Poems for the holidays
 

Hi folks,

Here is a solstitial offering:


Solstice

The year has journeyed to its shortest day,
as we have journeyed to the kitchen. In
its warm environment, the day begins –
Judy is making porridge, and a stray

cookie has landed on my plate. About
this time, a bird sings. Rita in her gown
heads for the bathroom. In the busy town
of Boston, you’ll not find an hour without

cars in the street, en route from A to B.
Todd’s learning Spanish; all the older folk
are up, the young sleep on. When I awoke,
the sun was still abed, and now I see

it rising in the East, beyond the park.
These are the holidays. I’ve had my share
of what you might call grooming, and a fair
amount of cookies. They have made their mark.

22.xii.2017

Headlines

Poll suggests
'Gay Jewish Atheists
Do Christmas Best'
Meanwhile
in Festive Fails
'Balloon Sculpture Nativity Scene
Causes Stir':
Inflatable Christ-child
breaks moorings,
ascends early
to avoid nails.

Grape Jelly

Heading to Lisa’s, we stopped at Trader Joe’s,
where the black ice had melted in the rain,
to purchase drink. We reached her house about
a car ride later, and took off our shoes
to greet the host - who said three sentences
or so to us in total. Our young men
moved among Lisa’s neighbors, as I sat
with Matt to speak of this and that. He asked
about our stay in Strasbourg, and I told
how Rita taught French as I crossed the Rhine
to teach my students German. There’s no need
to show a passport these days, if you’re not
en route to Hungary. This year, we plan
to take them to Vienna, and if not,
I said to Matt, we’ll head to Prague and Cracow,
which people say are lovely. Like a small
stone in a pond, Matt dropped into our chat
that thirty miles from Cracow, there is Auschwitz,
for those who care to visit. And the gears
of conversation shifted, as we talked
of what is right and what is not, of how
one teaches German, of the film Dunkirk,
of Wolf Hall, which I could not read – on page
eight or nine, the father kicks his prone
son in the head, and I put down the book.
We ate baked brie, and ham, and greeted Amy,
who’d put grape jelly on her meatballs. Matt
confided that in me – her mother’s secret.
When I met Amy, I was five or so,
there’s weight to our acquaintance. Did you put
grape jelly on your meatballs? I inquired.

24.xii.2017

Christmas Gravitas

Like early snow, these advent spirits sail
Through door and letterbox—addressed blackmail
In dumb appeals: How shall we choose between
The blind, the lame, and deaf? The pitch is seen,
Our hearts hammered by children’s hungry eyes.
Bewildered and perturbed, we shun those cries
Only to find more envelops assail:
Save the Orangutan, Koala, Whale!
f

#2017

O, my dear Prodigious Elf
That merry month is here.
I madly hope You’ll gift myself
With what I’d like—this Year:

A brand new feeder for my birds
The Phoebe and the Hummer—
Happy wingèd—little—Bards
In Choirs every Summer.

On Wizards of the World’s best Words
Bestow the Wit to Weave—
Worthy webs from their Word-Hoards
That Measure Man’s beliefs.

And lastly—let One—realize
How Chill a life can be
Without those sometime—brilliant—Smiles
That rarely shine on me.

Yrs Emily D.

Jingle Phil

You fuck it up, the Christmas gift.
You never mean to, but you do.
You leave it late and then they're miffed
With 'Words of Wisdom for the Loo'.

But you've been fucked up in your time
by festive ties with matching socks,
disturbing books on true-life crime
and vaguely racist cuckoo clocks.

Man hands on useless tat to man,
It sits unwanted on a shelf.
Next year you'll sort it! Have a plan!
Accept you make a useless elf.


Merry Christmas everybody!

Santa and Bruce

It’s late, and Bruce has left the Earth. I got
the news as Santa sped through Heaven with
his bright red bag of presents. Everywhere
that you’ll find Christians, people are asleep
with projects for the morning. In the town
of Boston, it is bitter cold, and Santa
will welcome his red suit. Bruce was a man
to share a thought on Santa, for he had
a thought on almost anything. If you
had a sink or garage to fix, he knew
just how to do that, and would set to work
as if it were a pleasure, in the way
that he worked on his garden, or advised
a driver how to drive their car. The world
made sense to Bruce, and filled him with delight
when he spoke of its oddities, its quirks
and foibles, of what made it tick. He loved
to talk to people. Bruce was on his way
through Heaven when death took him, for he was
expected in South Texas. But the heart
that pushed blood through his arteries, and filled
the folks who met him with his presence, gave
out at the last. What Santa brings a man
is often a surprise. He brought to Bruce
a range of qualities, such as the gift
of dwelling in the memory. And then
he brought an end to pain. But Bruce had gone
through life without complaining. Things to fix
got fixed, what needed doing, done. Perhaps
that sleigh has room for a companion. Bruce
would surely have ideas to make the ride
go faster, and be truer to its dream.

25.xii.2017

R.I.P.

Christmas Day in Rothéneuf


St. Malo played dead with its eyes tight shut,
Lying low under loud siege from a sea
Whose sullen picket had been stirred to militance
By a force ten agent provocateur.

Mad English. We walked the Emerald Coast
In time to our own music; suck and plop
Of sensible footwear, underlining
The rhythmic rough breathing of the Gore-Tex.

And in Rothéneuf, the patisserie. Open.
Not just for bread with its cold overtones
Of transubstantiation. Alongside
Lay a display of tempting specialities.
They had risen early to greet the Christchild
With the best that a baker had to offer,
Their selling of such indulgences pardoned
By the wicked permissiveness of birthdays.
We bought likewise; one of these, one of those,
Some of all of it, almonds, sugar, cream…

We took our treasure down to the wild beach,
Seeking a place away from the storm’s bravado.
Under an upturned boat, huddled like monkeys,
We had a party for the Birthday Boy
And while we licked delight from sticky fingers,
Thin flakes of pastry, winnowed by the wind
Went merrily to heaven - the angels’ share.

Some juicy stuff on this festive thread. Merry midwinter everyone.

Tune For Tongue In Cheek

The UK passport is an expression of our
independence and sovereignty – symbolising
our citizenship of a proud, great nation.
That's why we have announced that the iconic
#bluepassport will return after we leave the
European Union in 2019. - Tweet by Theresa May

I’m dreaming of a blue passport
Just like the one I used to know
When border crossing with Britain bossing
A good deal more of the show.

I’m dreaming of a blue passport
With every foreign trip I do
May, your words are strong and true
And, May, all your promises are too.

Santa, we need to talk about security
 

Santa, we need to talk about security
How safe are the presents stacked upon your shelves?
Are your workers’ hearts consumed by purity?
In short, dear Santa, do you trust your elves?

I’m sure you mind the letter that I sent to you,
specifically requesting a new drone.
I’m not the sort of chap that would give vent to you
but like the frosty wind, I may well moan.

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t on the naughty list.
I’ve spent the last twelve months just being nice.
Will you check again your over-forty list?
Control and F should easily suffice.

I’m sure you wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
Remember last year’s business with the Merc?
Can you be sure some elves aren’t on the take again?
Did you check their references of work?

Elves are widely known to be quite devious.
They’re not averse to some light-fingered crime.
By nature, they are greedy and mischiev-i-ous
and many of them end up doing time.

Pointing fingers never was a trait of mine,
but you, the wife, the reindeer or the elves?
Besides, the little sods once skimmed a mate of mine.
They really can blame no-one but themselves.

I’m sure you wish that you were only dreaming it
To someone like yourself, it is abhorrent.
But one or more are very likely creaming it.
I’m sure it’s not too hard to get a warrant.

Surveillance, using up to date technology,
would help your crumbling business to survive.
I’d help you but, by way of an apology,
my drone, as you well know, did not arrive.

New Year’s Day

A sort of cantileña – or a sketch
of some song that has not been written – in
the January air. I cannot speak
to what bird has begun to sing, but each
trill and cadenza thrills me. At about
the time the sun lifts in the East, and those
who rise to greet the dawn are making breakfast,
the first birds stir. Now there are those who wend
their way through blue air, opening their wings
to pulse across the heavens; there are others
who choose to sing, and from their singing throats
comes melody. It breaks and scatters, like
a rainfall hitting foliage, or like
an army in defeat. But there is glory
in each raw note; it is a testament
to how this silent planet can unloose
its fetters, and reclaim its voice. The language
escapes my ken. But it is fresh as dew
in my contorted ear, and I begin
to be someone quite different. I might
grow wings yet and take flight myself. I might
yet sing and not be understood. The sun
is looking through my window, it is morning.

A No Man

If he could warmly croon
or play a bass bassoon
that would be a boon
but it would stop too soon.

This kind of man’s a no-man
molded from a man-plan
a man without a life-span
an isolated now-man.

The faux man is jejune
head echoing the moon
his torso a balloon
and vapor in his ruin.

Our essence turned to ice,
he mirrors mankind twice.

Fiat Lux!
 

Nearly forgot, it's the last day of the holidays:

Epiphany

We journeyed those gray days to see
the source of light diminishing night
and found a babe. Hopefully,
we journeyed those gray days to see
a Magus: he glittered brilliantly,
enthralling us with magic light.
We journeyed those gray days to see
the font of light diminishing night.

Possibly in bad taste
 

Where to go on vacation

England came to mind.
Except I was born into a nation of rude shopkeepers:
why bother.
.
Then I thought of Paris, the continent!
However, the smell of piss on cobblestones is universal
so what would be the point.

The big cities of North America appeal.
But I’ve had a gun thrust in my face before
so there is no need to go there.

A sunny beach in Mexico would be nice.
Although, they say the toot around here is laced with violence enough.
I can save myself the trouble.

Possibly some oriental magic: Tokyo, Beijing
or even old Mandalay.
But I must admit it doesn’t matter where you live
smog is smog with only the occasional acidic variation.

Nope, there’s no need to travel anywhere exotic
everything I need is here.

I will holiday at home.

The Sisyphean Santa
 

The Santa Claus Rock

This hauler of stuff still stuffs our socks
from sacks he rolls to the world’s rooftops.
Each empty sack rolls back and mocks
this hauler of stuff who stuffs our socks
to the ticks and tocks of incessant clocks.
Our avatar, he never stops
this hauling of stuff to stuff our socks
from sacks he rolls to the world’s rooftops.

Tum-ta-tum-tum-tum-parum-pum-pum-pum

December’s here and I can hear the thrum
of that obnoxious kid; the dumb-dumb-dumb
and droning, chirping, moaning hum of hum-
bug sweetness fills the mall with every strum
and echo like a film of honeyed scum.
It cloaks and gums the jam-packed shopping slum,
reverberates inside each tympanum,
until I think my ears and mind are numb.

But, hey, these nifty, complementary rum-
laced egg-nog thingies go down well; and come
to think of it, I shouldn’t be so glum
when I can have another sugar-plum -
hey, hon’ –a double one please, for my chum –
parum pum pum pum, he and his drum.

A Lovely Day in the Neighborhood

I’m telling one of my neighbors about
my latest worry. That someday someone
will move next door to me and be one
of those guys who like to overdecorate
their homes for Christmas. You know,
I tell him, with the plastic Santa Claus
and the Styrofoam snowmen—a whole
family of them—and reindeer, on the roof
probably, and lights, lots of lights,
green lights, blue lights, orange lights,
yellow lights, all flashing, and music,
loud music, piped from the house, day and
night, you know, all the favorites—
I saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus, the chipmunks,
Bing Crosby—and the sightseers in their
vans and pickups, gawking, stopping, blocking
my driveway, leaving garbage.

I stop to catch my breath and my neighbor
taps his specially blended tobacco from
his specially ordered meerschaum pipe,
puts his Mark Cross briefcase on the back
seat of his Jaguar and before he gets in
turns to me and says, listen, you want
something to worry about? The next time
I catch your goddam mutt taking a crap
in my wife’s prize petunias, I’m going to
punch your fucking lights out.

I'm enjoying these. Can I bring a vanity post to the potluck? (I published these back in the oughties.)


Quick Change

backstage at The Nutcracker

The oboe sighs its last insinuation.
Applause. I tense. I ought to hear her bare
feet in the hallway. Flutes start shrilling. There!
The harem-girl trots up for transformation.
I fight the hooks-and-eyes and perspiration
that hold her clothes on. Something rips. I swear.
Applause. No time. I hurriedly prepare
her tights. The music's much too fast! Damnation!
Applause. Just one more song to go, and I'm
still fumbling with the buckle of her shoe!
We hoist the massive, domelike skirt in place.
I fasten it. Applause. I paint her face
with Mother Ginger's clown-lips, just in time.

From gorgeous to grotesque, so fast. So true.


Advent Carol

Hush that anguished hymn you’re humming:
“Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”
Trumpet Christmas! Fix his coming
firmly at “The First Nowell.”

He’s already come in glory!
Why plead, “Savior, come at last”?
Let’s talk Christmas! Tell a story
safely in the distant past.

Drown out John the Baptist. Edit
out “Prepare! Make straight the way!”
Cut to Christmas! Buy on credit.
Square things up another day.

Advent’s dreary. Let’s start living
Christmas now! Wear red and green!
While we’re at it, skip Thanksgiving!
Deck the halls at Halloween!

Then, when the Incarnate Verb
overnight becomes passé,
carry Christmas to the curb.
Pack the Prince of Peace away.

Belatedly, Happy New Year to all <(:-)


Thirteenth day

On the thirteenth day of Christmas,
no gifts were sent to me;
there was nothing for the isthmus,
my home since '93.

I was clearing up the garden,
just trying to set things straight,
when I heard a, 'Beg y'pardon?'
MyTrueLove, at the gate!

'I see Amazon delivered,'
he said; I nodded, 'Yes',
while Pierre Partridge sort of shivered
then made another mess.

'Well, a thousand thanks, MyTrueLove!'
I tried to sound upbeat,
but he shrieked, for Mrs Blue Dove
was pecking at his feet.

'I suppose I went a bit mad,'
he sighed, and hung his head;
'it's just, I thought you and FitLad…?'
I laughed. 'No, no,' I said.

'Let's go in; I'll cook six omelettes.'
I smiled, and in we went,
'midst the flares of seven trompettes
and leaps of tenfold gent.

Nice one, Fliss. And a Happy New Year to you, too.

Very nice, Fliss! That is a lot of omelettes.

Cheers,
John

Yay! Many thanks, Ann and John.

Yes, that is a lot of omelettes. And they'd be pretty big too; I'm just looking at images of goose eggs online 8-)

Of course, if you wanted an enormous omelette, you could use an ostrich egg! (I think cooking with ostrich eggs would be loud and fairly dramatic overall.)