Lori R. Lopez's Blog: Poetic Reflections, page 4
February 5, 2011
intricacies
Shivering at my desk from cold that cannot be warmed by four sweaters, one of which is pretty thick, I must compose a series of words that say a great deal without saying too much and without being misread because not saying anything could make my head explode. I am a writer who writes, above all, of the sheer lunacy and terrors in the world — as well as the beasties that lurk at the very edges of our gazes, along the unbounded extremities of the imagination. It is the month of hearts for some. Yet a horror author, and a victim of horrors, can take such
January 1, 2011
Poetic Reflections: the years
Being an optimist (except when my paranoid paradoxic pessimistic side kicks in), I am starting this year determined to accomplish great things. That is generally how I start any year, by hoping it will be the year. Not the year to end all years. Or even the best year ever. It's nice to leave something to look forward to. Perhaps merely the beginning of a golden era of happiness and good fortune.
The thing is, this could be that year. It definitely could. Which sounds pretty crazy after all of the other years that I thought could be that year. But it really could, couldn't it? I mean, who's to say it isn't?
If it were up to me, it would be that year because I've waited long enough, I truly have. No more waiting. I can decide that much at least, can't I? Yes I can! So this is it. I'm not going to sit around waiting for that year to find me. I'm going to make this year that year no matter what! I'm determined. Did I mention that? If so, please disregard the earlier reference since I don't like to repeat myself. It's such a waste of time and words that could be better applied to fresh thoughts and ideas. Which is part of my plan. To write a lot. A whole lot. And then to write some more. That's the other part of my plan. Good plan, huh?
Last year wasn't the year. And yet it seemed I was getting closer to that year. But close doesn't count except in Horseshoes. And I'm not playing Horseshoes. I haven't played Horseshoes in ages. Hmmm, perhaps that's the problem. No no, I'm sure it has nothing to do with playing Horseshoes. I must stick to the subject, even though this is going to be a terribly busy month which makes my mind start to spin, or is it my head? Hmmm, it does indeed make a difference whether it's my head or mind. I hope it's the mind not the head or I'd probably get dizzy and topple over and then I wouldn't get very much done, which would cause me to get behind and that would really make my head spin!
So you can see my dilemma.
Well, it's more of a predicament, I suppose. Even if the spinning is purely in my mind, I might still become dizzy and wind up on the floor, my equilibrium so off-balanced that I can't do anything but lie there in a daze and attempt to get a grip! It could thus be extremely difficult to accomplish these great things I intend to achieve . . . if this is that year and not merely another year that wasn't the year at last. Yes, it is quite a predicament. It may even be a dilemma as well. I'm sure you can appreciate my point.
Although, now that I think about it, I'm not sure myself what my point is anymore. I almost think I had one to begin with, a vague premise, but you can never be too sure about that either. I often start writing without making the slightest bit of sense, and by the end the only thing I'm sure of is that I am not sure of anything!
I can tell you one thing for sure: I need to stop using "sure". There are far too many. Alas, my Delete key is stuck at the moment and until I get it unjammed, I am helpless to —
I know (she exclaims with a snap of her fingers), I'll use Backspace!
Too late. I've moved on. I am so busy this month, I don't have the time to go back and edit. In addition to pointless, this will just have to be riddled with redundance. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I'm not sure that I can.
Stop saying "sure"!
Oh, I'd better go write some poems. And try not to use that word.
the years
Their current is relentless
Dashing forth to seize the dawn
A tide that bears eternal dust
Like silt to scatter on
These lands that border right and left
Floodwaters to be swam
Unstopping like a river
Till some beaver builds a dam
They leave us always wanting
And waiting, it would seem
For morrows and for evers
For waking from a dream
The sweep of hands, the rush of time
With fortitude embraced
To contemplate unknowns and naughts
The hardships that we faced
They lead us to conclusions
And blundrous judgements gaveled
With chances to amend our wrongs
And mourn the roads not traveled
Yet every day the sheen of hope
Can light another avenue
The choices are abundant
In what we say or do
For the years unfold both soft and firm
To be shaped as to be suffered
Some perils can be overcome
Avoided, even buffered
But each year rings with promise
The future spread before our feet
Consider all turns wisely
That you'll like the end you meet.
SURE
Being sure that you're unsure
Can be a troublesome condition
When you can't uncross your legs
From a seated disposition
The uncertainty is doubtful
To be clearly understood
If you cut yourself some slack
It's a bit like chopping wood
And may lead to drafty wonders
With some serious confusion
As you sit and baftly ponder
Whether life was an illusion
But your feet will surely follow
Without thinking first each step
If your brain begins to wander
Jungle trails of weemo-wep
That is when it's time to gather
Every courage you can find
Stack them up like blocks of tinder
Strike a match and light your mind
For it's darkness where we stumble
There less confident tread we
If you wish to be more certain
And unlost assuredly
Shine a torch against the gloom
And march proudly through the rain
Whilst your flame will surely fizzle
You can count on going sane.
THE WRETCH
Outlined within a lunar glint
He slirks enshrouded by the dark
Too horrid of a countenance
To stroll the sunlit park
Existing far and yet so near
Beside the cultured and genteel
His social graces too uncouth
We think he does not feel
This wretch we shun with hearts so weak
Disgust upon our faces
Who frightens those that notice him
On the earth, though, leaves few traces
An outcast and a monster, he
May seem beneath our trust
As he loots the lofty refuse heaps
And collects a pile of rust
Upsprung from shady poisonings
A too-grim imagination
Some potion, notion, ocean deep
Has spawned this malcreation
Who creeps about in dusken gloam
Amidst the markers of the dead
In fog, the bog, through murk and grog
Duck the bristles of his head
Tiptoeing past our windowed pains
He stalks the night in wretchedry
His poor lost soul engulfed in shame
His life a killing spree
The victim of revulsion
Reacting to their taunts and blows
He lashes out in self-defense
For wrath is all he knows.
Daybreak
Dew dropped a brick
And morning broke
It happened in a sudden
The day was off
To a fractured start
Which caused my mood to mudden
I tried to trill
But merely coughed
Out flew a wildebee
Who whistled to summon
A furious horde
Of bumbles from a tree
The swarmers chased me
Far and wide
I jumped into a pond
Where carp were coyly
Eyeing me
Like their tastebuds might be fond
The wildebees were
Hungry too
And licked their tiny fangs
The pair of flocks
While salivating
Fought like rival gangs
It's here I had
A chance to sneak
Away from the melee
And drip straight to
Another doom
I'm dumb, what can I say?
A bear was snoring
Mouth agape
I ran inside her maw
Then turned about
And darted free
From the depths of a grisly craw
The rest of the day
Was spent in hiding
Afraid to draw a breath
My face went blue
I was gasping too
On the verge of my own death
When at last I gulped
A drink of air
I knew what I must do
Go back to sleep
Until it's safe
No ice in the mountain dew.
The thing is, this could be that year. It definitely could. Which sounds pretty crazy after all of the other years that I thought could be that year. But it really could, couldn't it? I mean, who's to say it isn't?
If it were up to me, it would be that year because I've waited long enough, I truly have. No more waiting. I can decide that much at least, can't I? Yes I can! So this is it. I'm not going to sit around waiting for that year to find me. I'm going to make this year that year no matter what! I'm determined. Did I mention that? If so, please disregard the earlier reference since I don't like to repeat myself. It's such a waste of time and words that could be better applied to fresh thoughts and ideas. Which is part of my plan. To write a lot. A whole lot. And then to write some more. That's the other part of my plan. Good plan, huh?
Last year wasn't the year. And yet it seemed I was getting closer to that year. But close doesn't count except in Horseshoes. And I'm not playing Horseshoes. I haven't played Horseshoes in ages. Hmmm, perhaps that's the problem. No no, I'm sure it has nothing to do with playing Horseshoes. I must stick to the subject, even though this is going to be a terribly busy month which makes my mind start to spin, or is it my head? Hmmm, it does indeed make a difference whether it's my head or mind. I hope it's the mind not the head or I'd probably get dizzy and topple over and then I wouldn't get very much done, which would cause me to get behind and that would really make my head spin!
So you can see my dilemma.
Well, it's more of a predicament, I suppose. Even if the spinning is purely in my mind, I might still become dizzy and wind up on the floor, my equilibrium so off-balanced that I can't do anything but lie there in a daze and attempt to get a grip! It could thus be extremely difficult to accomplish these great things I intend to achieve . . . if this is that year and not merely another year that wasn't the year at last. Yes, it is quite a predicament. It may even be a dilemma as well. I'm sure you can appreciate my point.
Although, now that I think about it, I'm not sure myself what my point is anymore. I almost think I had one to begin with, a vague premise, but you can never be too sure about that either. I often start writing without making the slightest bit of sense, and by the end the only thing I'm sure of is that I am not sure of anything!
I can tell you one thing for sure: I need to stop using "sure". There are far too many. Alas, my Delete key is stuck at the moment and until I get it unjammed, I am helpless to —
I know (she exclaims with a snap of her fingers), I'll use Backspace!
Too late. I've moved on. I am so busy this month, I don't have the time to go back and edit. In addition to pointless, this will just have to be riddled with redundance. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I'm not sure that I can.
Stop saying "sure"!
Oh, I'd better go write some poems. And try not to use that word.
the years
Their current is relentless
Dashing forth to seize the dawn
A tide that bears eternal dust
Like silt to scatter on
These lands that border right and left
Floodwaters to be swam
Unstopping like a river
Till some beaver builds a dam
They leave us always wanting
And waiting, it would seem
For morrows and for evers
For waking from a dream
The sweep of hands, the rush of time
With fortitude embraced
To contemplate unknowns and naughts
The hardships that we faced
They lead us to conclusions
And blundrous judgements gaveled
With chances to amend our wrongs
And mourn the roads not traveled
Yet every day the sheen of hope
Can light another avenue
The choices are abundant
In what we say or do
For the years unfold both soft and firm
To be shaped as to be suffered
Some perils can be overcome
Avoided, even buffered
But each year rings with promise
The future spread before our feet
Consider all turns wisely
That you'll like the end you meet.
SURE
Being sure that you're unsure
Can be a troublesome condition
When you can't uncross your legs
From a seated disposition
The uncertainty is doubtful
To be clearly understood
If you cut yourself some slack
It's a bit like chopping wood
And may lead to drafty wonders
With some serious confusion
As you sit and baftly ponder
Whether life was an illusion
But your feet will surely follow
Without thinking first each step
If your brain begins to wander
Jungle trails of weemo-wep
That is when it's time to gather
Every courage you can find
Stack them up like blocks of tinder
Strike a match and light your mind
For it's darkness where we stumble
There less confident tread we
If you wish to be more certain
And unlost assuredly
Shine a torch against the gloom
And march proudly through the rain
Whilst your flame will surely fizzle
You can count on going sane.
THE WRETCH
Outlined within a lunar glint
He slirks enshrouded by the dark
Too horrid of a countenance
To stroll the sunlit park
Existing far and yet so near
Beside the cultured and genteel
His social graces too uncouth
We think he does not feel
This wretch we shun with hearts so weak
Disgust upon our faces
Who frightens those that notice him
On the earth, though, leaves few traces
An outcast and a monster, he
May seem beneath our trust
As he loots the lofty refuse heaps
And collects a pile of rust
Upsprung from shady poisonings
A too-grim imagination
Some potion, notion, ocean deep
Has spawned this malcreation
Who creeps about in dusken gloam
Amidst the markers of the dead
In fog, the bog, through murk and grog
Duck the bristles of his head
Tiptoeing past our windowed pains
He stalks the night in wretchedry
His poor lost soul engulfed in shame
His life a killing spree
The victim of revulsion
Reacting to their taunts and blows
He lashes out in self-defense
For wrath is all he knows.
Daybreak
Dew dropped a brick
And morning broke
It happened in a sudden
The day was off
To a fractured start
Which caused my mood to mudden
I tried to trill
But merely coughed
Out flew a wildebee
Who whistled to summon
A furious horde
Of bumbles from a tree
The swarmers chased me
Far and wide
I jumped into a pond
Where carp were coyly
Eyeing me
Like their tastebuds might be fond
The wildebees were
Hungry too
And licked their tiny fangs
The pair of flocks
While salivating
Fought like rival gangs
It's here I had
A chance to sneak
Away from the melee
And drip straight to
Another doom
I'm dumb, what can I say?
A bear was snoring
Mouth agape
I ran inside her maw
Then turned about
And darted free
From the depths of a grisly craw
The rest of the day
Was spent in hiding
Afraid to draw a breath
My face went blue
I was gasping too
On the verge of my own death
When at last I gulped
A drink of air
I knew what I must do
Go back to sleep
Until it's safe
No ice in the mountain dew.
the years
Being an optimist (except when my paranoid paradoxic pessimistic side kicks in), I am starting this year determined to accomplish great things. That is generally how I start any year, by hoping it will be the year. Not the year to end all years. Or even the best year ever. It's nice to leave something to look forward to. Perhaps merely the beginning of a golden era of happiness and good fortune.
December 20, 2010
Yuleogy
What, it's December already? Wasn't it just Halloween? Oh yes, every day is Halloween in my head. I think I do recall something about Thanksgiving whizzing by, now that I mention it. Still, it can't be Christmas! I haven't done any of the usual things, those traditional trappings that accompany the season. Haven't decorated a tree (wait, there is the small wire one on a shelf above my desk — just a minute — okay, scratch that off the list). Haven't been hearing carols (well, there might've been a few snippets in T.V. shows). Haven't watched a steady stream of holiday movies (I might see some online — soon, very soon). Haven't joined the jangling mangling throng of shoppers (so of course I haven't wrapped gifts, which takes care of the next item). Haven't mailed cards (good grief, I haven't even bought cards yet). Wow, I am exceptionally behind!
What have I been doing, if not observing such practices?
Writing, I guess. It's what I generally do day in and day out. It keeps me sane to some extent. I suppose that contributes a measure of merit to the world. We should all strive for that, we really should.
Pondering the meaning of the universe? Nope, I leave that for the birds to decide.
Pondering my New Year's resolution? Way too many choices.
But I might ponder the meaning of this whole merry mad rush known as Christmastime. Yes, I might do that since I've done so little else to mark the occasion.
Let me commence with a disclaimer. These days you can't be too careful. Things have changed, drastically. People get upset — even trigger-happy — over so many things. Just about anything, it seems, because there are different angles to look at a thing and most things may be offensive to somebody somewhere for some reason! I doubt I can cover every angle, but I'll try my best: It is not the author's intent or purpose to injure or omit or otherwise inflame any group or individual by the wording and images and values discussed herein.
Sound technical enough?
I apologize to anyone offended by my tone, as well. Tones can be alarming, difficult to ignore. Even silent ones. It is best, I find, to wear earplugs and eye patches in public or private so as to be fairly tone-deaf. Of course, that works for me but I am not by any means attempting to insinuate that you should do so yourself. I did not especially advise you to operate a motor vehicle or bicycle or walk across a street in such a manner.
Phew, that was close! Hope I didn't leave anything out.
I'm growing a bit anxious over this entire disclaiming business. I think I should move on.
Most people around the globe are probably familiar with the themes and typical iconic manifestations and festoonings of this season.
With the Internet, exposure to other cultures has spread more than ever regardless of one's particular beliefs and customs. Therefore, I think it is safe to make this assumption. Many, whatever their creed and preferences, cannot help but be amused or intrigued or swept up into the gala, the fantasy, the revelry of it all. What's not to love about a jovial white-bearded saint delivering gifts to children? Cute pointy-eared toymakers happily mass-producing playthings without caring about profit margins and wages? Colored lights and whimsical or stunning decorations adorning houses and lanes? People smiling, bustling about with an extra sense of goodwill and a twinkle in their eye? You've gotta love it, even if your last name happens to be Scrooge, because it's something pretty downright rare and extraordinary!
The true meaning behind it all, of course, has to do with a star and the birth of a baby. This story of humble yet magical origins, whether you accept it or not, is responsible for a major occurrence. For augmenting a colossal annual shift and ripple in the tide of Mankind, despite how jaded and jaundiced we may or may not have become.
Think about it. What other event has touched so many, inspired such a spirit of giving and caring and warmth and community? I can't think of anything that quite compares. Thus, it is certainly something worthy of celebration, or at the very least respect — whatever one's own beliefs; whichever traditions are honored and embraced; however involved with decorating and festivities you are (or aren't). Perhaps it simply instills a spark of wonder. A fondness for some aspect, some happy quality that fills the air along with the heart this time of year like the fragrance of cookies baking in an oven.
I, personally, hope we never lose that spirit — and the goal of peace on earth — because it is truly a joy and a miracle to behold. It is the direction a sane and civilized society should be headed, rather than the divisiveness and touchiness so prevalent these days. But I do see hope, I do see the signs of progress. It is possible to believe in such a world. And that's what Christmas has accomplished for everyone, everywhere, I feel. It has brought us closer by representing the shining best of humanity — beyond commercialism and holiday stress; aside from religious differences, cultural distinctions — the pure unrefined best that we as one race are capable of.
Well, now that I've said what I had to say, it's time to start my next column: What, it's January already? It can't be! I'm still in Twenty Ten!
Oops, I almost forgot. I was supposed to write some poems first. I'll add that to my list . . .
yuleogy
Does a yule have a rule?
Will it make a babe drool?
Could it ride on a mule?
Cause a yarn to unspool?
I'm addressing the topic
Is it rather myopic?
Does it live in a tropic?
Would it look microscopic?
If I write yuleogies
Must I still eat my peas?
Do I have to say please?
Will the word make me wheeze?
Are there yules in Hong Kong
Or while playing ping pong?
Does it have a theme song?
Will it take very long?
Can a yuletide be folded?
When left out is it moulded?
Does it ever get scolded?
Feel warm when it's holded?
Do yules hibernate?
Could they fit through a grate?
Might they ever run late?
Are they fun to inflate?
If we're very unyuly
Is it like being truly
Or slightly unduly?
Am I just being foolly?
I have heard of such things
And there might've been kings
For the sound of it rings
Like a bell when it dings
If traditions are lost
There is always a cost
Every land is embossed
By the ways they are crossed
I don't think it's a crime
To enjoy the yuletime
But if it rattles your chime
Please pardon my rhyme.
DARK CHRISTMAS
In contrast to the mistletude
Of blithely boisterous gifts and food
The lights, the love, the giddy gladding
Of all things nice and sweet and addling —
At times it's wise to wander off
To maund awry, astray, ascoff
Towards rapier tidings, dismal treats
Leftover from the plundered streets
Of mid-night ghoulish gallivanting
Ravid frothing garpled ranting
Let's keep the spirits fed and feisties
Amoon, agoon, aggrievent viceties
For inwith lore of dimmer annals
The rusted tomes of wretched channels
One finds the season 'tis less jolly
Abundant lurk the tales of folly
Of naughty woes, undainty bows
Hell-bound with gruesome glee in rows
Like markers for a yard of graves
Wrapped tightly by the grimmest knaves
Where Santa wears a blacker coat
And has an evil chuckling gloat
Where children are not safe these nights
When down the chimney he alights
Far worse than what lurks under beds
Whilst fetid visions dance through heads
He rides to houses for a meal
Not cookies, souls and hearts to steal
His sleigh dragged by nine starving hounds
His sack a dripping mess and mound
The letters of this ogre's name:
Not Santa — Satan is his fame
Whatever he has been known by
You'd best behave or you will fry
And then you'll freeze and wish for hot
A scrap of peace or hope there's not
Just thick regrets and bitter ire
Eternal cold and pain and fire
So have a merry cup of wist
And stay off Santa's Dark Christmas list.
THE MAD ELVES OF MINSTER
There was a town of renown
In the county of Pinster
Where dwelt a small people called
The Mad Elves Of Minster
They were once rather merry
Till just one became rotten
And spoiled the whole bunch
Till that's how they'd all gotten
It began with a rat
Who crept into their village
To eat all their grain
Every crumb would he pillage
The town crier spied him
And yelped at the varmint
Who chomped the elf's toe
With rat teeth did he harm it
The bitten would holler
Oh, he screamed bloody murder
Awaking the bakers
Every goat and sheepherder
The weavers grew angry
The milkmaids took it bad
Being summoned too early
Drove the whole city mad
Now the weavers would milk
Thus the milkers must spin
The shepherds watched goats
And vice versa set in
Miners baked mud pies
And scones out of stone
Their muffins were morbid
From pond scum and bone
Pastries were putrid
The cakes were no sweeter
The batter didn't matter
To the maker or eater
While bakers below them
Carved faces on walls
Rocking and rolling
Through underground halls
The crier was silent
The mayor just fumed
Old ladies were rabid
Old guys simply loomed
Thieves turned to givers
The givers had to take
Whereas healers and ailers
Both took a long break
The only one normal
Not acting insane
Was the verminous rat
Who kept munching their grain
Before they all knew
A rumor had spread
That these Mad Elves Of Minster
Were not right in the head
If you're ever in Pinster
Veer clear like the flu
Of that wee elven hamlet
Where the converse is true.
bananas
You can feed one to a monkey
Slip and slide across a floor
Hurl them like a boomerang
Give bananas to the poor
Express them to the Orient
Fly them to the moon
Have banana-nog at Christmas
And you'll feel much better soon
Wear bananas on your hat
Or grow them in a pot
Serve them fried with lots of ketchup
And be sure to eat a lot
Build a boat out of bananas
Or a raft if you prefer
Be ambitious, try a ship
Sculpt the statue of a blur
Paint them in a portrait
Then hang them on display
Be sure their eyes don't trail you
As you move out of the way
Free them from confinement
Campaign for their release
Send them to a friend
Who could use some elbow grease
Go bananas over something
While you visit an asylum
They'll invite you to remain
And I dare you to defy 'em.
LITTLE GREEN MEN
Far galaxy striders
Like leggedy spiders
Once landed in furtive droves
The little green men
Swarmed hillock and den
Swiping gingerbread by the loaves
All impish and knavish
A trifle tad cravish
Collecting odd ends and parts
They built a workshop
On the world near the top
Then proceeded to wield their smarts
Abducting a fellow
Quite pleasantly mellow
To pose as their leader in case
Any human suspected
They were lost, misdirected
And landed from outer space!
We know them as elves
Though 'tis not their true selves
For they hail from a distant earth
As sure as a fox
If you wind up a box
They will spring out as if in mirth
Stretching grins that are plastic
With gazes gone spastic
These elvish green men wearing tights
Offer goodies that giggle
Bright wrappings that wiggle
And bagfuls of kiddie delights
Turn no back on this folk
For it isn't a joke
They have come to collect our smiles
On happy they feed
With a slurpelous greed
Glomming children's joy with their wiles!
They are sneaky and green
They can even turn mean
If you fail to surrender a chuckle
They may dance and may sing
Then send Nicholas to bring
Back your jubilance using some knuckle
So be careful near holly
If you're feeling too jolly
Stay away from the chimney at night
Or Kris Kringle may jingle
And nab your glad tingle
And all you'll have left is the sight
Of those little elf men
Jigging gaily again
As they come back to rob you blind
You won't know what you've seen
If they're red or they're green
You might think you were losing your mind!
What have I been doing, if not observing such practices?
Writing, I guess. It's what I generally do day in and day out. It keeps me sane to some extent. I suppose that contributes a measure of merit to the world. We should all strive for that, we really should.
Pondering the meaning of the universe? Nope, I leave that for the birds to decide.
Pondering my New Year's resolution? Way too many choices.
But I might ponder the meaning of this whole merry mad rush known as Christmastime. Yes, I might do that since I've done so little else to mark the occasion.
Let me commence with a disclaimer. These days you can't be too careful. Things have changed, drastically. People get upset — even trigger-happy — over so many things. Just about anything, it seems, because there are different angles to look at a thing and most things may be offensive to somebody somewhere for some reason! I doubt I can cover every angle, but I'll try my best: It is not the author's intent or purpose to injure or omit or otherwise inflame any group or individual by the wording and images and values discussed herein.
Sound technical enough?
I apologize to anyone offended by my tone, as well. Tones can be alarming, difficult to ignore. Even silent ones. It is best, I find, to wear earplugs and eye patches in public or private so as to be fairly tone-deaf. Of course, that works for me but I am not by any means attempting to insinuate that you should do so yourself. I did not especially advise you to operate a motor vehicle or bicycle or walk across a street in such a manner.
Phew, that was close! Hope I didn't leave anything out.
I'm growing a bit anxious over this entire disclaiming business. I think I should move on.
Most people around the globe are probably familiar with the themes and typical iconic manifestations and festoonings of this season.
With the Internet, exposure to other cultures has spread more than ever regardless of one's particular beliefs and customs. Therefore, I think it is safe to make this assumption. Many, whatever their creed and preferences, cannot help but be amused or intrigued or swept up into the gala, the fantasy, the revelry of it all. What's not to love about a jovial white-bearded saint delivering gifts to children? Cute pointy-eared toymakers happily mass-producing playthings without caring about profit margins and wages? Colored lights and whimsical or stunning decorations adorning houses and lanes? People smiling, bustling about with an extra sense of goodwill and a twinkle in their eye? You've gotta love it, even if your last name happens to be Scrooge, because it's something pretty downright rare and extraordinary!
The true meaning behind it all, of course, has to do with a star and the birth of a baby. This story of humble yet magical origins, whether you accept it or not, is responsible for a major occurrence. For augmenting a colossal annual shift and ripple in the tide of Mankind, despite how jaded and jaundiced we may or may not have become.
Think about it. What other event has touched so many, inspired such a spirit of giving and caring and warmth and community? I can't think of anything that quite compares. Thus, it is certainly something worthy of celebration, or at the very least respect — whatever one's own beliefs; whichever traditions are honored and embraced; however involved with decorating and festivities you are (or aren't). Perhaps it simply instills a spark of wonder. A fondness for some aspect, some happy quality that fills the air along with the heart this time of year like the fragrance of cookies baking in an oven.
I, personally, hope we never lose that spirit — and the goal of peace on earth — because it is truly a joy and a miracle to behold. It is the direction a sane and civilized society should be headed, rather than the divisiveness and touchiness so prevalent these days. But I do see hope, I do see the signs of progress. It is possible to believe in such a world. And that's what Christmas has accomplished for everyone, everywhere, I feel. It has brought us closer by representing the shining best of humanity — beyond commercialism and holiday stress; aside from religious differences, cultural distinctions — the pure unrefined best that we as one race are capable of.
Well, now that I've said what I had to say, it's time to start my next column: What, it's January already? It can't be! I'm still in Twenty Ten!
Oops, I almost forgot. I was supposed to write some poems first. I'll add that to my list . . .
yuleogy
Does a yule have a rule?
Will it make a babe drool?
Could it ride on a mule?
Cause a yarn to unspool?
I'm addressing the topic
Is it rather myopic?
Does it live in a tropic?
Would it look microscopic?
If I write yuleogies
Must I still eat my peas?
Do I have to say please?
Will the word make me wheeze?
Are there yules in Hong Kong
Or while playing ping pong?
Does it have a theme song?
Will it take very long?
Can a yuletide be folded?
When left out is it moulded?
Does it ever get scolded?
Feel warm when it's holded?
Do yules hibernate?
Could they fit through a grate?
Might they ever run late?
Are they fun to inflate?
If we're very unyuly
Is it like being truly
Or slightly unduly?
Am I just being foolly?
I have heard of such things
And there might've been kings
For the sound of it rings
Like a bell when it dings
If traditions are lost
There is always a cost
Every land is embossed
By the ways they are crossed
I don't think it's a crime
To enjoy the yuletime
But if it rattles your chime
Please pardon my rhyme.
DARK CHRISTMAS
In contrast to the mistletude
Of blithely boisterous gifts and food
The lights, the love, the giddy gladding
Of all things nice and sweet and addling —
At times it's wise to wander off
To maund awry, astray, ascoff
Towards rapier tidings, dismal treats
Leftover from the plundered streets
Of mid-night ghoulish gallivanting
Ravid frothing garpled ranting
Let's keep the spirits fed and feisties
Amoon, agoon, aggrievent viceties
For inwith lore of dimmer annals
The rusted tomes of wretched channels
One finds the season 'tis less jolly
Abundant lurk the tales of folly
Of naughty woes, undainty bows
Hell-bound with gruesome glee in rows
Like markers for a yard of graves
Wrapped tightly by the grimmest knaves
Where Santa wears a blacker coat
And has an evil chuckling gloat
Where children are not safe these nights
When down the chimney he alights
Far worse than what lurks under beds
Whilst fetid visions dance through heads
He rides to houses for a meal
Not cookies, souls and hearts to steal
His sleigh dragged by nine starving hounds
His sack a dripping mess and mound
The letters of this ogre's name:
Not Santa — Satan is his fame
Whatever he has been known by
You'd best behave or you will fry
And then you'll freeze and wish for hot
A scrap of peace or hope there's not
Just thick regrets and bitter ire
Eternal cold and pain and fire
So have a merry cup of wist
And stay off Santa's Dark Christmas list.
THE MAD ELVES OF MINSTER
There was a town of renown
In the county of Pinster
Where dwelt a small people called
The Mad Elves Of Minster
They were once rather merry
Till just one became rotten
And spoiled the whole bunch
Till that's how they'd all gotten
It began with a rat
Who crept into their village
To eat all their grain
Every crumb would he pillage
The town crier spied him
And yelped at the varmint
Who chomped the elf's toe
With rat teeth did he harm it
The bitten would holler
Oh, he screamed bloody murder
Awaking the bakers
Every goat and sheepherder
The weavers grew angry
The milkmaids took it bad
Being summoned too early
Drove the whole city mad
Now the weavers would milk
Thus the milkers must spin
The shepherds watched goats
And vice versa set in
Miners baked mud pies
And scones out of stone
Their muffins were morbid
From pond scum and bone
Pastries were putrid
The cakes were no sweeter
The batter didn't matter
To the maker or eater
While bakers below them
Carved faces on walls
Rocking and rolling
Through underground halls
The crier was silent
The mayor just fumed
Old ladies were rabid
Old guys simply loomed
Thieves turned to givers
The givers had to take
Whereas healers and ailers
Both took a long break
The only one normal
Not acting insane
Was the verminous rat
Who kept munching their grain
Before they all knew
A rumor had spread
That these Mad Elves Of Minster
Were not right in the head
If you're ever in Pinster
Veer clear like the flu
Of that wee elven hamlet
Where the converse is true.
bananas
You can feed one to a monkey
Slip and slide across a floor
Hurl them like a boomerang
Give bananas to the poor
Express them to the Orient
Fly them to the moon
Have banana-nog at Christmas
And you'll feel much better soon
Wear bananas on your hat
Or grow them in a pot
Serve them fried with lots of ketchup
And be sure to eat a lot
Build a boat out of bananas
Or a raft if you prefer
Be ambitious, try a ship
Sculpt the statue of a blur
Paint them in a portrait
Then hang them on display
Be sure their eyes don't trail you
As you move out of the way
Free them from confinement
Campaign for their release
Send them to a friend
Who could use some elbow grease
Go bananas over something
While you visit an asylum
They'll invite you to remain
And I dare you to defy 'em.
LITTLE GREEN MEN
Far galaxy striders
Like leggedy spiders
Once landed in furtive droves
The little green men
Swarmed hillock and den
Swiping gingerbread by the loaves
All impish and knavish
A trifle tad cravish
Collecting odd ends and parts
They built a workshop
On the world near the top
Then proceeded to wield their smarts
Abducting a fellow
Quite pleasantly mellow
To pose as their leader in case
Any human suspected
They were lost, misdirected
And landed from outer space!
We know them as elves
Though 'tis not their true selves
For they hail from a distant earth
As sure as a fox
If you wind up a box
They will spring out as if in mirth
Stretching grins that are plastic
With gazes gone spastic
These elvish green men wearing tights
Offer goodies that giggle
Bright wrappings that wiggle
And bagfuls of kiddie delights
Turn no back on this folk
For it isn't a joke
They have come to collect our smiles
On happy they feed
With a slurpelous greed
Glomming children's joy with their wiles!
They are sneaky and green
They can even turn mean
If you fail to surrender a chuckle
They may dance and may sing
Then send Nicholas to bring
Back your jubilance using some knuckle
So be careful near holly
If you're feeling too jolly
Stay away from the chimney at night
Or Kris Kringle may jingle
And nab your glad tingle
And all you'll have left is the sight
Of those little elf men
Jigging gaily again
As they come back to rob you blind
You won't know what you've seen
If they're red or they're green
You might think you were losing your mind!
yuleogy
What, it's December already? Wasn't it just Halloween? Oh yes, every day is Halloween in my head. I think I do recall something about Thanksgiving whizzing by, now that I mention it. Still, it can't be Christmas! I haven't done any of the usual things, those traditional trappings that accompany the season. Haven't decorated a tree (wait, there is the small wire one on a shelf above my desk — just a minute — okay, scratch that off the list). Haven't been hearing carols (
November 21, 2010
tanks
I meant to write about "thanks". And the opposite. How ungrateful we humans have been to Mother Earth. How uncivilized civilizations have been toward other civilizations. How backwards our advancements have taken us in many ways. But how, nonetheless, we need to take the time — whatever our gripes and grievances — to appreciate this world and those around us. Also those much like us around the world. By that I mean, well, pretty much everyone. We're all people, people!
October 26, 2010
gothic
Oh yes, I am treading there. Creeping down the woebegone highways and byways of gothic-style horror this Halloween. What could be more appropriate, methinks, than to honor that dark and dismal genre with some chicken-scratches of my own? It isn't all black lipstick and fingernails, you know. Its origins were far more refined and exquisitely wrought by masterful scribes such as Edgar Allan Poe, Mary Shelley, Robert Louis Stevenson, Bram Stoker, Henry James, Robert Browning, Thomas Hardy . .
September 9, 2010
the root of all fear
Fear is a dreadful topic. Even for an author who occasionally dips her pen in the inky genre pool of Horror and Suspense. And yet it seems almost kismet that I should delve headfirst into the theme like a high-diver plummeting to a barrel of bubble bath, make that bubble-gum bath, for it is a gooey matter most personal.
August 1, 2010
hatitude
Finally, a discussion on one of my favoritest topics: Hats! There are all types, as many as there are varieties of birds. But don't quote me on that because I haven't counted either. What? Speak up! I hate when my mind mumbles. Does yours ever do that? Extremely irritating. Some people have heart murmurs. It's probably just as annoying. Okay, I'm listening! Sorry, you'll have to talk louder! And enunciate! I can't understand your gibberish! You're right, it might help if I...
July 12, 2010
scrambled
I'm sure you must be wondering what I mean by the title up there. That's what I'm trying to figure out. I'll let you know once I do. You see, I was beset by ideas for a variety of verse, as if a storm blew in and showered me — instead of droplets, with letters that collected into puddles of words on my mental parchment. As I sit here drying off, tapping keys to convey and capture the essence of the deluge, I have been attempting to glean some thread of grand design that binds them all...
Poetic Reflections
A series of eccentric and sometimes dark columns containing original verse and prose that will make you question your sanity or mine.
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