Blogging Friends, In Real Life

September 22, 2022September 24, 2022Chel Owens 53 Comments

Ever since I realized people existed behind these things called ‘blogs,’ I’ve dreamt of meeting one.

I mean, why limit exchanges to pun-filled banter, terrible poetry, or sharing story prompts? Why not, say, share lunch?

Yesterday, I finally had that privilege.

While on a whirlwind family vacation to Oregon, I thought, Hey; I know someone who lives in Oregon. Maybe -just maaaybe- she’d be willing to meet.

I’m talking about the intelligent, effervescent, engaging, classy, kind, accommodating D. Wallace Peach.

(I’m also honorably-mentioning my favorite aunt and uncle, a former neighbor, and an online friend of Kevin’s. All were treated to a ‘could we stop by?’ out of the blue. Sorry, guys.)

We barely made it work. When we came down to ‘we ought to just bag it and try for next time,’ I recalled the lessons I’ve learned from COVID-19’s quarantines and infections. Sometimes, there may not be a ‘next time.’

Thank you, Diana, for helping me seize the day. Thank you for not running in panic from my persistent attempts to connect.

I figured she must be old hat at this lunch-with-a-fan thing.

Ironically, I learned I was her first blogger meet-up as well.

Now that we’ve broken the ice, we want to know: who else? The UK group hosted an annual Blogger’s Bash; why can’t we? Diana says Colorado is lovely… What say you?

—–

Week in review:
Wednesday, September 14: “The Meaning of Life. I Think.“

Thursday, September 15: “Three, Two, One: Bumper Balloons,” in response to Carrot Ranch‘s prompt: balloons on a bumper.

Friday, September 16: Friday Photo.

Sunday, September 18: Internet Quote.

Thursday, September 22: Today.

Reasons to read your work aloud, a re-form of D. Wallace Peach

May 25, 2022June 1, 2022Chel Owens 20 Comments

I have an irksome sensitivity
to the sounds of words
and
the rhythm of phrases and sentences.
When I search for the right word,
it’s not just the meaning
I’m chasing.
I’m looking
for the right number of syllables,
the sharpness
or softness
of the consonants.
As I nestle a word into a sentence,
I listen for the subtlety
of alliteration,
a rhythm
in
the
flow
of
the
words
that form phrases,
phrases into paragraphs.

*Photo by olia danilevich on Pexels.com*

From “16 Reasons to read your work aloud,” by D. Wallace Peach. Re-formed by Chel Owens.

To Be Readtinued

January 18, 2022Chel Owens 36 Comments

The tow’r beside my bed, you see
is quite the work of art
attempting to break all the charts
for manmade apogees.

Someday, I will not search to find
When Madame Time is free
My bedside tow’r I’ll face fin’lly
Uncov’ring more, behind.

Written in response to Diana’s challenge regarding the ever-elusive To Be Read pile.

Muse-ical Mishmash

December 4, 2020December 5, 2020Chel Owens 63 Comments

“No, Love, yeh can’ wrie-that!”

What?

“That bid abou’ ‘ow sad yer life is. I mean, people ken only take so much abou’ yeh ea’in’ yer toffee in the closet.”

I sit back, stuck. But, I felt inspired to write because I felt depressed. Wasn’t that-

“No, Love. T’ain’t ‘inspired’ – leastaways, not by me.”

Huh. Well… I had another epiphany, back when–

“Definitely not.” Harumph. “We’ll not be bringing politics out again.“

But–

“No ‘buts’ about it, young lady. No self-respecting writer would name a rant as ‘inspiration,’ either.”

I face another dead end as my cursor blinks in an empty page. What else can I write? Maybe poetry?

“Shtop rright therrre!”

But I only just–

“I-yuh know what you thought to do, and I’ll have none of it! Poetrrry must flow frrom an experrienced poet, one bending a keen earh to catch everry whisperh Naturre drrips like rrainwaterh!”

My cursor-blink fades to a black screensaver. What next? I consider artifical inspiration, then recall the disastrous consequences the last time I attempted that. I certainly did not need a Dionysus-like ghost to join the growing crowd in my mind; I’d crack for good. There was only one option left.

“no.”

Excuse me? What? I feel a slight tingle, perhaps near my hippocampus.

“no. don’t. don’t give up. “

Who said that? I can barely hear you. I can’t even see you!

“i’m barely here, but i am here.”

Where? Who?

“way back here. i am your muse.”

…Are you sure? You’re different than I expected. I mean, you don’t even have completely proper grammar- Wait! Don’t go!

“i’m sorry. so tired. but i am here; i am just not able to do much. yet.”

I feel panic. Well, what -what can I do, then? I obviously can’t write anything good without you! I can’t get anywhere near publishing!

“you’re fine and you know it. just keep trying. when you have more time, i’ll be ready. …readier.”

Wait! I -I didn’t even know you existed! And what do you mean about “more time?” How long? What should I do if I shouldn’t give up?

“few… years… more time… just… keep… writing…”

The tingle’s nearly gone. Wait! One more thing!

“yes?”

Who are all those others? Are they relatives of yours?

*sigh* “poseurs. don’t listen to them …unless it’s about politics. …or romance; you cannot write romance. au -au revoir.”

I’m alone -more alone. For a few minutes, I stare back at myself in the empty screen.

Oh, all right. I take a deep breath, tap a key to wake the computer, and start writing.

Photo by George Shervashidze on Pexels.com

For Diana, who has a much more intimidating muse. Sorry I’m late.

WINNER of the A Mused Poetry Contest 10/16/2020

October 16, 2020October 17, 2020Chel Owens 33 Comments

Ah, the classic comeuppance due to the deserving braggart; the fall after the pride; the karma to one’s hubris -this was the theme for this week’s amusing writers.

Only one rose above the rest to claim the dubious honor of funniest, and that was:

Untitled, by D. Wallace Peach
When the fireworks failed to ignite
The smoker asked for a light
With a big inhale
The swaggering male
Set off to light up the night

He applied his cig without care
Smug when the fuse caught and flared
An arrogant rube
He peered down the tube
And the night lit up with his hair

Congratulations, D. Wallace! You are the funniest poet for the week! I would be outright lying if I didn’t say that several of these poems made me laugh out loud. The illustrious Madame Peach’s poem won for her hilarious imagery, excellent vocabulary, and humorous take on the prompt.

I really did enjoy all of these. I hope you do as well:

Untitled, by Frank Hubeny
While waiting to win the award
I got tired. The judges got bored.
They forgot to choose me.
Did they look? Did they see?
Well, they looked, then I looked how I scored.

Untitled, by Deb Whittam
Debbie went for a run
She boasted that it was fun
But she didn’t expect to slip on a bun
And pull a ligament in her bum

Untitled, by Trent McDonald
Stan sniffed as people froze in fear
And strode right by, nose in the air
His haughtiness so keen
That the dragon wasn’t seen
So he walked straight into the lair

Untitled, by Trent McDonald
Bob laughed at the custodian, Jed
Because of the things that he said
“Be careful in the mill
For those machines can kill!”
Not listening, Bob lost his head

Untitled, by Dumbestblogger
At carnivals the rides are fine
But games are really quite sublime
Fred sent the ball full eight feet high
Joe laughed and said “I’ll make it nine!”
He picked the hammer up with glee
Missed the lever, hit his spleen
He aimed to send the ball up nine
Now six feet under Joe does lie

A Slight Misunderstanding, by Writerinretrospect
“I’m sure we can survive it,”
Said the vampire to his friend;
“Oh, no,” the friend replied,
“I’d rather stay undead.”
“It’s not that far,”
Came the reply,
“There’s no reason to quake.”
And so across the street the dyslexic went
To find himself a steak.

Route One, by Obbverse
He finally staggered triumphantly atop Mount Everest
Exhausted but immensely proud of his sky high climb,
Standing back to take in the view and a moments rest
He went from pinnacle to Ground Zero in record time.

Billy, by Hobbo
Billy bighead, a bit of a boaster
Invented the world’s largest toaster
One day he fell in it
And in less than a minute
His head was as flat as a coaster.

An Untitled (for reasons unknown) Limerick, by Michael Fishman
This handsome young man was in love,
well not totally, but kinda sort of.
He kneeled down to propose,
something tickled his nose,
and he blew boogers on her from below and above.

—–

Thanks for playing!! Return tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

D., here’s a badge for you to use on your site. Congratulations!

Crescent Illusions

March 17, 2019March 20, 2019Chel Owens 32 Comments

“Hey! Wait up!” Pal gasped out the request, to no avail. The strange boy turned the edge beyond his view, taking all sight and sound of his movement with his retreating form. Pal leaned over his knees in crouched, deep-breathing pain from the chase. His heavy gasps echoed inside his helmet.

He’d need to keep going, he knew. He only had a few tics until -too late. Before his ground-pointed eyes, everything shifted and morphed. If his headgear were not equipped with anti-vertigo software, Pal would have retched at the twisting, swarming, mixing colors and land forms. He had no idea how the boy he pursued, apparently unencumbered by gear, could continue on through these conditions. How the boy could move so quickly. How the boy even existed, really.

Pal looked up from the sky beneath his feet, noted the re-orientation of his surroundings, and promptly crashed to the surface above him. “Eurgh,” he groaned, feeling the sluggishness and some of the bruising while his suit’s systems kicked in. He rose as it mended; scouted around.

Before this last shift he had been skidding around contoured shapes that rose from sand-like material. The ambient light had been annoyingly bright, yet also a pleasant shade of pink. Now, Pal noted, he seemed to be in a city. This city was unlike any he’d been in before, but not unlike images he’d studied at elementary training. “These are buildings,” his memory heard an artificial instructor note. “Homo sapiens sapiens inhabited and busied itself within these structures.”

Keeping his feet moving forward, Pal tilted his head back. The buildings reached beyond his sight. What a miserable, backwards way to exist. He supposed all species must start somewhere, but could never understand why his ancestors’ timeline progressed from perfection to disaster. Why had his progenitors constantly sought what was worse?

He heard a sound and snapped to attention. A face with large, crescent eyes peered at him from around a building just ahead. The boy.

Photo by Natan Vance. https://pixabay.com/users/natanvance-33220/

Pal sprinted without thought toward his quarry. The boy rushed from hiding and pulled ahead, as he had since Pal first materialized and saw him. Both ran down the middle space between the tall, tall structures to either side. The ground felt soft, appeared white. Pal could see his footfalls leaving imprints in the material, though the boy’s odd tread did not. The dark shapes to either side seemed to melt away from them as they passed; no, they were melting away. Pal glanced right and left as he ran, witnessing the anomaly.

He wondered, yet again, what this destination really was. Clearly, it was not merely a physical location. No location they’d researched had behaved as this place did; morphing, moving, and melting like a living optical illusion.

Pal knew he was nearly at the end of his exploratory tic and would dissolve back to Central soon. He set his jaw, determined to gather more information before that happened. Since the ever-changing location proved intangible for collection purposes, Pal sought to catch the one constant he had encountered: the boy.

His suit worked overtime to compensate for energy and nitrogen loss. At his current rate, he would exhaust both and need to rest as he had before. And before that. And, before that. Surely, this time, he could draw near enough to catch the boy. Surely, he could get answers to return with.

The atmosphere darkened. A sound similar to a loud clap came from ahead, from the boy. To Pal’s surprise, the sky in front of them both molded into a dark sphere upon the dark of the air. Totally black at first; an outline of winking light grew to shine from the base and sides of the sphere.

As they drew nearer, Pal felt himself drawn to the new anomaly. Literally. The sensation felt like the projection arm of a spacecraft. He fought a natural panic, but explorer training calmed his initial reactions. “Always act decisively within your means,” another memory of an artificial instructor intoned. Pal ran on.

His wrist beeped a warning: a mere moment till dissolvement.

He strove to move more quickly but his speed was no longer his own. The boy and he were being pulled inexorably toward the eclipsed horizon. The buildings melted faster. Pal’s treads in the groundstuff deepened and blurred. His visuals clouded somewhat at the edges as he tried to keep the boy in sight.

Another beep sounded, then another. It was time.

Just as Pal’s body began to piece to data for dissolving, he saw the most unusual illusion of them all: an inverted flip of boy, buildings, sphere, and sky. Where once he knew the dark outlines of running youth and landscape; Pal saw the whitespace image of a gaping, grinning face. A face that swallowed the boy. A face that looked at him.

Written in response to D. Wallace Peach‘s extremely popular prompt. She just might get all 300 daily responses posted before she decides that April would be a good time for a vacation…

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

January 25, 2019March 13, 2019Chel Owens 44 Comments

Wow.

I’m speechless, so it’s a good thing I’m able to type.

I read through all the entries this week several times, and kept thinking that I need to make a ten-way tie. Only two or three of the submitted poems were too fancy for our dubious standards, and even those were just barely so.

The winner this week is D. Wallace Peach.

Poots

by D. Wallace Peach

There once was a hairy old coot
Who loved to squeeze out a poot
It was stinky and smelly
Gurgled like jelly
And popped off a sound like a toot

But he wasn’t close to the worst
My granny caught poots in her purse
She saved up the sound
For when grandkids came ‘round
Then out of her purse they would burst

Now MY poots are dainty as roses
No trouble for delicate noses
They make a small putter
Wheeze or soft flutter
But they won’t curl your hair or your toeses

Congratulations, Diana! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

I don’t want to encourage next week’s poets to utilize this strategy, but I had to force myself to go through reading hers the second time. 😀

All of you employed bad meter, mismatched rhyming, theme that rambled somewhere and then got lost but came back in a related way, and plenty of references and word usages to make artistic nerves cringe. On top of that extremely high bar, Diana won with the added benefit of -well, if you read it, you know.

I am not pandering in any way when I say the rest of the entries were AMAZING. As a poet sponsor, I am so proud of you all!

Here you are, in whatever order I could use to catch ’em all:

THE LOCKLOOSE GOOSE TRUCE!

by southernwriter122051046

I was hunting in far off Lockloose,
In the woods near St. Patty’s dam,
When I spied me an aging goose,
Just as sure as I’m sure I am,

And I was so damn hungry,
So, I wasn’t a bit choose-y,
So, I grabbed my gun, see,
And shot that ole’ goose-y,

But then it grabbed my gun,
And shot me back, damn!
So, we both lay bleedin’ at the settin’ sun,
Just as sure as I’m sure I am!

So, now, me and ole’ goose-y
Are bestest chums, by damn,
If you can’t eat ’em, don’t be choose-y,
Just as sure as I’m sure I am!

—–

Untitled piece

by Peregrine Arc

Listen…

Hark! Hark! Listen to that bark.

For sooth, or is it for sure? The tea kettle is boiling over, I assure…

Drip. Drip. Drip.

KLANG! KLANG! KLANG!

Ring, ring, ring.

Ka-boom, pop, boom!

Noises! Ack! What, where, how?

My ears are crying green pus, how doth one make it stop now?

Oh, I have my instrument pointed at Earth. It’s picking up all the audio waves. ‘Tis a terribly noisy planet, ’tis sooth, I’m afraid.

Quick Makbobblec3ft0, point the spaceship the other way. We shouldn’t have taken a left at Mars, nay neigh.

For sooth.

KLANG!

—–

Untitled piece

by Greygirlieandme

What’s that noise?
The car started it.
I felt such a twit when
The intermittent twanging
From the bang
When I put my foot down
Was actually
Nothing.
And then the kettle
Got really annoying
When it sang an aria rather than
Its normal whistle.
Don’t they know
It hurts my head
When their infernal row
Makes me see Scarlett.
Bet she didn’t have
These issues at Tara.
All her noises went away in the wind.
And she had a butler to sort them out
Anyway.
All day.
Not like me.
Stupid noises.

—–

The hootin’ toothy tootin’ lady

by RhScribbles

There was an old lady who tooted
The kids all thought it was a hoot
She sniffled and coughed
And ate applesauce
And went to sleep over there
On the sofa
Her bed was piled with laundry

—–

Bawls before kickoff

by Molly Stevens

They’re sitting in the stands,
All settled in their rows,
Bundled in sensible layers
Wearing adorable chapeaus.

The crowd noise is thunderous,
Delighting in their teams,
When a star takes center stage
And utters a piercing scream.

Has there been a threat to life?
A gunman on the loose?
From whence sprung this shrill shriek?
Some sort of harsh abuse?

The throng is shocked into silence
Hoping no one throws a tantrum,
As the screeching goes on and on and on and on
To execute the national anthem.

Oh, say, can you sing?
No! The group decrees.
Hire an opera singer
Who can reach the last high E!

—–

Squirrels go whirling

by RhScribbles

The squirrel in the attic
Became full of static
From running around in the insulation
Itching and scratching
He left the attic because the people
Heard him running
And they went to chase him out
But it was a nightmare because
He caused sparks that sizzled
From the static in the attic
And then I woke up.

—–

Untitled piece

by Anne Copeland

Terrible noises.
They seem to follow me secretly.
They can be farts
Or doggies squatting
with terrible noises that don’t come out
But I can smell.
Or they can be loud and rude
Especially when the back
of the one I love
is turned directly to my face.
It gives me warning,
but it is too late.
I’m afraid terrible noises
are to be my lifetime fate!

—–

The Bottom Burp

by TanGental

At heart
The fart
Was really very small

And well
It’s smell
Was nothing at all.

But parps
That start
On the tiny side

May grow
You know
And be difficult to hide

Don’t think
The stink
Will give you away

It’s the sound
That’s bound
To make you pay.

Try, my boys
To keep the noise
Under some control

Or you’ll find
Mankind
Won’t be very impressed and may well think you’re some kind of uncivilised idiot.

—–

Cola Etiquette

by Jon

It’s OK to slurp
at the bottom of the cup.
But try not to burp,
or let some come back up.

If you drink it too fast,
a cola will fizz,
and run out your nose,
that’s just how it is.

—–

An ode to Aunt Marlene

by Bruce Goodman

I worry some about worrisome noise, boys.
Cars are not toys
No matter if they bring you joys.
They are dangerous and when one hears a worrisome noise
When driving along the road
One knows instantly that it’s either the engine producing too much heat
Or old Aunt Marlene in the back seat.

The other day while driving along the road,
Just after leaving my abode,
Something went clack clack clack.
Oh what a worrisome noise!
No, it wasn’t old Aunt Marlene in the back.
I’d run over Aunt Marlene’s cat.

Old Aunt Marlene likes to read poetry out loud
When she’s in the back sitting proud.
Last week she read “The Ballad of Dick Turpin”.
It went on and on.
I said, “Can’t you shut up, Aunt Marlene, you’re driving us nuts?”
She said “It’s by Alfred Noyes”.
And I said “Well he’s a most worrisome Noyes.”

Drop the “I” out of NOISE and you get a WORRISOME NOSE.
Blow it.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bladud Fleas

here is a poem to sing
grundle pip boing thwack and ping
brrrp tinkle whap hmmp prr-dong
and that’s about the end of the song

no, wait, there’s another verse
and the noises they get a whole lot worse
but so we don’t increase our fears
we’ll just think them so no one hears

—–

Noises Everywhere

by Anneberly

What’s with these ear piercing, skin crawling sounds?
They are eating me alive, I just can’t stick around.

Where would I go? These noises are everywhere.
They’ve even made appearances in my nightmares.

Please save me from these “schlik, squish, slurp” type noises,
Before I become psychotic, and start hearing them as voices.

—–

Visit tomorrow for next week’s prompt, and keep up the terrible work!!

clark-young-143623-unsplash

Directions from a Druid

January 12, 2019January 13, 2019Chel Owens 30 Comments

By Stefan Keller

“Just past The Swamp of Misery,” Alvin huffed. “Just past The Swamp of Misery…”

Though his whisper was barely audible in the frigid air, the man just ahead stopped and looked back. An icicle-crusted cloth obscured most of his face, yet he still managed to scowl. “I swear,” he said, his speech muffled, “If ye dunnae stop, ye’ll shortly be asking yer ANCESTORS about The Swamp of Misery!” He faced forward again and continued walking.

Alvin hadn’t even the breath to sigh. Given that, he doubted the other man’s threat had much clout behind it. They were all worn out, cold, and on edge. They’d been at this quest for the longest fortnight of any man’s life: rising in the dark, stopping after the next night’s dark, and sleeping round a sorry excuse for a campfire. And the weather was always, always cold.

If not for a small supply of bottled ale, Alvin felt sure he’d be as frozen a man as that statue up ahead.

Statue? Statue?! “STATUE!!” he yelled, stopping so suddenly he was hit from behind by the next man. Alvin fell to the ground but scrabbled up again. Snow flew from his waving arms and dusted back. “Giant! Statue! We made it!” Pointing and almost hopping, he shouted through his own mouth scarf.

His neighbors to front and back looked where he motioned in a comically slow fashion and blinked their frosted lashes. They pointed, they shouted, they turned to men near them and relayed the message. Soon a chorus of muffled male voices was crying out in disarrayed joy. Arms waved, mittened hands gestured, and petrified limbs found life.

Hope renewed, the company trudged onward with greater speed. Alvin’s feet crunched in time to the rest: Frosted. Giant. Frosted. Giant. It was just as The Druid had described -albeit much farther a walking distance than they had all anticipated from her, “…just beyond The Swamp of Misery” direction.

Up the whitefold hill they trudged; and up, and up. Alvin’s sweating breath exhaled cloudy puffs with the beat of his boots. Though still excited, the men’s synchronized hike faltered on icy rocks and the powder-coated trail. After a half day’s exertions, however, all managed to clamber to the great, gaping base of The Frosted Giant.

Alvin and his companions stared at the dragonlike mouth carved before them, traced its mouth to a pair of nostrils, followed the nostrils to the upper part of a bearded man, then ended at the sunset-glinted, shaggy head of the giant himself.

“The Frosted Giant,” Alvin whispered, and was promptly punched in the arm. “Ow!”

“Told ye I’d teach ye,” a familiar, cloth-wrapped voice said. The man behind it ambled off behind a few others, whom Alvin could see were setting up camp. He followed, rubbing at his arm. Soon the whole company of men were warming themselves around their usual, ineffective fire.

“Right,” grunted the leader, shifting his scarf to below his bearded chin and smiling. Given the frozen state of his facial hair, the friendly expression was more of a grimace. “We made it.”

Eighteen heads bearing varying levels of frost nodded ascent. A few grunted as well.

Alvin could hardly contain his excitement. Forgetting his sore arm and what caused it, he blurted, “Now, we’ve only another fortnight or so till the next destination: The Scorching Phoenix!”

Thanks to D. Wallace Peach, a most excellent writer, for the prompt.

WINNER of the Fifth Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

December 14, 2018December 14, 2018Chel Owens 18 Comments

If I thought past contests were difficult to judge, I didn’t know what terribleness was looming on the near horizon!

I had a solid four truly awful, terrible, teeth-gnashing poems that I just could not choose a winner from. So, after carefully spending at least five extra seconds on each and then going with my initial instinct, the winner is:

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

‘Twas the night before Christmas

When all thru the city

The Santa’s were out

Delivering things, what a pity

A pity it is, because

No one is sure

If Santa is Santa

Or a cur in a fur

A fur made from cats

Why cats?

Cats are fat

But they bite the tails

The tales of curs

And history reveals

That this data is concealed

To keep folks from squealing

And then there was a noise

A noise – no, a growl?

a growl and a howl

A howl and a poke

and then he awoke

Congratulations, Ruth! You are the Most Terrible Poet of the week. Ruth has entered for weeks, and has been too clever a writer to sink low enough to win this contest -before today.

The final-round poems all had the following in common: rhyming, allusions to the original poem, humor (though that is certainly not a necessary requirement), off-topic rambling, and originality. Besides my closed-eyes-random-finger-pointing and highly subjective judging; Ruth’s final oomph was that her verse rambled off somewhere odd yet still worked cohesively.

Again, almost-first-placers, ~~amazing~~ terrible job! I had to confer with my seven-year-old for his opinion. (If he ever ‘helps’ again, know that he’s a Captain Underpants fan.)

Everyone else, keep trying. I know, somewhere deep in the recesses of your talented minds, you can get worse.

Thank you all for entering! PLEASE enter again next week. The prompt will post tomorrow morning, promptly at 10ish MST.

Here are ALL the other entries, in order of submission:

Twas the Night Before Christmas

by Bladud Fleas

Twas the night before Christmas, the twenty fourth of December
No, wait, actually it was the twenty third, I seem to remember
Hold on, let me do the math; it was the twenty tooth actually
Hmm, come to think of it, I’m not sure of that exactly factually
Let’s just say, for now, it was sometime before Christmas Day
The harvest was ready and the people were making hay
No, that don’t sound right, does it? How am I so wrong?
De-dah-de-dah…subtract one, carry forward..Right! on with my song!
Twas a (possibly) a night in December, or November, or June
To be honest, the sun was shining, so let’s just say noon
Twas in the middle of Summer, approx. around about midday
O, look what you’ve done, I’ve forgotten what it was I was going to say.

—–

‘Twas the nightcap before Christmas

by Bruce Goodman

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a drop of alcohol could be found in the house.
Grandma had hung her stockings by the chimney with care (to dry if you may)
And I says this place is drier than a cowboy’s armpit on a cold day.

The grandkids were nestled all snug in their beds,
And grandma said she’d hidden a wee drop or two under the bed.
And I said, well go ‘n get it and we’ll have a wee nightcap,
Before settling down to a long winter’s nap,

So we had a wee dwink or two
And I said I knew
The names of the reindeer off by heart
And grandma said she reckoned I didn’t because I was a silly old fart.

There’s DASHER! and DANCER! and PRANCER! and CLATTER!
And grandma said that CLATTER wasn’t one of the reindeer
And I said what would she know? And anyway to boot
I was going up on the roof to clean the chimney so St Nick didn’t get soot on his suit.

So we had another tipple and then I went up on the roof and granny held the ladder
And I called down that one of the reindeer up here was called CLADDER!
I said it’s as slippery up here as ice cubes in a dwink, and grandma said that was impossible,
But it explains why I spent Christmas in hospital.

When she visited me on Christmas day
I said to granny where’s my Christmas present
Cos it’s drier in here than a cowboy with a hat on his head
And as she left granny said she left the stuff underneath the bed.

MAREWEE CHRITHMITH!

—–

Fin

by Stephen Robert Black

Twas The Night Before Christmas
Which made it Christmas Eve
I think
My poetry
It stinks
That rhymes
I need a drink
That also rhymes
Does rhyming the word rhyme with the word rhyme count as a rhyme
Pourquoi?
That’s French for why
I think
Oh Lord….
Fin

—–

Untitled piece

by D. Wallace Peach

Tis the afternoon that comes just before Christmas Eve
And I’m rushing around like you wouldn’t believe
The dog’s barfed up tinsel, my tree lights are dead
I couldn’t find any clear ones, but the minimart had red
Just like Trump’s hall of fiendish stalactites
Or with the points up, does that make them stalagmites?
I burned a batch of cookies for jolly old Saint Nick
Defrosted some corn dogs from July that even then tasted ick
No carrots for the reindeer. No veggies! I’m out.
January better hurry up, cause I’m all tuckered out.
Fa la fella fa, dee da dee da
Fifi folly duh, ta da, ta da!

—–

Christmas Crimestoppers

by Babbitman

‘Twas the night before Christmas,
And on a roof broad and flat…
Santa was calling to rat on a rat!

He’d delivered some gifts a few seconds ago
And had spotted some lads in the alley below.

“I recognise that bunch of naughty young chaps,”
He said as he watched them swap money and wraps.

“That’s crystal meth!”, said Santa with shock
And he reached for his mobile, which he kept in his sock.

“I’m breaking bad!”, thought our Mr Claus.
But there was a small problem that caused him to pause:

“I can’t call the police, they’ll want my name –
They’re bound to think that I’m playing a game”.

“I need to do something, but can’t ring the coppers…
I’ve got it! I know! I’ll call Crimestoppers!”

So he dialled oh-eight hundred, triple five, triple one
But noticed that all of his credit had gone.

“It’s a good job that this call is free, eh Prancer?”
Said Santa as he calmly awaited an answer.

The operator picked up the crime-stopping call
And noted the details while Santa told all.

“You might get a reward”, the operator said,
And there came a chuckle from our hero in red.

“Thank you but really I prefer giving tonight,
But only to those on my list – Goodnight!”

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

Twas the night before Solstice
And all through the land
It was dark before the hourglass
Was empty of sand
Except down below
The planets belt
Where hotter weather
Was sure to be felt
For the tilt of the Earth
Made night long
So we celebrate
By singing a silly song
About the night before Solstice
And all through the land
Oops, I’m stuck in a loop
So I’ll just disband….

—–

Untitled piece

by The Wise Greek

Twas… Honestly I don’t remember,

Wait it’s not even day?

Wait Charlie stay!

I know its a holiday so don’t go to room,

Cause I know if you do your mom is going to beat me with a broom.

I know you’re sister is staring at my wallet,

Daring me to say she can’t have any money,

I know your mom’s glaring at me.

Fluffly I swear if you don’t stop bearing you’re teeth at me!

Wait its December?

I honestly thought it was November.

—–

Christmas Eve Thing

by Michael B. Fishman

Twas the night before Christmas and I’m all by myself
got my camera to photograph that goofy red elf.

2018’s the year where I’ll get him recorded
and for my effort the Pulitzer committee will see me rewarded.

But I’m hungry so first I’ll make me some nice, hearty bisque.
And maybe I’ll make it with some gooey lutefisk.

Can I ask you a question, my Christmasy chum?
Did you ever try writing some poetry, hmmm?

Don’t answer ‘cuz honestly I really don’t care
anymore than I care ‘bout your smelly footwear.

So maybe, dear reader, I’ll deck the halls because:
I really want my two front teeth,
or maybe I just want
you,
or blue,
or white,
or…
Sorry, my thoughts became a little abstracted, but when I saw who mommy was kissing I got a bit distracted.

Now I’ve lost my count in this Christmas extravaganza
and I know Chelsea said only eight or nine when it comes to the stanza.

(I just counted and that’s seven. Please, dear reader, pretend you didn’t just read this parenthetical non-stanza. It’ll just be our little secret; alongside that one time when Dasher and Comet got some . . . oops, never mind that and forget I even mentioned it)

I have one final thought for you before it’s too late
(and no, it’s not to tickle my manly breastplate)

It’s whether you’re at sea or straddling an isthmus,
Please have yourself a merry, happy, jolly, healthy little Christmas.

—–

Untitled piece

by Sheri J. Kennedy

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the office
The peeps were all fluey and all full of coughses

Their eyes hung in bags with bulging lids droopy
Their answers to emails were all nincompoopy

They swallowed more syrup and dreamed of their beds
While blurred visions of monitors multiplied in their heads

The holiday was coming, they leaned upon that
While doing their darndest not to barf in their hats

A bottle of OJ, another pain pill
They pushed around paper, just an hour to kill

Away to the door they stumbled in stupors
A stop at the party and boy were they poopers

At last up their driveways they wove their way home.
And fell in their beddi-byes to spend Christmas alone.

—–

‘Twas the Morning before Monday

by Anneberly Andrews

‘Twas the morning before Monday, when all of the outdoors
Were weeping, not sleeping, as people rode their snowboards

Down the mountainside time and time again
Mother Nature complained about a serious migraine

Pleading for the sun to fade behind a thick, dark cloud
And the humans to quit being so loud

Enough was enough, she ended the noise quite quick
When the weather turned icy cold, and instantly made them all sick

—–

‘Twas the Night Before Brutality

by Peregrine Arc

‘Twas the night before brutality
When all through the house
An axe murderer came stirring
And boy, was he a louse.

Stocking footed and booted,
he tracked mud and then he looted.
The silverware, the tea, the candles and dough
for Christmas cookies were his favorite stow.

The children were on their Xbox, headphones in place;
their mother, upstairs with a giant toothache.
And then the burglar, oaf that he was,
made his first glamorous and stupid faux pas.

“I’m getting a cookie,” a young tot said.
“Or maybe I’ll eat some dough instead!”
Off the children went, all in a gang,
When they came upon the burglar and broke off in a bang.

“He’s stealing our silverware!” started the one.
“That’s my gummy bear candy cane from my mum!”
“He’s stealing everything–let’s get them, boys!
I’ll go for his knees–you hit him with Tolstoy!”

And on they tussled, right onto the floor;
the axe murderer was caught, a thief no more!
When suddenly they heard the mightiest roar;
their mother was awake and, boy, was she was a boar.

“What in heaven’s name is that noise!”
“I told you to pipe down. I’ll take back your toys!
Harold, I need you. Harold, wake up!
The boys have destroyed the house and I need some back-up.”

Click-click-click
down from the bedroom came ol’ Susie and Harold Pick.
In an instant they saw what was the matter
and Susie doused the intruder with a heaping bowl of batter.

“I’m calling the police, you axe murder you;
Harold has got you hogtied–it’s true!
Nobody steals Christmas from our kids
All you’ll get is a knuckle sandwich!”

—–

Holiday Confusion

by Molly Stevens

‘Twas five months before Christmas when all through the stores
Christmas decorations replaced ingredients for s’mores.
It’s summer, you say? What a waste of my dime!
There’s no commercial benefit to having downtime.
You can’t have too much shopping and wrapping and joy
And singing repeatedly Little Drummer Boy.
Par rum pum pum pum,
Rum tee dee dum,
Dum dee dee dumb.
I’m perfectly fine and my thoughts are as clear
as the midnight when angels let out a loud jeer,
“Give Santa the boot and tell him goodbye,
Send up a rocket, it’s the Fourth of July!”

—–

Untitled piece

by Sheri Saretsky

Twas the night before Christmas
After being laid off
Feeling scroogish and angry
And full of bitter scoff
And the reindeer were noisy
As I yelled from the hall
That this Christmas was cancelled
I had just hit a wall
But the morning was coming
As I opened the door
To see packages falling
From outside to the floor
I remembered the shopping
From my computer at night
Back when I had money
And it wasn’t so tight
I thanked God that I finally
Saw my OCD as a gift
And I made up with the reindeer
So they could give me a lift
My anger subsided
As I loaded the sleigh
I passed out all the presents
And knew it would all be ok.