Let us roll together on the cobbled floors of
Europe and pick up, in our greedy search,
Every fallen crisp and old blade of ancient grass.
Good old restless fleas must not peck at them
Or resume haunting the spectres that follow
Them season after season.
And it must be on a Sunday —post
Sunday school—after the church bell has rung twice;
After the spell of the visiting thaumaturge on the village
Has followed the blight of the late rains of a
......
With your silent melody,
There’s no day like you
Quite like Christmas, splendidly
You reign supreme in what you do,
Reminding us of easy peace
Of time, solemn and gentle to the tune
Of fork and knife on plates of geese
After the church bell had rung at noon.
You couldn’t know, but I’m the reaper,
Grim grinning, cotton steering, empty hulled.
Your sweet momma saw; she saw, she said.
She said, she says she saw that I’m a keeper.
I’m a keeper in your eye,
But keep your eyes on me.
Keep your eyes on me; don't leave me be.
Your momma, see. She said she saw,
She said she saw you flee.
......
It’s always the last of the booming sounds.
That, which ricochets slowly into the tunnel of
Our souls —that hard, wavering metallic
Whisper — wafting high and solemnly — from the belfry,
Floating through the spikes of Gothic sails,
Frightening gargoyles and hushing magpies,
On its way down to the audience of Sunday.
Up in the morning, the bluebirds were singing,
Then off to church, as the bells were ringing,
A pastel spring bloomed the peach moments away,
And the morning star shone on an azure pathway!
Luscious Sunday dinner, conversing and laughter,
On the lazy days, sweet time slips away faster!
Afternoon on the porch, with family and friends,
Lolling in the gold sunshine, sunset always ends.
Let us roll together on the cobbled floors of
Europe and pick up, in our greedy search,
Every fallen crisp and old blade of ancient grass.
Good old restless fleas must not peck at them
Or resume haunting the spectres that follow
Them season after season.
And it must be on a Sunday —post
Sunday school—after the church bell has rung twice;
After the spell of the visiting thaumaturge on the village
Has followed the blight of the late rains of a
......
It’s always the last of the booming sounds.
That, which ricochets slowly into the tunnel of
Our souls —that hard, wavering metallic
Whisper — wafting high and solemnly — from the belfry,
Floating through the spikes of Gothic sails,
Frightening gargoyles and hushing magpies,
On its way down to the audience of Sunday.
With your silent melody,
There’s no day like you
Quite like Christmas, splendidly
You reign supreme in what you do,
Reminding us of easy peace
Of time, solemn and gentle to the tune
Of fork and knife on plates of geese
After the church bell had rung at noon.
Sunday rises gallantly from behind
Distant clouds, orange, on the wall
Of low, chintzy, tepid skies.
Bells sound with tamed decibels
Through tiny holes on top cupolas of
Rounded, gilded cathedrals to welcome
A yellow day that reclines on the edge
Of the week. Sunday salutes the spunk
......
It begins mostly
When Saturday has rolled by
Like a trundling drum on gravel,
With all the loud sounds of
Rock ‘n’ roll music.
In one sleepy hour,
We wake and hail
The sirens of the birth
Of a new day, sunny and warm,
But sometimes with giggling snow
......