POETRY

[Julia A Knaake]

please give credit to the owner even if you are the owner...thank  you

[Julia A Knaake]

a photo of a Willow tree I took knee deep in bog one day on the way to Loomis Washington

Joyce Kilmer. 1886–1918

Trees

I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,	5
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.	10
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

[Julia A Knaake]

cookie baking time

[Julia A Knaake]

Twas the Night before Christmas Poem   Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads. And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below. When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer. With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name! "Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack. His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly, That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly! He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself! A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk. And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose! He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"         ~ Clement Clarke Moore (1779 - 1863)

[Julia A Knaake]

Clement Clarke Moore (1779 - 1863) wrote the poem Twas the night before Christmas also called “A Visit from St. Nicholas" in 1822. It is now the tradition in many American families to read the poem every Christmas Eve. The poem 'Twas the night before Christmas' has redefined our image of Christmas and Santa Claus. Prior to the creation of the story of 'Twas the night before Christmas' St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children, had never been associated with a sleigh or reindeers! Clement Moore, the author of the poem Twas the night before Christmas, was a reticent man and it is believed that a family friend, Miss H. Butler, sent a copy of the poem to the New York Sentinel who published the poem. The condition of publication was that the author of Twas the night before Christmas was to remain anonymous. The first publication date was 23rd December 1823 and it was an immediate success. It was not until 1844 that Clement Clarke Moore claimed ownership when the work was included in a book of his poetry.

[Julia A Knaake]

A Christmas Poem

by Robert Bly

Christmas is a place, like Jackson Hole, where all 
     agree
To meet once a year. It has water, and grass for 
     horses;
All the fur traders can come in. We visited the place
As children, but we never heard the good stories.

Those stories only get told in the big tents, late
At night, when a trapper who has been caught
In his own trap, held down in icy water, talks; and a 
     man
With a ponytail and a limp comes in from the edge of 
     the fire.

As children we knew there was more to it—
Why some men got drunk on Christmas Eve
Wasn't explained, nor why we were so often 
Near tears nor why the stars came down so close,
Why so much was lost. Those men and women
Who had died in wars started by others,
Did they come that night? Is that why the Christmas 
     tree
Trembled just before we opened the presents?

There was something about angels. Angels we
Have heard on high Sweetly singing o'er 
The plain. The angels were certain. But we could not
Be certain whether our family was worthy tonight.

"A Christmas Poem" by Robert Bly, from Morning Poems. © Harper Collins, 1998. Reprinted with permission.

[Julia A Knaake]

wonderful Helen just wonderful  the Oak leaf along with Ginkgo leaves are my favorites

[Julia A Knaake]

Bounty

by Robyn Sarah

Make much of something small.
The pouring-out of tea,
a drying flower's shadow on the wall
from last week's sad bouquet.
A fact: it isn't summer any more.

Say that December sun
is pitiless, but crystalline
and strikes like a bell.
Say it plays colours like a glockenspiel.
It shows the dust as well,

the elemental sediment
your broom has missed,
and lights each grain of sugar spilled
upon the tabletop, beside
pistachio shells, peel of a clementine.

Slippers and morning papers on the floor,
and wafts of iron heat from rumbling radiators,
can this be all? No, look — here comes the cat,
with one ear inside out.
Make much of something small.

"Bounty" by Robyn Sarah, from A Day's Grace. © The Porcupine's Quill, 2002. Reprinted with permission.

[Julia A Knaake]

December, Outdoors

by John Updike

Clouds like fish shedding scales are stretched
thin above Salem. The calm cold sea
accepts the sun as an equal, a match:
the horizon a truce, the air all still.
Sun, but no shadows somehow, the trees
ideally deleafed, a contemplative gray
that ushers into the woods (in summer
crammed with undergrowth) sheer space.

How fortunate it is to move about
without impediment, Nature having
no case to make, no special weather to plead,
unlike some storm-obsessed old symphonist.
The day is piano; I see buds so subtle
they know, though fat, that this is no time to bloom.

"December, Outdoors" by John Updike, from Endpoint.

© Knopf, 2009. Reprinted with permission.

[Julia A Knaake]

photo  © 2010 Julia A Knaake

Spirits Embody

full of energy with a smile so bright

waiting for Laughing Eyes to appear

sitting on the winding river's ledge

Laughing Eyes is her man with love

there is no one else for her, nobody

melding joyously belonging together

.

absorbing all movements in sight

his footsteps she wants to hear

being ever careful of the edge

wishing freedom to fly like a dove

villagers feel their love; everybody

melding joyously belonging together

.

eyes are twinkling even in star light

hearing nosily moving says he's near

he's meandering, gets caught in a wedge

wishing on a star falling from above

dreamily hoping she's that somebody

melding joyously belonging together

.

Little Squirrel has such a fright

yearning to be close, to touch her

Laughing Eyes peers over a low hedge

there she is sitting, oh, my beloved

a long embrace making spirits embody

melding joyously belonging together

.

    poetry        © 2009 Julia A Knaake

 

[Julia A Knaake]

Peace Indian

 

They were gentle kind, pure

taking from land only what

was needed using all the

skin,meat bones and fur

of the animals they took

for family food and shelter

after they left the land

returned to the way before

it had been with love

they thanked the god above

for his great given bounty

n ceremonies, song and dance

singing with great happy joy

beautiful wool rugs were made

beads of semi precious jewels

were mostly used for trade

feathers for the bravest chiefs

who carried pipes for peace

agree to treaty  said chief

we will not break word

many families are now gone

their history had been taken

away through lies and deceit

you had not honored us

 treaties so false were given

now we struggle to return

to heritage our ancestors behold

 

© 2009 Julia A Knaake

[Daddieo]

I couldn't agree more, PJ...excellent poem...right on the heart and thought!

[Julia A Knaake]

PJ I loved your original  poem

snow is magical...thank you for adding