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. 

Ta,

Jeany

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.

Santa's waiting for poems!

Ancient antique poster placed here as prompt for Christmas poems!

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.”