Drink the green
If the red runs out, drink the green,
though the green can be quite mean.
Served at room temp or a little warmer,
it is said to make you adore the former.
It will drive you out into the day,
groping, hoping to get away
from awfulness in your mouth
that tastes like a mouse gone south.
.
.
#122523 #poem # humor #holidays #christmas #davidebooker
Filed under 2023, Christmas, holiday, humor, poem, poet, poetry, poetry by author, Poetry by David E. Booker
What tome is Santa bringing you?
Seasonal Greetings
I got a Christmas card from you. /
Now, dang it, I feel obligated to /
Send you one in return, /
A card to make your envy burn. /
Yes, and it will be homemade. /
By my hand, the artistry bade. /
Or maybe something sentimental and rank, /
Since all I draw is to draw a blank.
Filed under 2021, Christmas, photo, poetry, Poetry by David E. Booker, Silly Saturday
This is a note to tell you
that Wall Street has taken away
the things I really needed:
my workshop, my reindeer, my sleigh.
I now make my rounds on a jackass;
he’s old and crippled and slow.
So, if you don’t see me come Christmas,
I’ll be out on my ass in the snow.
Santa mounts a new challenge.
[Editor’s note: original appeared in Dec. 2012, but brought back because it still applies. And because I can.]
Filed under cartoon by author, Christmas, poetry, Santa Claus, satire
Christmas Time
By David E. Booker
Christmas comes but once a year
As songs and calendar make clear;
And then the bills come blowing in,
Heralding a new year, amen.
So out into the cold I go,
Fighting wind and debt and snow
Bringing Christmas joy and cheer
’Til my bank account is clear.
Then the credit cards come out
And out and out and then about
The time I think I’ve spent enough
There is a present that I’ve muffed.
So back into the store I go
For my tale of substitute woe
Where the clerk tries to smile
And I feel I’m in Kafka’s Trial.
The guardians of tradition wait to ensure your every move is the right one.
O’ Christmas becomes a time surreal
When some dance and some kneel
And oftentimes my intentions digress
And I come out feeling less and less.
As the stories of Christmas past
Tell tales of deeds that truly last.
Try as I might, I come to the day
Watching the show now on display
And feel as the tree tops glisten
And children listen, that I am missing
A moment of my own to clasp,
Something sweet and ethereal to last.
For it’s those moments ill-defined,
When a smile is given un-timed,
When the heart is opened to the moment,
That the soul finds console-ment
That this season means more than here
And those people you wish to hold dear
Find their place and their own rhyme
In your heart, beating in a new time.
[Editor’s note: This poem was first published in a small publication in 2007.]
Filed under Christmas, Photo by author, poetry by author, Silly Saturday
Glass sparkled roadway /
cold winds and clotted metal /
Christmas and cop lights.
Filed under Christmas, Haiku to You Thursday, poetry by author
The blathering idiot stood in line to sit on Santa’s lap.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?” the young mother asked of the man standing with her as they tried to control three squirming kids dressed in wise men outfits.
The man grunted.
“We can always stop.”
The young woman was very pregnant.
The man grunted again.
For some wishes there isn’t enough magic in Santa’s cap … or lap.
The blathering idiot had never sat in Santa’s lap when he was a kid. Since losing the election for the highest office in he land, he decided he would do some of the other things in life he had never done before. Sitting in Santa’s lad was the first thing on his list.
He did not tell anybody: not Zoey, not Xenia, not Lydia, not anybody.
One of the kids in front of him squirmed away from her parents and was toddling away. The mother ran after her. The mother had to pick the daughter up and bring her back, kicking and screaming all the way. It was then that the blathering idiot realized all three of the kids were girls. Still, they looked as if they had been dressed to be miniature wise men.
“Are you sure?” she asked again.
She was staring hard at her husband.
He stared back. He did nothing to help control the kids.
The blathering idiot could detect a cold silence between them as the line crept forward.
As they neared the head of the line, the kids increased their antsiness.
Then they were next in line. It had been almost thirty minutes.
The boy on Santa’s lap burst into tears. After two attempts to calm the young man down, Santa looked at the mom, who, slightly red in the face, stepped up from the other side of Santa’s thrown and retrieved her son.
An elf in a pea green costume with bells on the ends of his up curled show tips and a five o’clock shadow across his downturned chin, stepped up to the red velvet rope and unhooked it from one of the poles.
“Last chance,” the woman said.
“Next,” the elf said, stepping back, clearing the way up the two steps to the dais on which Santa sat.
The man hesitated, then surged forward.
The mother and the three girls followed. They walked up to Santa, the squirmy one still in her mother’s arms, and the other two fidgeting as they moved. Then, they walked past Santa as the man, the husband, the father sat in Santa’s lap.
Seeing the man plop himself into Santa’s lap and Santa struggling to handle the size and the weight, the blathering idiot no longer had a desire to sit in Santa’s lap.
“Santa,” the man said, “I want you to bring me a baby son for Christmas.”
Then the blathering idiot suddenly felt antsy. He couldn’t remember what he wanted to ask Santa for.
Filed under blathering idiot, Christmas, Photo by author, Story by author
This is a note to tell you
that Wall Street has taken away
the things I really needed:
my workshop, my reindeer, my sleigh.
I now make my rounds on a jackass;
he’s old and crippled and slow.
So, if you don’t see me come Christmas,
I’ll be out on my ass in the snow.
Santa mounts a new challenge.
Filed under cartoon by author, Christmas, poetry, Silly Saturday
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