The Day Christmas Was Stolen

Classmates taken

Their teachers lost

Friends they’ll never hug again

Only broken hearts remain.

The spirit of Christmas lost

Buried in hurt,

Numbed by shocked

Wash away by tears.

A town mourns it lost

Their sons

Their daughters

Sisters and brothers.

The Christmas Spirit lost

In thoughts

Unable to make sense

of what eyes see.

Sadness falls

Tears are shed

Hearts are broken

Lives are shattered,

As the Spirit of Christmas fads

No Christmas presents needed

Others will never be unwrapped

Flowers now mark there place.

Shock turns to disbelief

Disbelief turns to anger

Anger to a cry for justice

A cry for justice goes lost.

Taking with it the Spirit of Christmas

Crippled by hate

Stripped by grief

Taken away by our thoughts.

In memory of the 28 lives lost 12/14/12

Debbie Chilton (c) Copyright 2012

This Christmas

I’m not dreaming of snowflakes,

Nor reindeer hoofs on the roof,

I expect no jolly old man in a red suit,

And there’ll be no mistletoe over the door.

But I’ll deck out the Christmas tree,

With its bright green leafy leaves,

Bring out my Christmas angels,

To remind you what Christmas means to me.

The tree speaks of spring and new life,

A tree that would die one day to become a cross,

The angels who sang of the birth of a king,

God’s gracious gift when he sent his son for me.

I’ll set up my nativity scene,

I’ll wrap gifts that I’ve made,

And some that I’ve bought,

And place them under my Christmas tree,

To speak of the gift God once brought,

To earth wrapped in a cloth,

Placed in a wooden manger,

Like the wood used make a cross.

I’ll remember the baby gifts given to him,

The gold, the myrrh and frankincense too,

Gifts for a baby that would become king,

Gifts needed the day he was nailed to a tree.

This year I have gifts for those closest to me,

To given like the one who has given much to me,

Gifts that cost both money and time,

But fail in comparison to what Jesus gave to me.

For me these symbols of Christmas,

You’ll find this year in my home,

Represent a mother’s new born in a simple box,

Who was given gifts that told of the true cost.

Of the day God humbled himself,

By becoming a man,

Who would live a life worthy,

To become a prefect sacrifice.

Christmas is not about me or about gifts I receive,

It’s about remembering the only gift that I need,

My salvation bought through a death on a cross,

This, my friends, is what Christmas means to me.

  

 Debbie Chilton (c) Copyright 2012

Poet missing in action

Reclaiming Life . . .

So I spent the last 4 months loafing around, reading books, watching tv and sleeping a lot. So I have decided to decicated the next two months to friends, family, food, and fun as I regain my strength and spirit of adventure.

The truth is most of the last 4 months was spent in hospital, somewhere between conscious and unconsciousness. Most days the muscle relaxant I need knock me out for 1hr.  That makes a lot of lost hours over 4 months.  While I feel stronger and I home again coping quiet well, no body goes through a period like that and isn’t left weaken.

I still need to return to hospital at the end of August. So over the next 2 months I will be going to physio and seeing an OT to regain strength and functioning.  I also think I need some quality me time and catch up with friends instead of trying to take 10 different challenges on at once is important in my recovery.

I also have a holiday booked in Sept so fingers crossed I will be well enough to go.  Can’t wait actually, to make some new friends, have meals cooked for me, enjoy some adventures and fun times. 

So October like seems a good time to aim for coming back to work and writing commitments, although this will look very different,  and I will be reducing my commits and work hours to avoid a repeat performance.  As to what that will look like I have no idea, as a said its a prefect time to take stock, and reclaim what matters to me the most.

Looking forward to seeing my readers soon. 

Puddles & Poets In The Park!

The poets gathered once again to feast on food & poetry, in the puddles of Walloon. The poets came from everywhere just by smelling out the food.  ‘Must be Ipswich Poetry Feast time dear,’ The Goodna Gunner said to his wife! On this year there was one thing missing, the sunshine struggle to appear. Never fear when Paul Tully is about, we got off to a flying start. The Guests were welcome and absences noted, perhaps they’ll join us in another 10 years.  Oh did I forget to mention that we turned ten!

Dave gave his usually rave on the history of The Babies of Walloon, the park and competition too. As the did all those years ago, Bridgett Kate and Mary Anne dancing among the water lilies, as Don recited Henry Lawson The Babies of Walloon. And this year the grey skies let down their silent tears. Then came out the Sow & Sow’s to present their patchwork quilt to the captains of the school and a new tradition was born.

So it seemed the morning had everything, tucker, the brush, ceremony, tradition, art and culture . . . but then entered politics as Paul Tully unleashed the ghosts of politicians past, handing over to Denleigh the poets had the mike at last.

Some recall the tales of poets of the past, while others sent us into laugher tell us of childhood’s follies! Still other tired to regress into there days of youth, while the rest of us poets just told it how it is.

Local artist, poet and historian Judith Baker waved together tales of yester year and the very present, bringing up back to the reason we gather here, at Henry Lawson Bicentennial Park, to continue the tradition Lawson poem recorder and declare open the Ipswich Poetry Feast Competition.

So if you stay tucked in warm in bed, that wall all you missed. But be sure to join us next year to feast on food and poetry, hopeful without the puddles. Oh and don’t forget now to enter the dam competition!!!!

See Ipswich Poetry Feast Webstie for competition detains.   

My Thoughts

Pretty Things

To keep . . .

Pretty things don’t belong in boxes,

They show be opened and enjoyed,

Savoured and consumed as designed,

Pretty things shouldn’t sit in boxes.

Why not?

The box is clear I can see and enjoy,

The brilliance of the hot pink bottle,

That holds a scent once open is toxic to me,

Some times pretty things do belong in boxes.

Pandora’s Box . . .

Once open it can’t be its dangers lurk,

It’s beauty beckons to be used,

Its toxic sweet aromas to easily escape,

Sometimes pretty things are safer in boxes.

Temptations . . .

Its beauty dazzles the enquiring nose,

That fears not danger from the room perfume,

Once opened, unaware strangers may let toxins escape,

This pretty this is safest kept in its box.

To take . . .

If a pretty thing can not be savoured,

As it creator intended why should it be

Keep in a box and never enjoyed by anyone?

Pretty things do not belong in boxes.

The gift . . .

The brilliant hot pink bottle of sent,

Hold beauty in its design as an ordainment,

On the bookshelf in my bedroom,

The pretty thin h remains in it box – keeping me safe

The view  . . .

Which I still enjoy as I see the bottle,

Remembering it was chose for me by my sister,

For me to enjoy not someone else,

This pretty thing belongs in its box.

  

Debbie Chilton (c) Copywrite 2012

Boys Toys!

Photo taken by Carolyn Cordon

Used by Permission

Resting Place

Look at her what a beautiful beast she must have been,

Judging by her cover she’s had her last run,

Just look at her will you, she must have been loved by someone.

Pulled apart and put back many times I suspect,

Even in this pitiful state I can see she was much love.

What or should I say who brought her here to this spot?

Such a beautiful but lonely spot to die,

I see like any murder they robed her of anything of value,

Torn from her bashed-up shell any organs they could sell,

If it could be sold the thugs taken it!

Wasted! I can still see her multicoloured skits dancing,

In the cool summer afternoon breeze still,

Full of life she danced before speeding off,

Leaving the other girls standing blowing wolf whittles,

Her splendour colourful coat fails to mourn her death.   

Summer summer go away

heat trapped

moisture builds

rain fails

storms clear

heat stays

sleepless nights

tempers fray