Earthen motte mounds and bailey burg
Sludge strongholds severed for siege
Norman castles cut of stone surge
Vowed vassals, the lords of liege
Round refuge tower of ashlar
Lured strums of Celtic cither
While they tend to tiers of mortar
Howling high waters hither
Gemlike blades grassy shades of green
Sailing seas beckon smartly
Hair to partly pare ployed the teen
Pirate Queen awaits Bartley
Homeland hush weave no words but mum
Forum flouters of gainsay
Dark Lady of Doona they hum
Legend of the Blacksod Bay
Fortress chieftain forges her case
Ní Grace unbowed by Bingham
Royalty rises face to face
Let them lie Ó Máille clan
Lyrate luck of her Irish pride
Aside vassal villeins sought
Herstory harmonized resides,
‘pon castles cloaked earthen motte
(On Christmas we brunch with two hundred and some fifty of our closest friends)
I wish you all joy with your own holiday traditions.
Merry Christmas Everyone!
There’ll be snow-white bright linens,
crystal that glistens,
and silver that perfectly glows
There’ll be garlands of green
twined with red satin sheen
shimmering gemlike Christmas trees
There’ll be brioche that’s toasted
apple smoked salmon
and oysters laid out in iced rows
There’ll be cheeses from Roquefort,
baguettes, fruit and camembert,
Bûches de Noël coffee déserts
They’ll be geese gently roasted
and holiday toasting
as the feel of aged cognac grows warm
There’ll be carolers and violins
toys for the children
like secrets tied up in bright bows
They’ll be dancing and laughter
and much happy chatter,
as guests drift-out on their ways home
It’s the joy we’ll remember
long after December..
Hey - let’s do it again here next year!
.
.
A Christmas Playlist for this:
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_13.mp3
This poem is being distributed under terms
laid down by galactic conventions of amorous angels.
By breaking the seal on my lips, you agree to be bound
by the following conditions: you will frantically search for perfection
in love and end up a snack for worms; you will never regain
that gemlike slumber in the universal womb
which is the only thing worth having; you will waste your existence
in howling pursuit of the phantoms of desire,
which will suck you dry as you ravenously feed on them.
No warranty, expressed or implied, is being made
that you will conquer cities of moonlit enchanted towers,
or bask in the homage of rajahs with perfumed beards,
or drowse in voluptuous pomp of erotic temples,
or be otherwise enabled beyond necessity.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My waters had their genesis in the sea,
A path created was fashioned for me;
It can't be changed for there my toil
Winds through life in a twisting coil.
My waters end where they began,
Where life takes hold of its brief span;
To return to that enigmatic source,
Where once again I flow on my course.
The fragrance from the flowers as I pass,
Scent the air with whispers from the grass;
And my waters run down as they go
Over gemlike stones my streamlets flow.
And the tears that pour from my sad eyes,
Go back to the sea where all rivers rise;
And if my soul should suddenly leap
Over a ledge to kiss violets that sleep;
Then I will wander back to the sea,
The mother source that set me free.
And if those riddles I must keep,
Let me not complain, but sweep
On to the bitter end without fear,
Knowing that He who walks with me is near.
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