuals, drink, and good hot fires,

All which this season now requires.

If geese and sheep with care were fed —

If, at the proper time of year,

You from the sheep the wool did shear —

And, if you afterwards begun,

To have it carded, have it spun,

And wove, and put upon your back,

You'll be warm dressed when others lack.

If you October beer did brew,

You have the credit of it now,

And pleasure of the drinking too.

Provide good cheer, yourselves enjoy,

And all your needless cares destroy

With harmless mirth, and best of cheer,

Good wine, or ale, or humming beer,

And merry Christmas crown the year.

Vitztelly

As I went through the tangled wood

    I heard the Aspen shiver.

"What dost thou ail, sweet Aspen, say,

    Why do thy leaflets quiver?"

    "'Twas long ago," the Aspen sighed--

    How long is past my knowing--

"When Mary Mother rode adown

    This wood where I was growing.

Blest Joseph journey'd by her side,

    Upon his good staff resting,

And in her arms the Heav'nly Babe,

    Dove of the World, was nesting.

Fair was the mother, shining-fair,

    A lily sweetly blowing;

The Babe was but a lily-bud,

    Like to his mother showing.

The birds began, 'Thy Master comes!

    Bow down, bow down before Him!'

The date, the fig, the hazel tree,

In rev'rence bent to adore Him.

I only, out of all the host

    Of bird and tree and flower,--

I, haughty, would not bow my head,

    Nor own my Master's power.

'Proud Aspen,' quoth the Mother-Maid,

    'Thy Lord, dost thou defy Him?

When emperors worship at His shrine,

    Wilt courtesy deny Him?'

I heard her voice; my heart was rent,

    My boughs began to shiver,

And age on age, in punishment,

    My sorrowing leaflets quiver."

Still in the dark and tangled wood,

    Still doth the Aspen quiver.

The haughty tree doth bear a curse,

    Her leaflets aye must shiver.

Longfellow

These good people sang
Songs devout and sweet;
While the rafters rang,
There they stood with freezing feet.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!

way home

bells of waiting Advent ringing

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain.
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hooker's Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that villagers can say
'The Church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial public houses blaze
And Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'

And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children's hearts are glad,
And Christmas morning bells say 'Come!'
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true? and is it true?
The most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?

And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant.

No love that in a family dwells,
No caroling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was Man in Palestine
And lives to-day in Bread and Wine.

John Btjeman

Punjammies - two birds

http://www.sudara.org/

To give thanks in solitude is enough. Thanksgiving has wings and goes where it must go. Your prayer knows much more about it than you do.


Victor Hugo

Autumn walk with Luna

Gloria

 "PI am a woman with thoughts and questions and shit to say. I say if I'm beautiful. I say if I'm strong. You will not determine my story — I will. I will speak and share and fuck and love and I will never apologize to the frightened millions who resent that they never had it in them to do it. I stand here and I am amazing, for you. Not because of you. I am not who I sleep with. I am not my weight. I am not my mother. I am myself. And I am all of you, and I thank you." Amy Schumer

Anything

Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts.

Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts.

Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me...

Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.

~ Shel Silverstein ~

advice to the departing

“Avoid men who call you Baby, and women who have no friends, and dogs that scratch at their bellies and refuse to lie down at your feet. Wear dark glasses; bathe with lavender oil and cool fresh water. Seek shelter from the sun at noon.”

― Alice Hoffman, Practical Magic

Boots of Spanish Leather

The Invitation

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting in your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.

I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit in pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tip of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true.

I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from the Spirit's presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled

From across that lonesome ocean – Bob Dylan 

We’re in the car and we’re driving, on a Tuesday night, and we’re 99,900 and 87 miles in. We stop for onion rings and sundaes.  Keep driving. 99,900 and 3 miles. Stevie Nicks. 99,900 and 96 miles. Elton John. When we get to 99,900 and 99 miles, we hold hands, blast Melissa Etheridge and sing “LUCKY” at the top our lungs. There are too many reasons [we] found love in each other’s presence. There are too many moments that we are unbreakable. And in this moment, we are one family, constructing road as we go, burning bridges behind us, adding mileage like graceful aging, driving, in our [Subaru], towards moonlight. 

15 year old, Noah St. John

Sweet Pea

And finally this question, 

the mystery of whose story it will be. 

Of who draws the curtain. 

Who is it that chooses our steps in the dance? 

Who drives us mad? 

Lashes us with whips and crowns us with victory when we survive the impossible? 

Who is it, that does all of these things?

Who honors those we love for the very life we live? 

Who sends monsters to kill us, and at the same time sings that we will never die? 

Who teaches us what's real and how to laugh at lies? 

Who decides why we live and what we'll die to defend? Who chains us? 

And who holds the key that can set us free... 

It's You. 

You have all the weapons you need. 

Now Fight!

Happy "Luna"r New Year

thanks, my friend

Then let us pray that come it may

[As come it will for a' that],

That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth,

Shall bear the gree an a' that.

For a' that, an a' that,

It's comin yet for a' that,

That man to man, the hale world ower

Shall brithers be for a' that

Burns Night, 2015