Julia Griffin: Lizzie Writes Back To Christina
(https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/146804/in-an-artist39s-studio)
One face, you say? He saw a head of hair,
Small pouting lips, big eyelids (check, check, check)
Some drapey fabric, fastened à la grecque
(Or medieval), fingers limp with prayer,
And – swervy, lengthy, generally bare,
Supporting these great tresses like a deck –
A greenish, whitish, fascinating neck,
Of suitable proportions for a mare.
You say I’m “wan with waiting”? Well, my dear,
You’re wan without it; also you’re a prig.
As for your brother – well! Who wants to dig
A grave up? Let me guess: a sonneteer.
Still, it allowed me to make one thing clear
He never chose to see. I wore a wig.
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Max Gutmann No Bargain
(With apologies to E.D.)
Because I could not shop for Death,
I had to pay full price.
They added quite a mark-up to
My piece of Paradise.
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Elizabeth Horrocks: Macbeth, Who Took Ill Counsel And Suffered Accordingly
The chief defect of Lord Macbeth
was putting other folk to death:
and spurred on by his fearsome wife
(desirous of a “better” life)
he started at the very top . . .
his predecessor got the chop.
It wasn't just his wife alone
who spurred Lord M to take the throne.
On the heath he’d met three witches
who offered him both power and riches.
But then he noticed that his friend
was really promised, in the end,
more than Macbeth – a royal line.
This didn’t help the King feel fine.
So, Banquo snuffed it (son escaped).
Then at a feast, his ghost, blood-draped,
put the frighteners on our lad.
And Lady M was going mad,
(sleep-walking, rubbing hands and such).
For brave Macbeth it proved too much . . .
With one last go at being tough –
slaughtering the family of Macduff –
he fell into a mighty gloom,
and then Macduff burst in the room,
and killed the king, cut off his head
and shouted, “Great! Macbeth is dead!”
The moral? Don’t be led astray
by wife or witches, come what may!
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Max Gutmann: Julia
(With apologies to RH.)
Whenas in French my Julia speaks,
Our waiters think we must be freaks.
Whenas in bed my Julia snoozes,
She gathers bedclothes. Guess who loses.
Whenas in shock my Julia sputters,
I sympathize. Our kids are nutters.
Whenas in love my Julia sighs
And looks at my with those big eyes,
I know my choice was truly wise.
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Alex Steelsmith: The Fiddle and the Pussy-Cat
(Imagining Edward Lear’s Rendition of Hey Diddle Diddle)
I
The Pussy-cat purred, and a Fiddle was heard,
While a chorus sang, “Hey diddle diddle!”
And there in the clearing, as Bong-trees were cheering,
The Pussy-cat waltzed with the Fiddle.
The Moo-cow approved, and was utterly moved
To discern such an elegant tune,
And becoming ecstatic, she leaped from the paddock
And floated right over the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
And floated right over the moon!
II
The Little Dog bayed and guffawed as he played
On a minuscule double-necked lute,
And the Pussy-Cat swooned when he lovingly crooned,
“O Pussy, you’re charmingly cute!”
The spatulas danced, and the pannikins pranced,
While the teakettle played a bassoon,
And one of the Dishes, fulfilling its wishes,
Eloped with a runcible spoon,
A spoon,
A spoon,
Eloped with a runcible spoon!
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L. A. Mereoie: Season’s Grousings, or Baubles To All Of It
(With apologies to O.N.)
Here comes the time when everyone’s busy Yuling
And I feel my already lukewarm enthusiasm cooling.
What happened to the Puritans’ drive to end a seasonal bore
By splendid campaigns against the moth-eaten customs of yore?
Wouldn’t most people stop all this festive fooling
If it weren’t for the legions of brats boo-hoo-hooling?
They say December the 25th’s only once a year
But, shortly after, the 31st is here.
The combination is too gut-strainingly gruelling.
It sets my very essence puking, if not mewling,
So this time I’m rendering it totally void and null
With a week watching paint dry somewhere not far from Hull.
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D.A. Prince : Frustration
(With Apologies To W. D. L. M.)
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller
Knocking on the moonlit door.
But the council locked the lavatories
Resolutely at half past four.
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Pippa Storey: A Visit from a Snowstorm
(With apologies to C.C.M.)
’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
Not a gadget was working, not even a mouse.
Computers and tablets lay idly about,
Their circuitry dead since the power went out.
Entrapped by the snowdrifts and desperately bored,
I prayed that the power would soon be restored.
Without constant feeds of the digital kind,
I found myself rapidly losing my mind.
Then all of a sudden, I heard someone shout,
And opened the window to take a look out.
The moon lit the soft-shrouded landscape below,
Where the neighborhood kids were at work in the snow.
They’d fashioned a snowman with pine-needle hair,
And thin twiggy arms poking up in the air.
“Hey Mister,” they called to me, “Do you suppose
You might have a carrot to use as a nose?”
I rummaged around in my vegetable drawer,
Then pulled on my snow boots and opened the door.
The garden beyond was a magical sight –
A fairyland cloaked in immaculate white.
It slumbered in stillness, each flake where it fell,
All frozen in space by some wintery spell,
Each delicate twig bearing blossoms of snow,
A filigree threading the fragile tableau.
My carrot was granted the honor to grace
The snowman’s endearingly lopsided face.
I laughed with enchantment. “It’s perfect!” I swore.
“Just watch!” the kids urged me. “We’re gonna make more!”
The night was so mild I decided to stay,
And sat on a bench a short distance away.
Around me, the shrubs lay entombed in the snow,
Plump pillows awash in a silvery glow.
A woman trudged by, looking harried and tired.
“You coping okay, Miss?” I gently enquired.
“It’s tough with the children,” she glumly replied,
“But it can’t be all bad if it gets them outside.”
She sank down beside me to watch the kids play,
And vented her worries and stress from the day.
We traded advice about how to make do,
And soon other neighbors came drifting out too.
A guy brought a fire pit. Others brought chairs.
They came bearing liquor and caramel squares.
We shared the good holiday spirit – and then
We left out the soda and shared it again.
We argued the merits of off-grid subsistence,
And lauded the joys of a simpler existence,
Of candle-lit meals versus ESPN,
And impacts on birth rates in nine months from then.
It wasn’t until the refreshments were gone
That somebody noticed the lights were back on.
We raised empty glasses and let out a cheer,
Then one of the guys went to get some more beer.
We didn’t disperse until well after ten,
With vows by all present to meet up again.
And I heard someone call as I turned out the light,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
