(i carry Christmas with me)
i carry Christmas with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without Christmas
(anywhere i am Christmas lives;
and whatever is done by me
is because of Christmas)
i fear no reprisal
(for it is my choice)
i want no ridicule(for the beauty
of Christmas has become my world)
and it is whatever
a child's smile has always meant
and whatever melodic carol is sung
Christmas will be within me.
here is my deepest secret nobody knows
(the birth of love is the cause of my joy
and the bounce in my step
and the feeling of heart
for a time called Christmas;
which grows deeper than the soul can grasp
or mind can conceive)and it is this wonder
that's keeping the spirit alive within me.
i carry Christmas(i carry it in my heart)
i am santa
***based on "i carry your heart ~e.e. cummings"
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
ONE OF THESE DAYS...
One of these days
I'll get around to it.
Every Christmas
for twenty three years
it has been my "thing".
A tradition that
insinuated itself
into my yearly yule
routine. Grown daughters
home for the night
wide-eyed as they used to be.
Innocent as I'd like them
to remain. "Believers" still.
And as all and the mice
assume a non-stirring
posture, I bide my time.
Waiting for every last one
to achieve dream stage,
sugar-free sugar plums
not withstanding. In the
silent night I creep
having donned the outfit
every year for twenty three.
Me, my bag, my scratchy beard.
No one sees what they don't know.
For the night my cover is secure.
I am the man. I am Santa.
One of these days, I'll get
around to it. I'll stop
wearing the suit and slinking
through a dimly lit Christmas Eve.
Pass on the tradition.
One of these days. But not today.
I'll get around to it.
Every Christmas
for twenty three years
it has been my "thing".
A tradition that
insinuated itself
into my yearly yule
routine. Grown daughters
home for the night
wide-eyed as they used to be.
Innocent as I'd like them
to remain. "Believers" still.
And as all and the mice
assume a non-stirring
posture, I bide my time.
Waiting for every last one
to achieve dream stage,
sugar-free sugar plums
not withstanding. In the
silent night I creep
having donned the outfit
every year for twenty three.
Me, my bag, my scratchy beard.
No one sees what they don't know.
For the night my cover is secure.
I am the man. I am Santa.
One of these days, I'll get
around to it. I'll stop
wearing the suit and slinking
through a dimly lit Christmas Eve.
Pass on the tradition.
One of these days. But not today.
Monday, December 14, 2009
"GOING POSTAL" DAY
Masses with their packages
Christmas cards galore,
Simple folk who pick and poke
on the bargain basement floor,
Holiday music fills the airways,
Jingle peace in a midnight Santa manger,
people couldn't act any stranger
than they usually do, but
it's Christmastime, and
anything is possible.
There is no time to stand in line,
but lines still do overflow,
especially on this Monday,
ten days before "the show"
Sending packages to Aunt Flo,
cards to cousin Mary Jo,
certificates to I don't know,
and miles to weep before I go.
A Postal Inspector at wits end,
stamping, pasting, weighing
waiting for the end of day,
heading home in a one horse open sleigh,
torn between showing for work
for more of this madness tomorrow,
or hitting the roof with the
Magnum. "Merry Christmas this!"
punctuated by ricochet sounds
and the fluff of large snowflakes
and body count hitting the pavement.
But, suppressing a sneer,
he'll be right here to guide you,
getting your presents there on time.
But over at UPS, "Going Parcel"
will be a real certainty.
Christmas cards galore,
Simple folk who pick and poke
on the bargain basement floor,
Holiday music fills the airways,
Jingle peace in a midnight Santa manger,
people couldn't act any stranger
than they usually do, but
it's Christmastime, and
anything is possible.
There is no time to stand in line,
but lines still do overflow,
especially on this Monday,
ten days before "the show"
Sending packages to Aunt Flo,
cards to cousin Mary Jo,
certificates to I don't know,
and miles to weep before I go.
A Postal Inspector at wits end,
stamping, pasting, weighing
waiting for the end of day,
heading home in a one horse open sleigh,
torn between showing for work
for more of this madness tomorrow,
or hitting the roof with the
Magnum. "Merry Christmas this!"
punctuated by ricochet sounds
and the fluff of large snowflakes
and body count hitting the pavement.
But, suppressing a sneer,
he'll be right here to guide you,
getting your presents there on time.
But over at UPS, "Going Parcel"
will be a real certainty.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
DING, DONG, MERRILY ON HIGH
Imbibed a wee much Christmas cheer,
and someone spiked the punch,
the mix within doth stink of gin,
and that is just my hunch.
You truly are inebriated,
you've climbed into a tree,
singing bawdy Christmas songs,
oh so merrily
"Come down you Ding-Dong, you've been bested,
you're gonna get us both arrested!"
and someone spiked the punch,
the mix within doth stink of gin,
and that is just my hunch.
You truly are inebriated,
you've climbed into a tree,
singing bawdy Christmas songs,
oh so merrily
"Come down you Ding-Dong, you've been bested,
you're gonna get us both arrested!"
Friday, December 4, 2009
CLIMB UP HERE LITTLE MAN
I remember my Grand-Father.
He was a large man, quite jovial,
every time I would visit him,
he would be seated in HIS chair.
It was a big chair for a big man.
I would stand near his feet,
gazing up at his ice blue eyes.
They twinkled when he winked,
and his nose wrinkled when he'd think.
He would always tell me,
"Climb up here little man!"
And my smile lit up the
eastern seaboard, rumor had it.
Granddad always asked if I
was behaving myself. That was
something everyone in my family
always asked over the years.
"Been good, boy?" he sized me up.
I would nod loudly leaving no doubt
that I had. "OK, I'll take care of you"
he would always say. Then, he'd tilt
his head toward his candy jar,
and hold one finger crossing his lips.
This meant, take one and be quiet about it.
Then on one visit, he let my father
sit in his chair. It fit him nicely.
He looked like a large man himself
when he'd sit in Granddad's chair.
I would stand near his feet,
searching his cold blue eyes.
They twinkled like Grandpa's,
and his nose turned red when he'd drink.
He would always tell me,
"Climb up here little man!"
And my smile filled my face
from side-to-side, rumor had it.
My father always knew, but
asked anyway if I was behaving.
Some family traditions never
changed over the years.
"Been good, son?" he verified.
I would nod tentatively leaving some doubt
that I had. "OK, I'll see what I can do!"
he would always say. Then, he'd tilt
his head toward the candy jar,
and hold one finger crossing his lips.
I remembered what this meant,
take one and be quiet about it.
There came a time when my father
could no longer man Grandpa's chair.
He had turned frail, and weak,
not a big man anymore. Not even
when he sat in the chair.
He called me to his bedside.
I came to stand near his feet,
searching his old steel blue eyes.
The twinkle had faded,
and his nose held his glasses aloft.
He gazed at me and said,
"Climb up here young man!"
And his smile shined upon my face
with me by his side, rumor has it.
My father didn't have to ask
the age old question, he just said
"You're a good man, son".
At that moment I was glad that
Some family traditions never
change over the years.
I nodded solemnly accepting
that I had become that.
"I need you to see what you can do!"
he said. Then, he'd roll
his head toward the candy jar,
I handed him a striped cane
and held one finger crossing my lips.
He knew what this meant,
I'd let him have one,
but he had to be quiet about it.
My Grand-Father and Father handed down
the mantle which I have accepted gladly.
Coming from a long line of large men,
I was now a large man, quite jolly,
every time children would visit me,
I would be seated in Father's...er, my chair.
It was a big chair for a big man.
The younglings would stand near my feet,
gazing up at my warm blue eyes.
They twinkled when I winked,
and my nose wrinkled when I'd think.
I would always say,
"Climb up here little one!"
And their smiles would light up
like Aurora Borealis, rumor has it.
And I always asked if they
were behaving themselves. That was
something everyone in my family
always asked over the years.
"Been good?" I'd size 'em up.
A shy nod came, leaving no doubt
that they had. "OK, I'll take care of you"
I would always laugh. Then, I'd tilt
my head toward Grandpa's old candy jar,
and hold two fingers across my lips.
This meant, take two and be quiet about it.
I am Santa. Like my Father before me,
and his Father before him.
And that meant, I can change the rules!
He was a large man, quite jovial,
every time I would visit him,
he would be seated in HIS chair.
It was a big chair for a big man.
I would stand near his feet,
gazing up at his ice blue eyes.
They twinkled when he winked,
and his nose wrinkled when he'd think.
He would always tell me,
"Climb up here little man!"
And my smile lit up the
eastern seaboard, rumor had it.
Granddad always asked if I
was behaving myself. That was
something everyone in my family
always asked over the years.
"Been good, boy?" he sized me up.
I would nod loudly leaving no doubt
that I had. "OK, I'll take care of you"
he would always say. Then, he'd tilt
his head toward his candy jar,
and hold one finger crossing his lips.
This meant, take one and be quiet about it.
Then on one visit, he let my father
sit in his chair. It fit him nicely.
He looked like a large man himself
when he'd sit in Granddad's chair.
I would stand near his feet,
searching his cold blue eyes.
They twinkled like Grandpa's,
and his nose turned red when he'd drink.
He would always tell me,
"Climb up here little man!"
And my smile filled my face
from side-to-side, rumor had it.
My father always knew, but
asked anyway if I was behaving.
Some family traditions never
changed over the years.
"Been good, son?" he verified.
I would nod tentatively leaving some doubt
that I had. "OK, I'll see what I can do!"
he would always say. Then, he'd tilt
his head toward the candy jar,
and hold one finger crossing his lips.
I remembered what this meant,
take one and be quiet about it.
There came a time when my father
could no longer man Grandpa's chair.
He had turned frail, and weak,
not a big man anymore. Not even
when he sat in the chair.
He called me to his bedside.
I came to stand near his feet,
searching his old steel blue eyes.
The twinkle had faded,
and his nose held his glasses aloft.
He gazed at me and said,
"Climb up here young man!"
And his smile shined upon my face
with me by his side, rumor has it.
My father didn't have to ask
the age old question, he just said
"You're a good man, son".
At that moment I was glad that
Some family traditions never
change over the years.
I nodded solemnly accepting
that I had become that.
"I need you to see what you can do!"
he said. Then, he'd roll
his head toward the candy jar,
I handed him a striped cane
and held one finger crossing my lips.
He knew what this meant,
I'd let him have one,
but he had to be quiet about it.
My Grand-Father and Father handed down
the mantle which I have accepted gladly.
Coming from a long line of large men,
I was now a large man, quite jolly,
every time children would visit me,
I would be seated in Father's...er, my chair.
It was a big chair for a big man.
The younglings would stand near my feet,
gazing up at my warm blue eyes.
They twinkled when I winked,
and my nose wrinkled when I'd think.
I would always say,
"Climb up here little one!"
And their smiles would light up
like Aurora Borealis, rumor has it.
And I always asked if they
were behaving themselves. That was
something everyone in my family
always asked over the years.
"Been good?" I'd size 'em up.
A shy nod came, leaving no doubt
that they had. "OK, I'll take care of you"
I would always laugh. Then, I'd tilt
my head toward Grandpa's old candy jar,
and hold two fingers across my lips.
This meant, take two and be quiet about it.
I am Santa. Like my Father before me,
and his Father before him.
And that meant, I can change the rules!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
REVISION AND COMPILATION
November is in the rear view, and I wave it a fond goodbye. It started with much ambition: the Poetic Asides November Poem-a-day Chapbook challenge (http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides) was at the fore, I thought the NaNoWriMo (http://www.nanowrimo.org) would be the answer for that novel I've been thrashing about since puberty, keeping the micro poetry (http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=116682614879) page on facebook vibrant, finding my flash fiction fully ensconced in the "Flashy Fiction" (http://www.flashyfiction.blogspot.com) page and attempting to put this blog to better use. I realized early that the choice I made for my novel was a treatment based on one of my stage plays called "Taking Up Space". The story is solid, but I couldn't release myself from the preconceived ideas already solidified in the performance of said piece. I found that I was locked into perpetual poet mode.
Having been hammering the poetry out since the April Poetic Asides challenge, I couldn't think in terms other than the poetic nature of my writing. Now, with the writing complete for the challenge, I am entering into the revision phase of my chapbook selections. Based upon the song catalog of the Beatles, and driven by the inspirations apparent, I feel confident in this direction. This set is entitled: "The Beatles: Their Music as Muse".
Unknown to all, I kept a separate theme running as well. Being the consummate geek in High School, my second set of works (all previously unseen) is based upon my affinity for space movies in general, and Star Wars in particular. I call this leg of the challenge: "The Vader Chronicles: The Muse Behind the Black Mask".
Feeling relief from the cessation of the daily grind, I'll move towards trying to free my thoughts in the pursuit of new possibilities. No one said it would be easy!
Having been hammering the poetry out since the April Poetic Asides challenge, I couldn't think in terms other than the poetic nature of my writing. Now, with the writing complete for the challenge, I am entering into the revision phase of my chapbook selections. Based upon the song catalog of the Beatles, and driven by the inspirations apparent, I feel confident in this direction. This set is entitled: "The Beatles: Their Music as Muse".
Unknown to all, I kept a separate theme running as well. Being the consummate geek in High School, my second set of works (all previously unseen) is based upon my affinity for space movies in general, and Star Wars in particular. I call this leg of the challenge: "The Vader Chronicles: The Muse Behind the Black Mask".
Feeling relief from the cessation of the daily grind, I'll move towards trying to free my thoughts in the pursuit of new possibilities. No one said it would be easy!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)