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Seasonal poetry

Cole Parker

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We have several fine poets among us here, and I'd like to see some seasonal verses filling this space.  In the hopes of jump-starting their creative processes, I'll submit a poem.  My purpose here is to show everyone how easy it would be to write something much better that this, and make them feel guilty if they don't.  So, here goes.



“Dad, here’s my list; Christmas draws near.

It shows what presents I’d treasure this year.

Things I want most are up on the top

The first one’s enough if you don’t want to shop.”




“Give it here, boy, and I’ll read it right now.

My money’s quite short, and I’m not a cash cow.”








“OK, I’ve read it, and this is not good

Please pay attention, and heed if you would.”




“I’ve read the first entry, here’s what you chose—

Now listen up, you, here’s how it goes:

‘All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.’

Do you see my problem, son? See my beef?”




“The trouble, my boy, is not that you stammer

The trouble instead is your execrable grammar.

One must match one’s nouns with his verbs,

So reading his list neither irks nor disturbs.”




“If ‘two teeth’ should be at the top of your list

Then ‘is’ should be ‘are’ so the list’s not dismissed.

And Santa, I’ve heard, is quite the fine linguist

And his sense of propriety is aptly distinguished.”




“So write this again if you hope for some presents

From Santa or anyone—even your parents.”


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There is NO WAY this verse sprang fully-formed from Cole’s brow; I’m positive that a search under his desk would reveal dozens of crumpled pages of early drafts featuring crossed-out rhymes, misspelled words, and discarded lines.  ‘Execrable’?  ‘Propriety’??  Come ON.  I can’t even find those words in my dictionary, much less spell them.  No, I think Cole has been working on this little ditty since Thanksgiving, maybe even since Memorial Day.  So this “challenge” he is throwing down is suspect, a set-up he and The Dude have cooked up to get us off our duffs and putting pen to paper.  Sorta like our sixth grade English teachers used to dump on us on our way out of the classroom door, last class before Christmas vacation.  

Thanks a lot, Cole.  Just don’t expect results overnight.  Maybe by Christmas Eve I might find an old Christmas carol with lyrics I can crib. Ho, ho, ho.

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Nope.  Sorry to disappoint.  It probably took me a half hour to write that.  Maybe 45 minutes.  I wasn't timing it.  And it was originally meant to be a limerick; it grew legs.

That's what I love about the creative process.  You start something and never know where and when inspiration will strike and what you'll finish up with.  I will admit that this poem came out much better than I  expected it to.  I didn't really think I'd end up with anything I could post.

But I'm serious in saying there are many here, including you, James, who can do much better and we'd all enjoy witnessing it.  Hold forth!



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  • I made a journey today 
  • along a boring motorway
  • when I got home
  • i wrote down this pome
  • that I'd thought of to pass time away:



Old King Cole
Was a merry old soul
And a merry old soul was he.

Uncle Cole 
Has a different goal
For the writing fraternity.

He graciously helps
Us scribbling whelps
So our stories do make some sense.

He corrects the mistakes
That each of us makes
And ensures we use the right tense.

We know he does frown
If we verb a noun
But still checks each declension and case,

So when he is done
Our readers have fun
As there's never a word out of place.

It's willingly generously
Done gratis, for free...

(I think)

But his nephews four (or more)
Are not so sure
With generous they would agree.

They find problematic
This fixation grammatic
And think he's being obtuse,

It's just a good wheeze
A veritable tease
A really blatant excuse,

When their list of requires
And Christmas desires
Is rejected for being verbose.

For they think there's a stash
Of unspent cash
He keeps exception'ly close

Oh, he rewards them with praise
In non-fiscal ways
Including his magical pies

But he says things are tight
Though maybe, just might
We all have a pleasant surprise

And his present be more than a cent.


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What was it I said,

That had to rhyme with Ed

At least 'till I reached the third line,

When I could erect a sign,

Inviting y'all to select from, shed, fed, tread, bed, or maybe just good head.


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Thanks Cole, you're too kind.

I hope the surgeons have finished with tweaking my body parts,

Yesterday, they replaced my left eye cataract lens.

They did the right eye last month. 

I've started to write a story, but no promises on a completion date.

Does Donald Trump edit stories with a gay theme? (yeah that's my attempt at humour.)


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