A carrot in the toaster

Hung over from December,
January peers cautiously into the future.
The past year jogs her elbow…time to change.
Hope, around the open door of the New Year,
beckons…lighting the way.

The sharp winter cold
stirs the slurried taste of yesterday;
cleansing the palate to be
refreshed with new choices.

Braced, she strides forward,
trusting His promise that each false step
will not be irredeemable.

© Marion Sharville

On a day that’s cold and grey
the children act their Christmas play.
Their teachers have spent many hours
making cardboard sheep and cows.

Mixed infants gather on the stage
and shuffle to their places;
sit mums and dads, their glowing pride
lighting up their faces.

The shepherds and the Magi,
from distant lands have come,
at least along the corridor
from classroom number one.

Three tallest boys, with stuck on beards
are looking rather wary
in case the glue should come unstuck.
…and little Rose plays Mary.

The angels with their tinsel wings
below the star hung on a string,
are told to hover round about;
hands clasped in solemn prayer throughout.

The infant lying in the crib
is Joseph’s little brother Sid,
whose mum has lent him for the day,
the baby Jesus part to play.

He’d just arrived at home, whom mum
had called their ‘Little Stranger’
but he had slept in a nice clean cot,
not a grubby manger.

And young Joseph as he stood
beside the babe, felt really good
to be a part of this great story
of Peace and Joy and Love and Glory.

© Marion Sharville

(TO THE TUNE OF THE HOLY CITY)

Last night I lay asleeping
and then, the darn phone rang.
I picked it up and flung it,
it landed with a clang.
I heard her sweet voice crying
“Oh please return my call.”
Methought, whatever can I do?
What would be best of all?
Methought, whatever can I do?
What would be best of all?

An answer phone, an answer phone,
then if my love should ring
I’d sleep on, while she keeps on
and I wouldn’t hear a thing.

And then, methought, ‘hold on a bit,
this will not do at all,
if, in the morn, I phone her back,
they’ll charge me for the call.
It might be best to marry her;
then she will be right here.
Methinks, she can then snuggle up
and whisper in my ear.
Methinks, she can then snuggle up
and whisper in my ear.

No answer-phone, no answer-phone;
phone calls do not come cheap.
Methinks I’ll have to wed her,
then I can get some sleep.

© Marion Sharvile

Eternity is like the Advent Wreath;
no creep of death, no withering away;
continuous in love, forever green.

Against the values that will always keep,
our jewelled lives will last a single day.
Eternity is like the Advent Wreath.

Above the mobile phone’s demanding bleep,
the Voice we may not listen to, will stay
continuous in love, forever green.

The Breath of Life will mist the TV screen,
hold still the teeming way; we’ll hear Him say,
Eternity is like the Advent Wreath.

From darkened hills, the promised dawn will creep;
the vigilant alone, will see this day,
continuous in love, forever green.

Two thousand years, yet still, we mustn’t sleep;
a blink of time; not long to stay awake.
Eternity is like the Advent Wreath,
continuous in love, for ever green.

© Marion Sharville

Space, edged with the jagged of mountains;
the jumble of roof-tops,
the embroidery of trees,
flecked with the calligraphy of birds…

accepted graffiti.

This sphere of wondrous design enfolds our tiny lives.

Such an array of drama and beauty, ever changing
across the nursery walls of our growing time;
the challenge of dawn,
wind-chased puff of clouds,
grumble of storms,
blaze of sunsets.

Every miracle different…a ‘one off’

but behind the passing scenes,
lies the pure eternal blue of Mary’s gown.

The sun rests behind the dark backcloth of the night.
Stars chink through the fabric,
plotting the course of the dreaming lovers’ moon
gliding silently through time to greet
and touch the hem of the new dawn.

© Marion Sharville

The Faculty of Life regrets and fears
the package we’ve delivered is worse for wear.
It started off quite clean behind the ears
but found parts of the journey hard to bear.

The exuberance of youth first sped him on,
the outer wrapping still strong and intact
but “Follow orders, lad, now go along,
the years of war will put a stop to that.”

His mates who fell, still live inside his head
as homeward bound to strangers, he now goes.
Responsibilities and cares make up his bed
back in a life that he no longer knows.

The solitude, despite surrounding love;
a bubble that no pin can ever burst,
has changed his way of thinking; how to move
with caution, a skill in which he is well versed.

Persistence, nurtured through the killing time,
prepared the way for Hope to struggle through
as shattered lives broke rank and crossed the line;
a field of bitter memories, in which to start anew.

The outer wrap is torn but underneath,
the inner man stores courage; some to spare.
Hope, the eternal optimist, will breathe
and fan the flame of youth that once was there.

Time has patched him up with unseen thread;
embroidered golden moments on his heart
to balance things twixt living and the dead
but those closed eyes remain a vital part.

The condition of this package is a mess.
We did our very best to keep him safe
but the Faculty of Life must now confess
it was his inner strength that helped to reach this place;

the place which now, will grant him perfect rest
and damaged goods or not… he will be blessed.

© Marion Sharville

BANG!
and the dog creeps under the piano stool.

Missing the faded beauty of Autumn
we look for more colours as we step
into the murky mists of November.

Duffle-coated against the cold, we watch
the burning effigy of the man
whose memory is rekindled every year.

Lost historic drama put to the torch

Catherine-wheels and sparklers
entrance the young. Squibs and
jumping crackers provide the edge.
Echoing sounds and sparks fire at the sky.

A bombardment to delight.

Rockets send clusters of stars to burst
into their own beautiful but fleeting galaxies ,
expanding to nothingness.

Is our own planet just part of a firework display,
wondrous but short-lived?

BANG!
where will we find a piano stool?

I’ll put a carrot in the toaster,
a pot of face cream in my shoe.

Anything will do
as long as it is out of place;
a silent clue what I must do
to see me through
this ‘clean forgotten’ phase.

A handkerchief, tied in a knot,
once helped a lot.
A different issue, is a tissue.

A diary to rely on,
is the answer, if I choose it,
but then, I’d only lose it.

I will create a memory-mate.

Not a lot of people boast a
carrot in the toaster.

© Marion Sharville

Relentless pacing of years,
despite illusions,
marching slowly in single file
towards their ultimate goal.
Snatching here, giving there,
teasing with promises
that slip twixt cup and lip.

Compassion, cupping the chins
of drooping heads,
raises them gently to gaze briefly
into the wonder of fulfilment.

The spring of life coils endlessly,
twisting through the years.
The soaring thrust of youth
strides arrogantly
into the summer garden,
preens still, in the desperate,
vivid beauty of Autumn,

then wearily lifts aged arms to scratch
at the slate skies of winter, letting
through the life waters of heaven
to nourish the unborn years.

© Marion Sharville

A clatter as the old box is
tipped out on to the kitchen table,
adding more clutter to the things
not yet cleared away.

Small hands reach for treasures.
Eyes large, tongue helping,
she concentrates on building a world.
Reality takes a back seat and life dances
between the butter dish and the sugar bowl.

The quietness is inlaid with
the child’s soft humming.
Contentment settles like a
carelessly thrown cashmere shawl.

© Marion Sharville