Halloween

Our gap-toothed pumpkin face is carved and lit
And witches' squadrons ride our windowpanes
While vampires, devils, ghouls--in counterfeit--
Seek treats or trickery at our door again.
My children hold me tightly by the hand
As I escort their Halloween debut
And shrink from every boisterous beggars' band
Because they fear the trumpery is true.
So I explain and soothe and hold them close
And tell them all is clever-made deceit--
Each Frankenstein, a playmate grandiose
Each ghost, a neighbor child wound in a sheet
But yet--a sound, a touch, a shadow--hark!
I glance behind my shoulder in the dark

Aging

Fiorella wrote this sonnet twenty-five years ago, and it holds true today: 

                             

TO MY CHILDREN

When I am old, so very old I stink

Of unwashed underarms and brain cell death

So old I shake, my spine and stature shrink,

I whistle, quake, and rattle with each breath--

When I am old, so very old I drool,

And age spots big as elephants appear,

When I forget my name and act the fool

And talk too loud because I cannot hear--

Even when I'm angry, trapped in rage,

Become a miser, call each dime misspent,

When I am cruel and stupid in my age,

When I reject you, scotch your good intent--

     Remember once I loved you of my will,

     And in my heart of hearts, I love you still.

Christmas Is Coming

The gypsies have parked their porta-potty and RVs at the back of the fireworks lot, loaded the shelves of the sales stand, and turned on the string of lights across the entrance off the road. Yep, it's Christmastime in Texas.
***
Fio  drove into Austin today to visit with friend Paula and brother Bill at Dan's Hamburgers. She almost missed her turn off I-35. but her baby car made it automatically. Yes, the car knows the way/To pull the sleigh/ Through bright and drifting snow-o.
***
What is it with the balmy weather and summer skies? Fio had to turn on the car air conditioning on the way back from FedEx Kinkos. Is this any way to celebrate Chrstmas?
***
It looks like Fio will have the house fully decorated by Friday...or Saturday.  Whatever, it's moving. Now to leap in the car again and drive in to FedEx for more cards and envelopes. She'll try to put the cover of her card on the blog for you--it's her sonnet, but decorated, and she's sending it out to the world.
***

Christmas Sonnet, 2016

Fiorella has received her first Christmas card of the season so now it's time to release her own greeting, a sonnet by friend Jeanell. And yes, it's political. She calls it her battle cry.

INSTEAD

HE COULD have come at the head of a howling horde,

a mob of wrathful demons recruited to scour

the earth and ravage it with fire and sword

in a full-court press to prove his might and power.

HE COULD have loosed the rivers, burned the sky,

melted mountains, destroyed the face of the moon,

have swept the planet clean, to purify

it for a New Creation, coming soon.

INSTEAD, he came as a child, a helpless babe

born in a stranger’s stable on a death-cold night

with neither shield nor buckler nor armored plate

to defend himself in the battle he would fight

and win, as darkness always yields to light.

As God prevails, and wrong must yield to right!

Christmas, 2016

Copyright,  Jeanell Bolton

Christmas Present

I've written my Christmas sonnet! The premise came to me last week when I got stuck in my second traffic jam of the year. Once burned, twice shy, I was armed with pen and paper--no sense wasting time--and I jotted down ideas every time we came to a dead halt. I'd been afraid that I'd have a hard time coming up with a topic this year because, after all, this would be my what--twentieth?--Christmas poem, but the recent "election" made me think about what horrible pestilences God could loose upon a nation, and I realized I had not only a unique Christmas topic, but could also write a sonnet that fulfilled my vow to keep on fighting for what is right. I'll post the poem at the appropriate time. Meanwhile, stay strong..

The Sonnet Sonnet

Yesterday was Poetry Day so here goes

         

    The Sonnet Sonnet

A sonnet is the clever use of rhyme

In patterns such as Petrarch might employ

Or Shakespeare's playful whimsy intertwine

For centuries of lovers to enjoy.

A sonnet is an unrelenting beat,

The blood's intrinsic pulse of weak and strong,

That runs full-tilt for five iambic feet

In three times four plus two, a discipline of song.

A sonnet is a message of the heart,

Of Wordsworth's wonder, Milton's heavy hand,

Of Keats's classic skill, of Shelley's art.

Of Browning's love songs from a foreign land.

    While others seek the chessboard on a day,

    The sonnet is my choice of game to play.

Creative Explosion

Fiorella is the most creative person in the world and her mother is to blame for encouraging her.  Of course, Mom tried to rein Fio in at a certain point, but it was too late.

The above is a prelude to the main story: Fiorella finished off her Christmas sonnet and the card design today, and, in five minutes, will be busting down the road to FedEx Kinko's, which, under one name or another, has been printing out her cards for too many years to count.  The poem is always the hardest part, with Fio revising it even when she's in her design phase, like today.  "Christmas Fire" is the title, and you can guess the topic.  But how to illustrate it?  Fio made a quick sketch of the family fireplace, but it looked stupid.  Then the lightning struck--that bolt of creativity that borders on insanity--use the fire, but cut it out of red paper and use it to border the poem!

Okay, the euphoria is fading and the insecurity is setting in.  Will people like Fio's cards, realize the treasure they have received?  Or will they toss the card in the waste basket and wonder why Fio doesn't go out and buy cards like everyone else.

Joseph Speaks

Just to get you in the mood for Christmas, here is a sonnet I wrote years ago.

The Dreamer

I dreamed of wonders last night as I slept
Of peace and joy and heavenly harmony
Of God's great love, and of his promise kept,
Of his fulfillment of the prophecy.
Within my heart, I dreamed an angel sang
To tell me of the long-awaited one,
Emmanuel, the Christ, true God and Man
The Savior, Jesus, Gold's own self and son.
"Dreamer," spoke the angel in the night,
"Accept Him of your righteous piety
Protect him of your heart and strength and might
And love Him of your sweet humanity.
     Shun not Mary, Joseph, but reconcile
     And wed the virgin, mother of God's child."

Fiorella's Christmas Sonnet, 2014

Thank you, God, for friends and family,

For yesterday, today, tomorrow too,

For life and love and laughter, I thank Thee,

For all things wonderful, beautiful, new, and true,

For talents and skills, for opportunity,

For the existence of this country and this world,

For healing--body, mind, and memory,

For material goods, for inner strength unfurled,

For music, art, pen and poetry,

For science, which demonstrates your wonders made,

For your protection, comfort, generosity,

For your forgiveness when we’ve often strayed,

For all that is, that was, that makes us whole,

For Christ, eternal Christmas of the soul.

Christmas Eve

   

How long and dark the night which swallows day
How frightened, lost, and lonely is my soul
How dim the star, how very far away
I cannot see or hope, I am not whole
No lamp without can light my dark within
No hand can rescue from the Stygian swell
I am the waiting world, awash in sin
I drown in darkness from the sea of hell
The universe is dark, eternal night
We live alone in darkness, and we die
And vain dream of hope, and pray for light
And cry to God and wait for God's reply
     How long, O God, must we await the dawn?
     How long, O God, until out hope is born?

Christmas Frenzy

Fio is on a roll!  She finished off her Christmas sonnet on Wednesday and mocked up her card yesterday evening.  She's also cut out a dozen big snowflakes and taped them on windows around the house.  The stocking are up too.  Still to go are showcasing her many nativity scenes, tying bows on everything tyable, decorating every empty surface with Santas, hanging plastic snowflakes from the little tree outside the door, putting up the wreaths and swags, baking gingerbread cakes for the neighbors and--oh yes--shopping.

Poetic Update

Fiorella has written a new Christmas sonnet for the first time in two years.  Hooray!  She's been so engaged in churning out romance novels lately that she was afraid she'd lost her touch.

Interestingly enough (or maybe not), Fio consulted her trusty old rhyming dictionary, the one that her parents had given her for Christmas when she was in high school, rather than using rhyming sites on line.  She has used the sites for some of her jingles, but the dictionary gives her access to more words and forms of words, and all at the same time.

It took her a couple of days on and off, but she finally solved a the problem with a troublesome couplet last night after Husband and Sonia Dog had retired.  You'll see the sonnet, complete, nearer to Christmas.

The Sonnet Sonnet

            

A sonnet is the clever use of rhyme

In patterns such as Petrarch might employ

Or Shakespeare's playful whimsy intertwine

For centuries of lovers to enjoy.

A sonnet is an unrelenting beat,

The blood's intrinsic pulse of weak and strong,

That runs full-tilt for five iambic feet

In three times four plus two, a discipline of song.

A sonnet is a message of the heart,

Of Wordsworth's wonder, Milton's heavy hand,

Of Keats's classic skill, of Shelley's art.

Of Browning's love songs from a foreign land.

    While others seek the chessboard on a day,

    The sonnet is my choice of game to play.

                                            

One of Fiorella's First Christmas Sonnets

The Sacred Child

Two thousand years ago the kings bowed down

And from their packs three costly gifts brought

       forth;

Gold, frankincense, and myrrh were due the crown

Upon the wobbly head still wet from birth--

Two thousand years ago the shepherds came

And bent their shaggy heads in mumbled prayer

To call upon the power of His name,

A baby helpless in His mother's care--

Two thousand years ago the mother smiled

To know the joy of heaven at her breast,

Her future's hope, her God's own child,

Who mewled at her disturbance of His rest—

     Two thousand years today, lest we forget

     That every child is Christ among us yet.

Frenzy

This year's poem will be a rerun.  Between the wedding and the birthday celebrations, Thanksgiving and Christmas, holiday decorating and the new book, Fiorella can't pull her poetic brain together. Two unrelated quatrains are all she could come up with.  Here's the first one:

The winter sky is cold, the wind is raw

The sun has shrunken to a distant dime

And springtime’s sweet green grass has browned to straw

In this, the unrelenting wintertime.

(Which, since her next line was "The current of my winter brain runs slow," we all know wasn't in the least related to Christmas.)

Here's the second one:

The dining chairs are strewn with greenery

Destined for banister and doorway drapes,

And on the kitchen counter rests a sea

Of wrapping paper, ribbons, sticky tapes.

This last one shows you more what Fio's up against. All week, that wild music from The Medium, when Monica sings the frenzied "Burn, burn, give away, give away" passages, has been running through her head.

It's A-bornin'

Fio ground out the second tetrain of this year's Christmas poem yesterday.  The longest time she's ever spent on a single poem was three days solid.  She'll definitely hit three days again with this year's holiday offering, but she hasn't spent more than an hour per day on it.

Strangely, it was working on Moira's story that helped Fio get back on track.  Writing poetry is just like writing prose--if one thing doesn't work, you try something else.

And, by the way, Moira's story is starting to blaze.

And On the Literary Front

Eureka!  Fiorella found her muse again--or rather, her muse found her.  Yes, Virginia, there will be a new Christmas sonnet this year.  In fact, Fio's already hammered out the first quatrain.

But while you're waiting, check out Jan Hudson's contemporary romance, STEP INTO MY PARLOR.  It won the Rita, the top award for published romance writers, a couple of years ago, but is just now available as a e-book. The heroine is feisty, beautiful, and in fear of her life, and the hero is strong, handsome, and sexy as hell.  The story progresses from there. WOWIE ZOWIE! 

Desperation Measures

The mighty Fio has struck out.  She's included a new poem or song with her Christmas card for years, but this year, having long ago exhausted the Bible and having pretty much finished off the family and the weather too, she's run dry.  Maybe she'll fall back on a thirty-five year-old rerun.  Maybe she'll just hang up her pen and buy commercial cards.

No, Fio! Say it ain't  so!  

Nursing Home Visit

He sleeps, but does he dream, my father?  When
I visit twice a week, he wakes with eyes
near blind and looks, then nods to asleep again
He sees my shape, but does not recognize
his oldest child, his baby girl all grown,
who shouts her name into his better ear,
who warms his death-cold hands within her own, 
who scrubs the crusted food off from his chair.
Father beloved. where have you gone?  You sleep
but do you dream?  I kiss his innocent face,
smooth back the unkempt hair, loudly repeat
my name again, and pray to God for grace
that he may dream within his cobwebbed brain
of righteous battles won and dragons slain.

                                               

Hope

Fio was hanging over the email yesterday because she knew two big developments could be coming her way.  Or one could fly and the other could flop.  Or they both could go down.  But when the end is yet unknown, one can still hope, which brings her to a sonnet she's run before, but seems appropriate.  Besides, Fiorella's revised it somewhat:
 

      Hope is a snake that curls within my breast,

     That strikes from time to time--a sharp-tongued dart,

     A blood-cold serpent, most unwelcome guest,

     A venomous viper aimed against my heart.

     Hope  is a Scaramouche, a handsome fool

    

     A honeyed braggart, slick, a worthless flirt,

     A quack deceiver, lord of ridicule,

     Who gulls my brain when I am not alert.

     Hope's a misshaped bloom, a crooked tree,

 

     Which grows unbidden in my dismal yard,

     The honey fruit of which will poison me

     If I fall prey to sweet, let down my guard.

          But do not slay it--let the villain be;

          For murder hope and murder all of me.