The Poetry Marathon

A Poem Sans Laugh, Laughter, or Giggle // Hour #11

All he wanted for Christmas was the job as that jolliest old elf. 
Part-time gigs weren't too hard were they? Ah, but nothing was guaranteed these days. 
He knew what he had to do.
 
What should he reserve for the teens too old to be there in the first place? 
He'd smirk a slight titter with just the right tilt of his head with arched eybrows.
For the parents serving up the usual jokes, he'd chuckle or chortle, 
his voice now taking on the deep tones with his shoulders bouncing up and down just enough.

Of course, for the children old enough and brave enough to bounce on his lap, pull his beard,
poke at his eyes and nose to see how he'd react, he could call out each "ho ho ho" 
from a jiggling belly strongly enough to send them bouncing onto the floor if needed 
-- not too hard, just enough to guffaw "Merry Christmas" as helper elves escorted them away. 

He practiced in the mirror. Cookies and milk through the nose was tricky to master. 
"Heehaws" were nixed because they sounded too much like tippled reindeer on New Year's Eve.
He watched Fr. Christmas over and over on tv, determined to copy such impeccable style. 
Such joy was hard to fake this season when so much had gone wrong. 

Still, he was spending Christmas with his grandchildren, 
three-year old twin boys and their one-year old twin sister. 
As Santa Claus, he would learn what gifts other children dreamt of opening, 
and he'd buy them for his family's Yule - their first together in two years.

There he stood in front of his looking glass. His red jacket was draped on the bed but 
his black boots were polished so brightly they shone, 
golden suspenders held up pants up while sparkling against his as fresh white shirt.
Three little ones tottled in, cried out, "Santa Claus!" and showered him with hugs. 

Deep within his heart, a babble started trickling softly, crescendoed with each kiss,  
and then pealed out in pure joy. Soon all harmonized with a whimsical, gleeful chorus. 
Yes, he would get this job. He had found his Christmas song.            

Strange land it is where the Frownies roam
Dead serious, deadpan!
Humongous of girth, not a sliver of mirth
All guests to their town they scan!

Snicker Notsville, the town is named
They forbid all merriment
They stoop and walk with the weight of the world
Not a penny’s worth of entertainment!

They think they do earth-shaking work
And their glory all must sing
But sad they look, and sadder they feel
with no intention of ever changing!

Is there any point to this
sans snickers, chortles or guffaws?
It’s a heavy crown their heads do bear
Focussing on finding flaws!

It’s perhaps the quest they chase
for perfection is an elusive goal
It leads to stress and such a mess
And takes a heavy toll!

Some time if they spent in Cacchin Nation
practising fun regularly
Not missing even the slightest chance
To burst forth in utmost glee!

They’d surely find their troubles behind
And efficiency increased
Things would run smoothly for sure
If their hilarity was well-greased!

Blessedness

I beamed with joy

My face radiating blessedness

As the floodgate of pent up joy let loose

The throaty sound rang out loud.

It was infectious.

History Muse

She’s on my mind sometimes when I glance at a map

A teacher who taught me about history and geography

I imagined flying over ancient empires across the globe

Being a spy listening to the lives of emperors and queens

Or being on the ground as rampaging armies attacked

A childhood crush, her lessons made me swoon

But I moved away and she moved onto another career

Today I can only wonder what happened to my history muse

When I look a map I still remember a cozy classroom

And simpler days when a big world seemed smaller

Mýthos

I woman I knew once caught a talking frog
So she said.
The frog – leopard variety – large, green
Not only spoke
but could read
preferring Studs Terkel
Rhetorically asking the frog what would happen
if she kissed him
he replied ‘nothing’
Curiosity piqued, she asked what good there was
in a talking frog
who could read?
The frog in response asked “What good is a prince?”
“Good point.”
replied my friend
“That ‘kiss me and I turn into a prince’ stuff in bullshit”
Said the frog
“Really?”
“Frogs” he explained, ”Are far more egalitarian, mostly.”
“Mostly 9-to-5”
“Frogs?”
“Yes” he told her, “The royalty crap is mostly myth.”
“Mostly?”
“Mostly. And there is no moral to my story, either.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Frogs generally prefer discussing work ethic.”

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2022
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

Contradiction (Hour 11)

Contradiction
is a multi-
branched
tree trunk
standing
lifeless
in a lush
green field

Mirthful Haiku

Mirth breaks loose: we fall

a tangled heap on the floor.

So many smiles burst.

 

Board Game

Board Game

Life’s a board game
of pits and stones
of deceit and dreams
of intrigues and ideologies
of heroes and hopes
to win is to play well

Hour 8

@varenyas

Gentle Reminders (Hour 11)

Breathe.

Laugh.

Play.

Dance.

Cuddle.

Sing.

Cry.

Live.

Rest.

Some Days

Each morning, I orchestrate an array of multivitamins
from a kitchen counter graced with a frame containing a 1983 postcard image
of Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne and a travel book to Spain.

After swallowing the roughly half a dozen supplements,
I quake down to my knees and go through floor exercises
meant to improve my aging balance on this troubled plain.

Most days, I occupy listening to well-off women with highly self-regarded
opinions opine on why they want what they don’t need
as long as they can get it at cost just to test my restraint.

Other days, I live on the wild side and plan where I’d go
if the world did become a land of biters. Whichever zombie movie
comic this apocalypse looks like is lined, but still not painted.

Some days, I ask for nothing but quiet and a story to read
that doesn’t make me sorry for getting out of bed.
Gratitude was my least favorite exercise, but it’s keeping me sane.