So I can’t tell you how many requests/ransom notes/death threats I’ve gotten over the past week begging/demanding autographed copies of poems and custom t-shirts with lines on them (hint: it rhymes with hero). And I sure as hell can’t talk about the number of Mission Impossible tapes that have self destructed on my countertop, detailing missions (should I choose to accept them) about planet-protecting, economy-boosting, stunt-driving poetry espionage. No, I have no qualms that poems, in practice, rarely save the world quite so dramatically. But that doesn’t keep us from trying.
And although this writing doesn’t yet have a Michael Bay budget, some friends did suggest that I post some of my older poetry up on the site. So over the next week or two, you can look for daily updates. Today’s submission is back ordered from December; it’s a piece that was presented at a poetry fundraiser for toys-for-tots. Wildly inappropriate for children. Enjoy.
They saw mommy…
The night before, it is quiet in the house.
Not a creature is stirring,
because now we people
keep our places clean.
Bleach takes care of the squeaks at night.
It is quiet until silently, the gifts unwrap
themselves from cellophane bodies and
share a pint of eggnog over a cracking fire.
And we light candles to remind us of how
frightful the darkness is.
Or because we sit precariously like the
tallest flame on the candelabra.
Or because we are pyromaniacs,
and it’s delightful to see we
have control over something.
And we give out cacao coins because:
1) There’s nothing that chocolate can’t fix
Okay, there are some things that chocolate can’t fix,
But for that we have gifts
That we call “tzedakah” in Hebrew,
“Zakat” in Arabic,
“Caridad” in Spanish,
“Amal” in Indonesian,
“charity” in Christian, from the French,
And “debt” in American.
Shh they say, the presents.
‘Why?’ the new ones whisper
We have to be silent tonight, reply the
of the children are counting on it.
They carefully wrap themselves back up
In chestnut colored packages and
wait until morning
but cannot easily sleep,
the Christmas lights are too damn bright
and the tree smells like mindless writing
and there’s a clatter upstairs
Bi-rhythmic and fat like a hip hop beat.
Something’s wrong, they think.
Shouldn’t we like call the authorities?
Wake up the toy soldiers?
No, it’s just an affair between a
loving mother and a
Jolly red giant
maybe she forgot about
The cookie tradition.
She tastes like singed lungs
And he like high blood sugar
They are a match made heavenly
in hangover cures
And work as long as it takes for the
headache to go away
Which is exactly just long enough
to make the evening festive