Wednesday, 21 December 2016

Poetry Thursday 243 - Nativity

Four more sleeps to go and the schools are almost all closed having sported their Nativity assemblies and similarly the Nativity services in churches will have taken place.
Nativity is a new birth or beginning and in some respects allows us frail and frivolous creatures to reset the clock on our behaviours.


Nativity Plays

Halls are filled with expectant whispering,
parents, grandparents and friends are waiting,
in eager anticipation of the signal to go,
indicating the start of the nativity show.

The focus for all is the children’s display,
and the roles assumed in this traditional play,
whether they are angels, shepherds or kings,
what type of gifts will the little ones bring?

Will it be gold, frankincense or myrrh,
or the 21st century version causing a stir?
Something to be said for observing tradition,
rather than bowing to present day fashion.

So, on to the stage in billowing sheets,
tea towel head dresses, and costumes complete.
Tinsel haloes, and rope tied waists,
no concessions for individual taste.

The production’s rich in speech and song,
it really doesn’t matter if something goes wrong,
for the age old story’s message is the same,
a sojourn to Bethlehem from where Jesus came.

The end product a few minutes of revelry,
in the undisputed talent of their progeny,
and the chance to welcome the birth of a child,
the world had embraced and then who beguiled.
© David L Atkinson December 2016


Everyone should spend some of this time of year considering the less fortunate. I was walking through the bustling crowds in Dewsbury, W Yorkshire when I spotted a homeless man in an underpass.

Image result for homeless man

Life is brittle

The crowds rush by stirring the cold air,
barely glancing at the motionless one,
hurrying to the shops to spend hard earned money,
not considering him sitting on the flags with none.
Worrying about what to buy for which child,
when he will be fortunate to find shelter,
concerned about the quantity of gift wrap,
while he huddles in ill-fitting rags and shiver.
What weight of turkey to put on the table,
if he’s lucky there will be a free meal.
How to plan out the day so all are happy,
when for him the extra fuss seems unreal.
Sitting in the pedestrian underpass on a damp, smelly blanket,
a greasy upturned hat for money but containing little,
he isn’t planning ahead beyond that night,
and if lucky a bed and another day – but life’s brittle.
© David L Atkinson December 2016


God Bless