Thank you to The School Magazine for including my story The Scent of Cinnamon in November ORBIT. A sad Christmas story with a happy ending!
family
Back to the Books
one-by-one
bright beads on the abacus
are slid home—
the changing pattern
of my daughter’s bookshelves
Julie Thorndyke
From my Memory’s Treasure
tears roll
as pearls spilled
from a string—
an indigo sky
flashed with lightning
well-rounded vowels
of alto melody
ascending—
swaddled in a shawl
of homemade lullabies
silver-topped
milk bottles dotted
with dew—
winter breakfasts
sunlit with sugar grains
even white loops
of baby-yarn slide
on tortoiseshell needles
pale cakes rising
in the gas oven
a child wakes
to the sound of dishes
and quiet footsteps—
morning hymns
on the wireless
Julie Thorndyke
A Stir of the Pudding
A String of Christmas Memories by the Tanka Huddle 2017
granny and me
stirring dried fruits
and brandy . . .
one nip for gran
one for the pud
Marilyn Humbert
at the mall
for photos with santa—
I yearn
for a star-filled night
and choirs of angels
Jan Foster
it’s forty degrees
and mum’s had enough
christmas
crackers snap
around the table
Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti
christmas
meant rum and plum cake
childhood memory
of our annual trip
to Cochin bakery
Rugmini Venkatraman
christmas eve
we toss and turn
quiet . . .
mum fills the stockings
we pretend to sleep
Karen Lieversz
reindeer puppets
pranced on polystyrene snow
but the tug
on my heart-strings
was absolutely real
Julie Thorndyke
green icing
on the christmas cake
and a frill
make all the difference—
mum comes home this year
Laura Davis
sunshine and sleigh bells
holly and magpie song
carols under stars
the customs learned in childhood
swim united in my mind
Beverley George
broken nails
and roughened hands
massaged
by the sweet balm
of a christmas-ready house
Anne Benjamin
three-penny
and six-penny pieces
stored all year
polished up in time for us
to polish up the pud
Carmel Summers
[Copyright of each individual tanka remains with the poets.]
Pansy and the Christmas Tree
Last January, I saw the email call for submissions from Christmas Press for their 2017 anthology, A Christmas Menagerie.
I spent several afternoons devising a story based on memories my mother had told me, about a Christmas she had on the family dairy farm at Federal in the 1930s when she was a girl.
Although I have made up the characters and the plot, there really was a cranky cow called Pansy who gave my mother a black eye when being milked.
All their cows had names. This photo isn’t Pansy, the cranky cow. When we were going through photos, sorting out names and places, Mum told me it was Anzac, a nice cow born on Anzac Day.
The surprise Christmas meal was also true, and I know that Mum and her family had sing-a-longs with friends for which my grandfather played the fiddle. They were Methodists, and music was essential to their lives.
We celebrate Christmas without her now, but I hope Mum would be pleased that a story she gave me so many elements for is now in print.
Hands
My father’s hands were strong and silent
capable, restless, methodical, worn.
Missing the tip of a digit or two;
able to mend shoes, carve the weekend roast,
mow lawns, grow vegetables
give out hymn books, shake hands after church,
make piles of the collection-plate coins
lay carpet, fix the car, drive to music lessons
make a new key to wind up my toy train.
His hands could claim me if the surf were too wild;
were strong to carry this broken-legged child
put metho on mozzie bites, dab soap on my nose
clap hands for the babies, and cheer when they smiled.
In this noisy shouting world with strident voices cluttered
hear the quiet words of love my father’s hands have uttered.
© Julie Thorndyke
Sounds Like Christmas
my whir of the whisk,
your secret wrapping sessions…
car doors open, close,
scattered siblings
once more under one roof
© Julie Thorndyke
