(Not for the humorless)

 

‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stocking were flung on the floor without care,

The tree, once so proud, now stood lifeless and bare.

Little Sue’s dolly was missing her head,

John’s truck had a wreck when the batteries went dead.

There were boxes and ribbons and wrappings galore–

Huge mountains of trash on the pine-needle floor.

And ma in her undies, and me in the buff,

Had just settled down–we’d had quite enough!

I’d had too much eggnog and too many nuts,

And the fudge Patty made felt like stone in my guts.

When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter;

Away to the window, I managed to trudge,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the fudge.

And what did my wondering eyes behold then,

But a huge garbage truck with eight garbage men,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a flash it was Garbageman Nick.

He was covered in grime from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of trash he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a hobo just toting his pack.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

Yet seeing me there, he turned with a jerk,

And laying a finger aside of his nose,

He offered a gesture I cannot disclose.

He sprang to his truck, to his team gave a yell,

And away they all flew like a bat out of hell,

And standing there naked, enframed by the sash,

With my gut full of pain and my house full of trash,

I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

“Last call for trash ‘fore we all go on strike!”

the stars we slept under

are still light-years away

the sun we made our vows

under is still high overhead

the moon we loved under

is still a little out of reach

and you, my love, will always be

the thickness of a memory away

in the night

a subtle sight

inscrutable

in morning

light

here i find

my tranquil mind

the world’s

worries far

behind

inner peace

comes over me

the night is come

and now i

see

the santa anas are blowing again

an arctic clipper is blowing in

turning california into a tinder box

turning minnesota into an ice box

ashes fly wildly in the blast furnace

snow swirls madly in the arctic blast

if the woods burn we may die

if the wood won’t burn we may die

woke up to dark clouds

casting fear on our land

apocalyptic propaganda

has our destiny planned

the horsemen draw nigh

so we must take a stand

self-fulfilling prophecy

leaves no reins in hand

with freedom of thought

and apostasies banned

each day now we witness

the flames of hell fanned

woke up to dark clouds

we were heading

to our wedding

and were sweating

clammily

for to falter

at the altar

would insult her

family

she suggested

that we rested

and ingested

our champagne

while her noted

poise eroded

she was loaded

once again

in the aisle

all a-smile

she beguiled

all her clan

but they dissed her

when she missed her

mark and kissed the

preacher man

barely a seed

it starts deep

in your soul

it springs up

and blossoms

quite out

of control

it zigs

and it zags

shuffling into

some verse

and it bleeds

on your paper

for better

or worse

it may be

an epic or just

‘home, sweet home’

but whatever the case

you’ve been used

by a poem

the snow cobra lifts

his head from the drifts

with his hoodie to keep

him from freezing,

and pythons get heat

from the bunnies they meet,

with their hugging

and snuggling

and squeezing.

on clear, frozen lakes

are the friendly ice snakes,

sometimes used

by the locals

for skating,

and the right time of year

makes the wolf snakes appear

as they hiss

at the moon

before mating.

As the Beatles said,

“Thoughts meander

Like a restless wind

Inside a letter box”

Turning the abstract

Thoughts into words

And expressing them

In a coherent manner

Is the easier endeavor

Putting them down on

Paper is a whole other

Matter, an arduous task

Like someone once said,

“I hate writing, but I

Love having written”

Ghostly kites of light

Slide noiselessly around

My bedroom walls as

The night traffic files past.

From my bed, I can see

The long, dripping icicles

That hang from the eaves

Right outside my window.

They glint in the headlights

Like frosted glass carrots.

I smile, remembering that

Today was a special day, a

Once-in-a-lifetime kind of day.

You see, blue-green was no

Longer my favorite color–

I’m not talking about just any

Kind of blue-green, mind you,

But the kind that flashes in

Your eyes when you walk by

A window prism in the sun–

That kind of blue-green.

No, today, after a lifetime

Of celebrating my beloved

Super-charged blue-green

I changed my favorite color

To yellow for no real reason

Other than it’s grown on me

After all these years.

Yellow it is, then.

Yellow.