River

It’s coming on Christmas
They’re cutting down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

But it don’t snow here
It stays pretty green
I’m going to make a lot of money
Then I’m going to quit this crazy scene
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I made my baby cry

He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on

I’m so hard to handle
I’m selfish and I’m sad
Now I’ve gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
I wish I had a river I could skate away on

Oh, I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby say goodbye

It’s coming on Christmas
They’re cutting down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river I could skate away on

the Christmas Bootie

Every year for at least, 20 years, starting in the 70’s…my grandmother would knit Christmas booties for the whole family.

Which leads me to offer up other 70’s Christmas goodies from Xmas past…

The Disco Gown
Jean Nate’ essential oils
Topping the whole outfit off…the Mood Ring
And, no Christmas would be complete without the entertainment!

Some items have stood the test of time. One actually hangs from my dream catcher to this very day!

the Feathered Roach clip

Naturalist Christmas

 

 

No way to know these woods well, to assume, they are my friends.

No way to examine sacrificed buildings,

to know if they have a hand to lend.

While routine holds fast to my wandering eye.

The purist in me believes, it is my love for recanted beauty that will get me by.

Long lasting and languid, as a lover’s kiss.

A slumbering, lumbering, shine.

Such as coffee, in my morning cup.

So, what of devotion offering a look up?

Freedom of thought.

Offerings mature in shredded leaf.

Matted frost prints, two feet, several precious paws.

Hints of frankincense from a misguided thaw.

There is no ambiguity between the rock and dust that is chilled in a worn path.

The floating heavens did not force my hand.

It is but grace that brought me here.

It is with grace I hope to hold that affinity dear.

 

 

 

 

 

Not That It Matters

I find it difficult to believe in Father Christmas.  If he is the jolly old gentlemen he is always said to be, why doesn’t he behave as such?  How is it the presents go so often to the wrong people?

-A.A. Milne