Happy New Year!

Two thousand twelve has passed, and these
Apocalyptic fantasies
We stressed about (or counted on)
Have come to naught. The year has gone
The way so many others years
Have gone before, and it appears
Two thousand thirteen will arrive
On schedule, and we’ll all survive
At least another year or so
Before the Earth decides to blow
Itself to bits; a smithereen
Will carry us through oh-thirteen
And next December, if we wish,
We’ll bake another Doomsday dish
And kiss humanity good-bye.
‘Til then, who’s disappointed? I
Can take another solar spin
Before I go, can’t you? ‘Cause when
The planet’s number’s really up
I hope I will have raised the cup
On high with those I love to toast–
The people whom I love the most–
And all together we’ll ascend
The Golden Stair to greet the end
As one big happy family.
Won’t that be nice? Who’s drunk? Not me!

Like Flowers And Teeth

You know how those people we call Tight Type A
Say you can’t ignore problems–they won’t go away?
That scrapes get infected, that quandaries deepen
And small tasks grow tall while you’re stallin’ and sleepin’?
For weeks, now, I’ve meant to compose and post here
A long poem in which I recap the past year
But I can’t seem to make myself sit down and start
‘Cause it’s difficult writing a verse from the heart
And so many things happened this year that I can’t
Find a way to recount them that won’t be a rant
Or a long laundry list of what seemed at the time
Quite important, but shortened to fit with the rhyme
Just sounds selfish, pedestrian, boring or sad;
If that’s in your batter, your flapjacks are bad.
So, here we are: 364 bites
Of this leap year-sized apple consumed, and two nights
‘Til the New Year is here and I’ve left it too late
For the retro perspective to work, so– hey, wait!
Come this Tuesday, my Year In Review piece will shrink
To just under one day’s worth of recap, a blink
Of the eye set beside the great mass I face now!
Can delay ever save the day? Yes! And that’s how.

Elfing The Tree

Paul Bunyan has his mighty ax
And beavers their incisors;
My clan plans barehand attacks
To take down Yuley risers.
We choose our Christmas trees with care
For perfect height and fullness,
And harvesting a fir so rare
And Noble would be dullness
If we simply used a saw
To sever trunk from root;
Explosives are against the law
(And awfully loud, to boot);
A hatchet hath its homely charm
But near the ground it’s tricky:
Hanging branches snag your arm
And make the handle sticky.
We all take turns to make a notch
With any tool at hand
Then all but one steps back to watch
The designee we’ve planned
Dispense the Christmas coup de grâce:
A headfirst flying tackle
(Nothing clears your mind of moss
The way a mighty whack’ll).
Sprawled atop the fallen fir
(Perhaps a trifle bloody)
We think how dull our harvests were
Before that Elf named Buddy.

Frampus The Braze

Frampus was not the most brazen of flowers
He had only half of a Blazenbiest’s powers
And growing the way that he did in the shade
Meant they missed him when mistletoe mischief was made
So poor Frampus was rarely infected with love
Or that holiday humour that falls from above
On a cold winter’s night when the tots are in bed
And a hot, pungent odor envelops your head
And you can’t help but think as you slip into sleep
That you’d rather be eaten by fish than by sheep
But the choice had been made before Frampus’ arrival
And nobody realized Frampus’ survival
Was key to their holiday happiness, so
He was chewed and en-ewed* (*A girl sheep, as you know)
And that fabled White Christmas just faded to gray
Because Frampus the Braze had been ated away.