Friday, December 21, 2018

Jeany who thought Santa wanted poems about Christmas books contributes to his pack

"So here's my contribution," she writes:

My Christmas Book
Jeany, with a smile creeping
across her countenance 
Blank verse

Her postscript:
I added some nonsense to flesh out my book in class, but here's my poem in all its splendor and length; maybe a smile will creep across your countenance. 


Thursday, December 20, 2018

Sylvia's Christmas poems to appear in Waterways

Por favor?

Are the boys at Tornillo
hoping to see Santa?
What can he bring
to their desert tents
that could begin
to make amends
for lost childhood?

Tonight a cold wind

So I’ve brought in
the poinsettia

To let it safely sit as sign
that even I can say, aye,
it is the season.

I know the date. 
I know the president is he
who presides.  So there.

There, there now.

But tomorrow I’ll find
my old poster, that antique Santa
with bulging belly and a pipe,
reprinted above “Books for Christmas,
including Dover paperbacks,”
bought for $1.00 (I well remember)
one mid-December night,
decades past, steadfast friend
that’s helped me acknowledge,
again and decades over, again,
the year is winding down.

Tonight the cold wind,
the poinsettia safely brought in.

Joanne answers Santa's call

Good girl Joanne Giannino, who thought
Santa wanted poems about Christmas  books.

The night before Yuletide we car rumble home
singing the drunk lady’s 12-days-of-Christmas song
with the radio blaring, our tummies full, and our jammies just right,
we settle in for that longest winter night

Just me, my beloved, and our two little boys
Cuddling close for our favorite tale
Interpreted by Hallmark’s best popup book still
Gift from Aunt Lena we await with delight

For the ten little reindeer, the jolly old elf
the tradition the same year after year
drive to see family then roll on back home
tuck in for the night and enjoy the solstice yarn.

Santa, pleased as punch
Until last year, I couldn’t find that old book
So I scanned the magic web and found it on Ebay
With the price ranging from hundreds to mere tens
Made my bid, kept checking and finally won: a new copy!

The only flaw a ripped ribbon in its French door hard cover                               
But voila, with tape and glue and new trimming procured
A nearly new book to share with all, this in time for this year
Our tiny grandbaby, now two, her parents, our friends, and you!

With a wish for a Merry Christmas - from the friendly old saint 
and to all a good night - from his sleigh, he goes up, up, and away,
With a shout, with a song, with sleigh bells a clanging
And a quite cheery song for a Happy New Year!

In from Adrien, a villanelle she wrote in November

Adrien Helm

Caravan (another lumpy villanelle)

To the North, seeking asylum they pad
In flip flops and rope soled huaraches
To a nation now controlled by the mad.

No safety from gangs at home to be had
Families treated like cucurachas --
To the North seeking asylum they pad.

Between murderous and awful and bad
Fleeing villages poor and dangerous
To a nation now controlled by the mad

Their faces unspeakably weary, sad,
Children carried, a burden most precious.
To the North seeking asylum they pad.

A desperate thousand mile walk they’ve had,
Rumors swirl of reception perilous,
To a nation now controlled by the mad.

Is there any hope for them to be had?
Trapped between Scylla and Charybdis?
To the North seeking asylum they pad
To a nation now controlled by the mad.
                                                    November 2018


blogger's helpful note, lifted from Wikipedia:

Henry Fuseli's painting of Odysseus facing the choice between Scylla and Charybdis, 1794/6
Being between Scylla and Charybdis is an idiom deriving from Greek mythology, meaning "having to choose between two evils". Several other idioms, such as "on the horns of a dilemma", "between the devil and the deep blue sea", and "between a rock and a hard place" express similar meanings.

Saturday, December 15, 2018

Saturday, December 1, 2018

Wednesday Poets meeting through winter!

First time ever!

Sylvia hears the take-away is a poem with just dialogue, and even though her poem posted here is not just dialogue, and besides is very old, she misses the stalwart Northeast Kingdom Wednesday poets so much she's posting it anyway.  (It was written in Quebec City, winter, 2009.)

Very few out and about

in the alleyway or even
Sylvia Manning on the right behind Judith Janoo, autumn 2018.
Grande Allée, so far as
I can see.

Greg comes, though,
the neighbor in apt. 6.
“I hate this country!”
he says in a charming
English.  “46 years of this!”

(the formidable snowstorm)

“I can’t believe you’re 46!
You look like a kid!”
I tell him.  “So this country
has kept you young!”

“Maybe,” he says, almost
smiling, but then adds,
“or maybe it’s the beer.”