THE BORN LESAR
These holiday poems will be famous someday. Or not
Like frosted cookies shaped like angels, joyous carols, and fancy foil gift wrapping paper that costs as much as pure virgin gold plating, my yuletide poetry has become a tradition enjoyed by many.
Yeah, OK, 'many' might be stretching it, but my cat does seem to like it when I read it to him. At least I think that's what it means when he licks his 'ornaments' while I'm talking.
Then, without adieu, this haiku.
Christmas weight lingers.
I gained thirty-seven pounds. I blame Butterfingers.
The haiku, you'll notice, employs the 5-7-5 syllable pattern and is perhaps my favorite poem form, because, well, my train of thought usually derails at .. wait, what were we talking about? Oh, right, gift wrapping.
Tape, tape, I use it by the mile.
And all so I deliver presents with style.
Yet every corner and every seam I botch.
I wish I owned some damn stock in Scotch.
The good thing is that I don't have to dip into my holiday budget for gift tags, 'cuz everybody knows what packages from Uncle Dean look like. You know what a paper bag looks like after you crush it into a ball, then run it over with the car, and then use about three square yards to cover a 2-inch square box. Yeah, you get the picture. And, hey, since we're talkin' about pictures ...
Every family photo album has many scenes of Christmas love and joy, Shots of Aunt Mary stuffing her face, or a little one with a toy.
Alas, sometimes, there is a frame of something that can spoil it, Like that year we got that candid shot of Santa Claus on the toilet.
You can check this out on your own time, but I'm gonna bet not even E.E. Cummings ever pulled off the spoil it-toilet rhyme pair. Yeah, I know, I'm a risque rhymer. Deal with it.
Next up, a limerick. Nope, no reason.
At Christmas we all sang a song, I thought it went on way too long.
But my family insisted we sing every verse, Even though I wanted a version more terse. They all said, 'Just shaddup, you're wrong.' And that's what I like about the holidays, family members ganging up on one poor sap just because he forgot to bring the cheese and sausage tray. Well, OK, so I ate it while watching a Christmas Eve version of 'Holiday Homicide.' Same diff.
Every now and then when I'm composing a new anthology of my favorite works of poetry, I like to mix in an Epitaph, a rhyme form most often used to discuss the deceased. Again, yes, I do know how to liven up the holidays, now, don't I?
The Grinch is dead, someone did say, Seems he got run over by his sleigh.
The Whos down in Whoville, they did cheer, Now their Christmas was in the clear.
But then they heard, and said 'No way,' The Grinch sold all their stuff on e-Bay.
See now, you can go to any major publishing house website, visit any major chain book store, or even check out the Library of Congress, and you're not gonna find any other poetry quite like this. Yeah, probably because it's so bad it should be illegal. If anybody asks me who wrote it, I'm going with 'Anonymous.' I should be able to get to Mexico before they figure out it was me.
I'm going to attempt an Acrostic poem now, which is a slightly more difficult literary maneuver, and just understand, that I don't get paid any more even though I'm delving into highly complex structures here. I could just go with your standard blah-blah-blah poems, but I think you've come to expect so much more from me, and I'd feel guilty if I didn't strive for greatness. Yeah. I said 'strive for' not 'reach.' People, it's the thought that counts, remember.
By the way, an Acrostic poem is one in which the first letters of each line spells out a word, with all other content defining that word. I learned about them on Sesame Street. Big Bird does 'em all the time.
Good, gravy, did she really give me that?
I would have rather gotten a popcorn tin.
For cryin' out loud, what was she thinkin'?
To think, I spent $43 on her.
Right after this party, I'm goin' to Wal-Mart.
Everybody does it, it's no big deal.
Try not to tell her I hated it.
Unless she asks, I'd hate to have you lie.
Receipt is right here, should be no problem.
Next year, I'm asking her for cash.
Oh, hush, we've all been there. I mean, geez, your mom carried you around for nine months, gave birth, fed and raised you, and now she doesn't know you wear an XL sweater and not a Small? I know, I know, she was acting a little squirrely already last Christmas, but I thought it was just because she was breathing too many Ben-Gay fumes. Like I said, don't tell her I hated the sweater. I'm exchanging it for one of those air fryers.
OK, we're gonna close things out with a Ballad, which is one of the older poetry forms and is used most often to tell a story. Some of the more famous versions of this style are 'Border Ballad' by Sir Walter Scott, 'The Ballad of the Proverbs' by Francois Villon, and this next one that I wrote in like four minutes while I was watching a 'Big Bang Theory' rerun. Well, OK, this last one is not famous yet, but give it time. Greatness don't happen overnight, ya' know.
One Christmas, it was long ago, I learned the truth about this time of year, Before that I thought it was all about the gifts, And that's why we all gathered here.
But then a star it did appear on high, The glow came as such a surprise, We all just stared and said not a word, For we could not believe our eyes.
Yet there it was, in all its glory, A stunning vision we did behold, Still so much in awe today I am, I feel this story must be told.
It was the eldest one, she revealed it now, We all moved in close to see, It really seemed like a miracle, Someone whispered, 'Just how could this be?' This now forever is my tale, From this truth I shall never budge, I learned the reason we all come each year, Is to get some of Grandma's fudge.
Not quite what you were expecting, huh? Well, truly great ground-breaking poetry never is. Mine neither.
