Autumn is upon us and as the season takes hold we take comfort wherever we find it. It could be from a bowl of hot soup, it might be a warm blanket or a seat next to a warm fire. What is your comfort? We’re writing a comfort poem!
Fall There’s a chill in the air. Just enough to grab a sweater and cute boots. Enough to birth sweet, crisp apples. The kind of perfect chill that calls my dad to mind - the pride I felt watching him direct the Star-Spangled Banner for the football pregame on a perfect autumn afternoon that smelled of popcorn and stadium dogs. The kind of chill that warms my heart and feeds my joy. Fall: The season of my heart. Fall: Collapse. As I drink in the season, life collapses at the feet of a friend. She writes of the woeful loss of her husband with words that both singe and chill. I know her only from afar, but I know her. How often have her stirring words and soothing photos of the beauty surrounding her touched my heart, and lifted my spirits? How often has she bravely shared the slow slide of Alzheimer’s as it stole her sweetheart far too soon? When the news came to me, I spent much time vainly stringing words and counting syllables - only to realize there’s a chill in the air, and no words warm enough. © Marie Elena Good, 2021 Dearest Janet: May you feel the strength of our Father’s love, and the warmth of your Poetic Bloomings family. Gentle hugs …
ALLA FREDDA TUA CAPANNA To Your Cold Hut (Translated) In my travels, I have seen great opulence, I have seen great want, just a scant spec of existence. But even such a life will spark a persistence to survive. The key is to keep alive. As the seasons transform from the warm climates to a chilled alternative, it is imperative we care for those sisters or brothers. I will come to your cold hut bringing a meal to feed you, a warmth to fill you and seed you with the spark of life meant for all. I will call on you to bring you sustenance. I will come to your cold hut bringing clothes more substantial than the tatters you cling to in modesty. I honestly care to share with you to fill your chests with my excess. I will come to your cold hut bearing logs for your fire, meant to stoke the desire within you. It is within you to lift yourself up in the glowing warmth of love’s flow. I will come to your cold hut to comfort you in your time of sadness, hoping to fill you with the gladness which your life truly deserves. It preserves your sanity, your humanity. I will come to your cold hut to share the joy of Christmas, bearing gifts of life meant to lift your strife and bring you its blessings through love. I have a purpose to help where I can and be the kind of man I was meant to be, to see the suffering of others, buffering my sisters and brothers from its pain, again and again. And I will come to your hut in love. In that, I take pause. I am (everybody’s) Santa Claus. © Walter J Wojtanik - 2021