The Season to be ...

whatever you feel, being social still matters

This is not really a season of happiness and joy for me. I don’t think that it ever has been though of course I do remember some happy times in various Decembers, and fun with kids of various ages. I do prefer the quieter times. Just now I feel like sharing some of the poems I have written. These were written at different times. First, one that expresses loss and the bewilderment one can feel for all kinds of losses. How often we deceive ourselves!

Loss

Nothing.
Is as it seems.
It is zero.
Exactly as it is.
None. Absence. Gone.
Hopes come to naught,
missing you everywhere,
you people my dreams.

Nothing is as it seems.

Then this one. It is called Happiness, and there are several poems about being happy on my poetry site Poetry of Moods and Moments.

Happiness

Happiness
is a bud on the outer reaches of a branch
waiting in the crepuscular light at dawn
for the ray of sun rising
anticipating its time to unfurl
feel its warmth
hear the geese arrow high above.

Happiness
is joy felt by the puppy
hearing his littermate
wake from nighttime sleep
ready to roll, tumbling
yipping yapping together.

Happiness is.

Finally, I can’t resist sharing the one about the worst Christmas I ever spent … I wrote this during Christmas 2012, happily spent on my own, remembering and writing. The references to Larne and Stranraer (for those who do not know) refer to the ferry crossing from Scotland (Stranraer) to Northern Ireland (Larne) that I and my family regularly took for many years, driving from London north to Carlisle and then Stranraer for the crossing to Larne, then a further drive to either my parents, or then-husband’s parents.

Winter 1991- 92.

I remember
the motorway
The rain on it
Driving to hospital
airport, in-laws,
home to parents’ house,
back to Larne and Stranraer,
over and over
and again.

I remember
remembering
journeys to Stranraer
the stories of a marriage.
Too much stuff in the car.
Boys singing, joking, yelling
eating, sleeping
on the mattress in the back.
In the years before seat-belts
tucked us all in safely.
Before the marriage buckled,
too much stuff.

In the years before
twenty-four hour service stations,
Someone would not fill up
at Carlisle or Gretna Green.
I remember sleeping
in a forecourt
somewhere near Castle Douglas
and another time
we made it to Newtonstewart,
or was it Gatehouse of Fleet,
before waiting in that forecourt
not speaking much
till opening time.
Long past sailing
Waiting on stand-by.

Now, I remember
another Christmas,
older boys abroad,
brought home,
to see grand-parents
to say good-bye
to grand-parents.
Their own parents
not too grand.
Recently separated,
the in-laws are ill,
my parents are ill,
everyone has to be seen,
spoken to, comforted,
reassured, all will be well.

I remember, it rained.
I forgot to fill up
before Christmas morning.
That whole day
Smiling, driving,
exchanging gifts,
one eye open
for an open station.
Not one.
The needle stopped dropping
fixed itself below red.
For thirty miles of wet road
the empty car crawled home.

I am still wondering
how it is
that sometimes
when nothing is left
even a car just knows
it just has to keep going.

And now it is again a Christmas season. Just for the record, I HATE the glitter. I dislike the commercialisation of everything, even food, as the supermarkets viw for the trade. But some of it is rather good, generous and social, the spirit of solstice, birth and rebirth, is not too far away. Photo of Sister Veronica and me (I am a year younger than V). I will spend this Christmas with her.