Best Traditions Poems
Mention trains and candy canes
lighted trees and paper chains…
be sure to tell the story right
Jesus' birthday on Christmas night.
Debate about where and when
were there truly three wise men?
Explain the who, the what, the way
they brought Him gifts a later day.
Reindeer reins, celebrations,
Santa's sleigh, decorations
make clear this winter holiday
traditions bound by disarray.
God so loved this restless world.
He sent his Son to herald
redemption, God's gift from the start
eternal change of hardened heart.
Jesus Christ, God sent to save
redeem mankind from the grave.
The "why" of Christmas, sing it well
God lives with us: Immanuel.
November 20, 2021
contest: November or December Quatrain Poetry
hostess: Caren Krutsinger
Love contests in quantities, like numbers,
game of chance for romance by the numbers,
You and you, pick one or two, left first choose,
then right follows through ... awake the numbers,
if I was you, don't let romance wait too,
go ahead, awaken the dead ... numbers,
At last, the dead have passed, now let's see who?
Romance counts true ... encounter the numbers,
You have the Lucky Two, which means you lose,
You've one, as you've begun ... 'twas the numbers,
So stop your frets, but guess what's next; Round Two,
Where you and you will not choose the numbers,
But I will choose which one of you will step ...
aside. Let the other get the numbers,
with the roll of a dice, the one who stepped
aside, from counted steps of dice numbers,
--HOLD, break from sequence, noted facial change,
bears a consequence, shortchange the numbers,
FOCUS, understand passion, hence, begin
again, --dice rolled--, start steps to those numbers,
Distance makes the difference, the farther
you are from me, the better ... you, numbers,
Your turn, the dice have been rolled, go, distant
yourself. The dice will roll seven numbers,
This was the first, therefore, six more to go.
The Desert Tribesman's way's ... the numbers,
We live by this code of honor. Methods,
in and of itself, seems nothing ... numbers
seems nothing. The deserts way, the Desert
People ... Ancestral ties are... the numbers.
The tradition in question comes from the apostles
Hands on when they received from Jesus’ teaching examples
What they learned from the Eternal Holy Spirit
First generation of Christian did not have a written New Testament
It demonstrates the process of living tradition
Tradition is to be distinguished from the various theological
Disciplinary
Liturgical or devotional traditions
Born in the local churches over time
These are particular forms
Adapted to different places
Times
In which the great Tradition is expressed in the light of Tradition
The traditions can be retained
Modified
Even abandoned under the guidance of the Church’s magisterium
1132015
Christmas Traditions
By Dane Smith-Johnsen
It was the Day after Thanksgiving and every store in town.
Had planned to opened wide its doors before daylight could be found.
It was an outlandish sight to see people sleep overnight.
Shoppers camping on sidewalks people waiting in the moonlight.
The Christmas shopping season was formally set in motion!
Hustling, bustling, getting, and grabbing: bikes, pipes, and lotion.
TVs, wreaths, computers, briefs, trees, ties, anything money buys.
Some starry-eyed children sway singing with Santa beneath skies.
Meanwhile, Jesus Christ, the nativity, and live manger scenes
Attempt to teach people what the Christmas season really means.
A few carolers come singing along their neighborhood streets.
And the folks that they sing too, with big smiles, surprise them with treats.
A God loving soul amid the clamorous celebrations,
Gathers his family, to make costumes and preparations.
Mary, Joseph, Jesus, shepherds, and the three Kings with gifts, myrrh.
Reverently, they reenact our blessed Savior's Holy birth.
This poem was written for Carolyn Devonshire's Christmas in Your Town contest.
Poetic form: A narrative written in couplets.
The Bible condemns all tradition
St. Paul says to hold fast to the traditions he taught
Either orally or in writing
Traditions for the next President
by Edmund Siejka
Why is it that a President
Is always a Boss
Never a worker?
Always a schoolyard bully
Never a hero?
Always a pretender
Never a king?
I want an average
Everyday kind of person
For President.
I want a President who owned a small business
Worked 14 hour days
To keep his store afloat.
Or a wait staff
In a busy diner
Working back to back shifts
For tips and loose change.
I want a truck driver and his wife
Who scrimped and saved
So their kids could go to college.
Couldn’t one of them be President?
How about someone born of recent immigrants for President?
Whose parents didn’t speak English
But who made something of herself
She could teach us about determination and overcoming hardships.
Or a veteran?
Yeah, don’t forget about them
Didn’t they serve when a lot of people were busy going to college?
For President I want that retired schoolteacher
Who taught bored teenagers
And still managed to keep her sanity.
I want to know why this isn’t possible.
A true Walden pond,
Slashed roads that break beyond.
We light a Philly XL;
Cut and filled with ganja and ale.
Lack of concern,
No pity and no pain.
Lack of emotion,
What a laugh to call it
A shame.
Filled to the brim with
Whisky and rye,
A burning blunt misting the ride.
Laughter that can’t hide smiles,
Chopped lines
Sparkle like flowers.
Not a care in the world;
Who cares, and no food from chores?
Whatever, now more on to more;
The opiates that came from the chores.
Pop four, then take five more;
Crush the last one to share for.
Bad vibes sweep the room,
Never intended to pay the check only
To leave so soon.
Stumbling through town again
Because of the hallucinogens,
Really, there’s no such thing as sin.
A thesis built on Gonzo traditions,
Break out the hash,
The lines are spinning again.
Saturnalia, the pagan worship of winter solstice,
the darkest tidings of the year.
The birth of our Nazarene most likely
September 29th.
Like a used car dealer rolling back the odometer,
Pope Julius I moved Christ’s birth to
December 25th
to sign up more pagans
at the darkest tidings of the year.
For this, the Puritans never celebrated Yuletide,
a pagan holiday of sin.
Still, rituals of the festive season endure.
Sitting in solemn silence on the eve of every Christmas,
the Swedes turn their TVs to Donald Duck.
So too do the Japanese eat a bucket of KFC
while the Ukrainians decorate Christmas trees with fake spider webs.
In Greenland, men serve women whale blubber
and the Catalonian’s nativity scenes always
include a bare-bottomed pooping man.
These are the darkest tidings of the year,
Christmas is incomplete without them.
These are the devotions of Noel.
When men see through
They also want to go through
Lack of self control
Leads to a number of tears
'Tis rape when a father breaks the wall
Of his adolescence daughter
And says it is tradition
'Tis rape when a man wants to go through
And he will
Because he paid lobola
Shall we call it rape
When he tells you the A to Z of promises
And never keeps one
Because he wanted to go through
The sweet tongue of perception
Has led to the fatherless children of Africa
The so called cultural activities
Has led to the insecurities of young women
Depriving them of their rights to voice
But our cries fall on deaf ears
As though we are in outer space
Generation by generation we have learnt
To accept these traditions
Traditions of disparagement
Applesauce Cake
Once again autumn’s jubilee of gold and umber leaves
Drifts on a lazy Sunday morning rain
Past kitchen windows
Where scents of coffee and frying bacon
Walk hand in hand
Then race each other up the stairs
To look for dreamers missed by the dawn
While aunts and uncles,
Cousins, sisters, brothers,
Fathers, mothers
Squeeze side by side into the breakfast nook,
Touched by the shadow of Annette’s camellia tree
Leaves tousled by the hand of autumn,
To breakfast over fall chrysanthemums
When Grammie clears her throat,
Midst suspended coffee cups,
Declaring:
“This year I don’t think I’ll bake applesauce cake
For Thanksgiving.”
Gentle rains thunder in the silence
Before stunned voices jump to life again
Envisioning a holiday without
Her crunchy pickles,
New made jellies,
Opened for the harvest festival,
Completed by the allspiced cake
Studded with plump summer raisins
And toasted nuts;
“All right.” she smiling says,
Looking deep into her coffee cup,
A gypsy searching for the future,
“If you really want applesauce cake….”
One voice resounds:
“We really want applesauce cake!”
Outside the passing wind
Pats down the season’s
Ruffled hair
While serenity settles back
Into her place at breakfast
Once again.
The Sun People believe
they came from the Sun-
they avoid darkness like the plague
they believe darkness is a soul's eraser!
The Cricket People:
There is a contest bachelors do-
one who sounds like a cricket for long,
marries a beautiful bride!
Cult of the Crab:
Members enter their temple
walking sideways;
one who walks normally
becomes an outcast.
The Fish People spend most
of their time in water. They
believe the one who is Enlightened
is one who develops gills and scales
like their Fish ancestors!
Disciples of Light:
They believe that their souls are cleansed
of their sins if they sleep under the Sun
for a whole day!
(the rest of the findings disappeared near a volcano)
Our gracious Queen, Elizabeth Alexandra Mary
Came to the throne aged twenty-five, which proved quite scary.
In every walk of life she sets the pace.
When post arrives she's met by a familiar face.
Philip, of noble stock, her blunt but dashing prince,
Is apt to put his royal foot in it which makes her wince.
He fathered offspring Andrew, Edward, Charles and Anne.
It's rumoured that he's 'Lisbeth's greatest long-term fan!
12/01/19
'Clerihew Couples for Valentine's Day Poetry Contest'
Sponsor : Carolyn Devonshire
Footnote:
Royal etiquette demands that no-one must walk in front of the Queen
The Queen's profile is on British postage stamps
According to traditions
Celtic and Welsh ideas
Masks to cover the living
To hide from the dead
Russell Sivey
Now and again I like to peek back through the mists of yore,
To muse about things that now can only be recalled as lore.
Things that are as American as apple pie and barbeque,
Traditional things of which my grandkids have no clue!
I recall the Fuller Brush Man who made his monthly call,
With suitcases full of gadgets that could do any job at all.
The Watkins Man offered spices and Carter's Little Liver Pills,
And Lydia Pinkham's miraculous brews to cure the ladies' ills!
Encyclopedia salesmen made their spiel, took the money and fled,
Implying sans his tomes your kid would become a dunderhead!
You bought more Cloverine Salve than you could ever use,
Since your kid was trying to earn a bike, it was hard to refuse!
I avidly read every word of a newsy little paper called "Grit."
It certainly expanded my country boy horizons quite a bit!
Butcher's Funeral Home distributed fans for most every occasion,
Especially to churches regardless of their religious affiliation.
You could find anything at Kresge's Five and Ten Cent Store.
They returned your change in a tube from the second floor.
Glitzy malls, computers and off-shore acquisitions,
Have almost left us bereft of some great American traditions!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
With flavored kisses she put me to sleep
a cheek sting of peppermint
forehead of lingonberry
eye lids of mango
and ear lobes of fig
She peppered me kisses
and smiled to discover
each remembrance of taste
with mystery lips
My nose: watermelon
My chin: cantaloupe
while I giggled silly
she listed each kiss
My sleeping was sweetly induced into this.
Now I am the mamma and tuck into sleep
with my own set of kisses
my little girl waits
for peppermint cheeks
and strawberry lips
and ear lobes of sugar cress
eye lids of figs
She giggles silly and waits on my words
Her forehead: papaya
Her chin: berries blue
Her nose: watermelon
and so we review
each thing that she's made of
all sugar and spice
and my mamma lives on in my little girl's eyes.