The Conscience of Christmas

The conscience of our hearts …

I’m reposting the poem below, which I wrote in December 2012, as today marks four years since twenty children were lost to gun violence at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut.

Tragically, heart-achingly, children continue to die and suffer around the world as in Aleppo, Syria:

“One in every 122 humans is now either a refugee, internally displaced, or seeking asylum. Half of all refugees are children.”

Worldwise displacement hits all-time high as war and persecution increase.

 

Copyright 2012 by DM Denton

The weather isn’t frightful
as the snow falls on cue,
just following its heart
that longs for innocence
in a world where it is
all too brief.

The cold creates a warmth of
knowing we must come in
from the harsh winds that blow
humanity to shame
and haunt its soul for right
to be done.

The season cannot change what
happened to children who
did not doubt tomorrow
and to all those who did,
their smiles lost in tears
not in vain.

For as long as winter turns
from darkness to cast light
on a softer view through
the narrowing window
of how to make amends,
we must try.

 

Blessings of the season to all.
Prayers for non-violence to prevail
in the New Year and beyond.

Copyright 2012 DM Denton

©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.

Repost: The Conscience of Christmas

Really hoped to come up withsome new, but with one thing and another, including a sick kitty – who is thankfully much better now – I will share this one again (written after the Newtown, Connecticut tragedy last year), which fits in with the spirit of sorrow and hope with the passing of Nelson Mandela. This post could just as well be titled “The Conscience of Anytime.” Peace.

The weather isn’t frightful
as the snow falls on cue,
just following its heart
that longs for innocence
in a world where it is
all too brief.

The cold creates a warmth of
knowing we must come in
from the harsh winds that blow
humanity to shame
and haunt its soul for right
to be done.

The season cannot change what
happened to children who
did not doubt tomorrow
and to all those who did,
their smiles lost in tears
not in vain.

For as long as winter turns
from darkness to cast light
on a softer view through
the narrowing window
of how to make amends,
we must try.

Blessings of the season to all.
Prayers for non-violence to prevail
in the New Year and beyond.

Copyright 2012 DM Denton

©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.

The Conscience of Christmas

Copyright 2011 by DM Denton

The weather isn’t frightful
as the snow falls on cue,
just following its heart
that longs for innocence
in a world where it is
all too brief.

The cold creates a warmth of
knowing we must come in
from the harsh winds that blow
humanity to shame
and haunt its soul for right
to be done.

The season cannot change what
happened to children who
did not doubt tomorrow
and to all those who did,
their smiles lost in tears
not in vain.

For as long as winter turns
from darkness to cast light
on a softer view through
the narrowing window
of how to make amends,
we must try.

Blessings of the season to all.
Prayers for non-violence to prevail
in the New Year and beyond.

Copyright 2012 DM Denton

©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.

Award Acknowledgements and Repost: Yeats Warned Me

Time has been getting away from me lately, and I apologize for being behind on acknowledging your visits, and reading and commenting on your posts. Once more I am resorting to a repost, one that rather reflects my mood of late, and I trust will offer more in the way of hope than regret to all those who read it for the first and second time.

I would like to make a specific and belated thank you to Susan Moffat (Writing Glimmers – a collection of original poetry and prose) for nominating me for One Lovely Blog Award, and to the London Flower Lover  who nominated me for the Reality Award. Please visit their wonderful sites as soon as you can, and, perhaps, also sample some of the other blogs they nominated.

I am so grateful to everyone who has encouraged and supported my writing and artwork, and who befriended me sight unseen. I award all of you my heartfelt wishes for health and happiness!

As I grow older
I become
lost in youthfulness.
The sky draws darker
reclaiming
starry innocence
while water
at its deepening
appears less troubled,
and leaves fall
fast into winter
full of sleep
yet not so gray as
the sun comes closer.
Most poets
love the shadows deep,
pilgrim souls
the wandering days
changing everything
and nothing.
But Yeats warned me
of regret,
so I’ve been waiting
and expecting it
as prickly
as the thistle down
and out of
time for murmuring
how love did escape
to will more
of life in its wake.

Writing note: Here is the poem that prompted mine… 

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)  

©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.

The Cove

The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.
The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.

Khalil Gibran

Copyright 2012 by DM Denton

     She wandered away from a dream, not to escape the music but the baking sun and choking dust, down to where psychics delighted and deceived, and a glassblower entertained like a charlatan too. Just beyond was a clearing as lonely as she was looking for, grass still dewy and air cooled by the cove nearby, sloping towards a small pavilion gradually withdrawing its shadow from the few benches in front of it. She sat a while to watch a young juggler whose clothes were too big and smile too shy, until she noticed an arm-in-arm couple looking for privacy too. They settled for being inconsequentially observed, laying a blanket on the ground and laughing as they embraced the amusement that love could be.
     The boy stopped juggling, his eyes laughing too, embarrassing her because he knew what she was missing. He’d been there at the top of the fair with flute and harp and fiddle and viol, the wind in the leaves and the charm in a voice that had fooled them all.
     She picked up the trail of her skirt, running and stooping to disappear into willowy branches, ignoring any sign of what was off-limits except as she stepped slower down a mossy bank, leaning forward—like the trees along the inlet—for a glimpse of wisdom. 
    She threw in her heart and as it sank there was hardly a ripple.

At first sight
you
were a voice
of
lyric
and melody;
I did not
know
your face,
your height,
the color of your hair.

Second sight
I
heard what was
just
ahead—
the lyric and
melody
of
your face,
your height,
the color of your hair,
the entertainer in you.

By the third
I
saw at last
who
you were,
the lyric and
melody
of
my life
that was mine no more.

©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.

Poem: Yeats Warned Me

 

As I grow older
I become
lost in youthfulness.
The sky draws darker
reclaiming
starry innocence
while water
at its deepening
appears less troubled,
and leaves fall
fast into winter
full of sleep
yet not so gray as
the sun comes closer.
Most poets
love the shadows deep,
pilgrim souls
the wandering days
changing everything
and nothing.
But Yeats warned me
of regret,
so I’ve been waiting
and expecting it
as prickly
as the thistle down
and out of
time for murmuring
how love did escape
to will more
of life in its wake.

Writing note: Here is the poem that prompted mine… 

               When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)  

©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.