poetpotter

Snow is piling up here in the northern hemisphere. We're getting winter cold and the precipitation to match. We're also getting closer to Christmas, a holiday that comes with faith-based understanding.  Throughout Advent, we wait, even as people in the time before Jesus was born, only they waited for decades, maybe even centuries for the promised one that God would send as Saviour. We wait while stores play Christmas tunes and carols, host Santa Claus and seduce us to buy, buy buy so that our loved ones will be excited on Christmas morning or Christmas Eve, whenever the holiday celebrations are held in our family. We give gifts too, and try to do it without the excess that strains our January and February budgets. Trying to stay within our means and remember that Christmas is about celebrating the Saviour of the world. More on that in a few days. Today, a poem about winter, published by Tower Poetry in its Winter Edition 2004-2005, Vol. 53 No. 2 Frozen Beauty

promoting our upcoming book, Good Grief People, and others in Arthur, Ontario I love books and libraries. Is it any wonder that I have a shelf full of them? Make it shelves for I have several. I've begun to give books away after I read them, or loan them and not worry about the return. Except for certain books, and anthologies in which I had some part. Imagine walking into a library where the books have voices, the voice of the author reading them. Instead of quiet library it could be rather noisy. Maybe not the best place to read, but... Here we go:  If Books Could Talk Silent libraries shelve rows and rows of books            spines exposed       to grab wandering            explorers philosophers poets dreamers         builders   with hammers waiting if books had voices        the walls would thunder        with ten thousand voices        asserting     proclaiming      entertaining        louder than cheering fans at a champi

This weekend we say good-bye to our childhood home as we help Mom move into her new place in town. Today is unpacking day and she's excited about her new apartment. Still we need to take a little time to remember what our home meant to us. This is but one of them. When I have one more look at the house to say good-bye, I also have to look at the space, though it be empty, where we played in the attic of our farm home. I'll picture it as it was in those days. No photos today. I'll let you imagine it. Attic Playhouse Under the roof is a playhouse     with its familiar odour of heat and yesterday         leather skates lean against each other                                  like fallen dominoes                                     March through December outgrown Sunday shoes wait for the next pair of feet castoff clothes crammed in a crumbling cardboard box yellowed notebooks    -lined with ancient scribbles crank the gramophone inside

Autumn brings with it the smell of a changing season, leaves turning colour and falling to the ground. One of my favourite poems is "Indian Summer" by William Wilfred Campbell. In grade school we did memory work and  this was one I remembered easily. I've always liked the pictures it evokes and the rhythm of the lines. Along the line of smoky hills The crimson forest stands... Read more here . Now I'll share my own poem that speaks of the season: Autumn Autumn weaves itself into summer nights ushers in cool air the first chance it gets changes greens to splendid reds and yellows nips the roses still in bud steals kisses from the sun Autumn whispers to migrating birds encourages squirrels to fill their homes with food Autumn slips in so skillfully that it’s hard to tell just when summer ended and autumn began All poetry shared here, unless otherwise noted, is my own work. http://www.carolynwilker.ca/