ozma914 | Entries tagged with poetry

By now you're all sick of 2025 being as bad as 2024, and maybe you're thinking of just cancelling the rest of the 2020s. Low ratings, right? They cancelled Firefly.

But my wife and I are of defiant stock, and we accepted an invitation to go out for a fun-filled Robert Burns Night. I don't generally like driving at night, because that's when the depressed deer come out to throw themselves in front of cars, with the final cry of "I can't take another winter outdoors!"

Still, Robert Burns Night is like Christmas in Scotland, and according to the DNA test I'm 29% Scottish. (And 2% Cameroon, which is in Africa but sounds Scottish.) Burns is Scotland's National Poet, and I'm all for celebrating writers.

You've probably heard, at least once every year, one song Burns had a hand in: Auld Lang Syne. My personal favorite of his is his poem, "To a Louse".

So we made toasts, piped in the haggis, and of course ate neeps and tatties, which I hope aren't related to haggis. It wasn't completely Scottish, because we didn't drink alcohol, and the haggis was meatloaf. Haggis is illegal in the United States due to its sheep lungs, which is actually the least objectionable ingredient.

We celebrated late into the night (okay, for two hours), got to see our old doggie friend Watson and visit with his Scottish humans, and on the way home hit a deer.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Q13iEaHkqc

If you look carefully, you can see her little white tail bounding away to the right, without a care in the world outside of a sore rump.

Stupid deer.

And that's why I'm in so much pain as I write this. Not because of a lack of haggis, but because by the point of impact I'd slowed from 60 mph to 30, from standing on the brake while simultaneously pulling back on the steering wheel as hard as I could with both hands, while two of my most important body openings slammed shut and Emily yelled "Ghdeiirreee!"

Well, that's what it sounded like to me.

It's basically the same reaction I have whenever the dentist fires up that little drill, and all my stressed muscles hurt after that, too.

I've always loved the acceleration on our Ford Escape, and now I also admire its brakes.

The steering wheel is no longer perfectly round, and there are some marks in the dash that resemble Emily's fingers, but otherwise we came out okay. The only impact damage to the car was a cracked piece of plastic on the front grill, and some deer hair left behind.

We didn't even have to clean the seats, thanks to the aforementioned puckering effect.

This is only the second deer I've ever hit, despite some extremely close calls, so it could have been worse. Emily wanted to track the deer down and bring it home as steaks, but I talked her out of it. It was probably just some teenage deer on a dare, anyway.

I'm fairly sure Robert Burns was in no way involved, unless the deer were also having a Burns Night and went all in with the whiskey (and haggis).

"Now, Bambi, I think you've had enough."

"No, seriously, hold my whiskey and watch me scare this driver!"

Anyway, I'm now composing a poem about how great our car is, based on one of Burns' poems:

"My love is like a ruby red rose."

Because the Escape is ruby red, you see. Okay, I'll workshop it. Maybe it can come out in 2030.

You can read our books here:

· Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO

· Barnes & Noble:

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

· Goodreads:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4898846.Mark_R_Hunter

· Blog:

https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/

· Website:

http://www.markrhunter.com/

· Instagram:

https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/

· Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914

· Linkedin:

https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/

· Twitter:

https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter

· Youtube:

https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter

· Substack:

https://substack.com/@markrhunter

· Tumblr:

https://www.tumblr.com/ozma914

· Smashwords:

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ozma914

· Audible:

https://www.audible.com/search?searchAuthor=Mark+R.+Hunter&ref_pageloadid=4C1TS2KZGoOjloaJ&pf

Remember: Deer can’t read, and have to live outside. Coincidence?

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In the dollar store

I don’t make this stuff up—

I ran into the Grinch,

And his reindeer, the pup.

“What brings you to town?” I asked, to be nice.

“The last time I heard you suffered the vice

Of hating all Christmas, the presents and lights;

Yet you stand in the isle of Yuletide delights.”

It’s true: We were right in the holiday lane,

The same place I cursed when Halloween came.

There were pine trees by pumpkins, costumes with wreaths.

You could get pumpkin spice with mint or with wraiths.

(See what I did, there?)

“I’ve joined the club”, he told me with a sneer.

“I’m going full out on Christmas this year.

I’m buying up lights and tinsel and stuff;

Don’t know what this is, but I can’t get enough.”

The thing he held up was a Thanksgiving display,

On clearance from last month, but I didn’t say.

“But I don’t understand,” I told the green guy.

“I thought you hate Christmas, and want it to die.”

“Oh, I do,” said the Grinch, with a Darth Vader like laugh.

(I don’t think Vader chortled, so that may be a gaff.)

“I’m joining the club; I’m going all in.

The result is a club they won’t want to be in!

“I’m putting up stockings, a tree in each room,

Outside speakers from which carols will boom.

Gaudy garland to drape all over my cave,

And starting that evening: all night holiday rave.

“I’ll not have tree skirts—oh no, tree gowns!

My garland will go wrapping around and around

Not just my home but the whole doggone mountain—

And a red, green, and yellow spice flavored fountain.

“Candles and pillows and shelves of snow globes,

Warm but so gaudy sweaters and robes,

Pillows and rugs and a gingerbread house—

And my wife will be decorated … if I find me a spouse.

“Decoration limits? We won’t have any lid.

My holiday lights will take down the whole grid!

I’ll blind passing planes, then I’ll darken the state.

And then I’ll light candles and start a clean slate.

“And, oh yes, I’ll put my own name up in a blaze,

In rich Christmas colors, to cut through the haze

So all the Who’s down in Whoville, that dump

Will know it is I who gave Christmas a bump.”

I have to admit, I was a bit mystified.

When it comes to the Grinch—well, this wasn’t the side

You think of when picturing this big green guy.

(Sure, he’s no Hulk, but still.)

So with great trepidation, I had to ask: “Why?”

“Why? You want to know why?”

(He sounded very much like Jack Nicholson at that point.)

“I’ll tell you why.

“My plan can’t be stopped, so I’ll tell you the reason:

By the time I’m done you’ll be sick of this season.

Everyone will hate Christmas: The music will grate,

The spice cinnamon stuff will make them hesitate

“To go out and carol, even if it's fat free!

Or at least that’s how I’d feel, if caroling me.

And when it’s all done, they’ll feel the same way

As they feel about me—the Grinch—every day.”

I have to admit, he’d made a good plan.

Immersion attack from a Christmas hit man.

And it would have worked too, except he didn’t see

It had already been done, with consumerist glee.

I began to explain, but we’d hit the checkout,

And I realized what he was about to find out.

The clerk rang it up, a green sounding ring,

The numbers kept rising with every new bling.

The Grinch stumbled back, his hand to his head.

“With that bill the reindeer dog won’t get fed,

The heat will go off, hot chocolate won’t trickle—

I’ll end up a homeless, frozen Grinch-cicle!”

And he left his load there: every last light and trinket.

“If I knew of the cost I never would think it!

I’m going old school, next year I’ll lay low

And steal all the stuff from the Who’s down below.”

It’s an odd way to save Christmas, I think you’ll agree.

But that’s just how it happened … take it from me.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4898846.Mark_R_Hunter
Blog: https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/
Website: http://www.markrhunter.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914
Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter
Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter
Substack: https://substack.com/@markrhunter
Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/ozma914

Remember, every time you buy a book the Grinch's small library grows three times.

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There's a new interview of me up on a website called Canvas Rebel:

canvasrebel.com/meet-mark-r-hunter/

It's basically an online magazine covering business, arts, and various creative types. Their main page is at https://canvasrebel.com/, where you can check out all the people who make me look like a slacker. It was a fun interview, although looking back at it I'm not sure my answers were more than indirectly related to the questions. I've been known to go off on tangents.

I just noticed, the opening calls me brilliant and insightful. It just goes to show how good I am at faking it.

Faking it: Do I look brave, here? Hah--I'm not brave, the outfit just makes me look that way. I never went into a burning building until I was sure all the spiders were dead.

I also wanted to remind everyone that the updated and less expensive version of Storm Chaser and its short story collection sequel, Storm Squalls, are both out on Amazon. We're going to get Storm Chaser up on other sites and on the website as soon as life calms down just a little and we can see what we're doing through the Canadian wildfire smoke. Until then you can find our books here:

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Mark-R-Hunter/author/B0058CL6OO

I promised that if I sell a hundred copies by the end of summer I'd recite one of my own poems and post it to the internet. This is not necessarily an encouragement, so remember that if I sell a thousand copies, I promise NOT to recite one of my poems. I mean, I wouldn't know iambic if it kicked me in the pentameter.

The good news is, if a thousand copies sell by the end of summer I promise not to read poetry aloud. So get the word out.

Oh, and finally don't forget the Smashwords Winter/Summer sale, where you can get Coming Attractions for free on ebook, in July. That's way less than ... well, anything. I'll be hanging out here:

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ozma914

I'll remind you again at the beginning of the month, 'cause that's what I do.

Wow, this has turned out to be a link-based blog. Well, then, I'll say goodbye with some links to my various online stuff. Some of them, anyway:

Website: http://www.markrhunter.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914
Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter
Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter
Other: https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/

And remember: No one ever died from reading too much. Maybe incidental things like forgetting to eat, but not from the reading.

Current Mood: hopeful

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I don't know if anyone who's not in the emergency services will fully appreciate this, but what the heck. I wrote some new lyrics to the Christmas song "Deck the Halls", and it's dedicated to all the emergency telecommunicators out there--including those who, like me, still call themselves 911 dispatchers.

I just hit my 29th anniversary on the job, so don't mess with me: I'm legally insane:

TIS THE 911 SEASON

Tis the season for the fighting,

Fa la la la la, la la la

Kicking, screaming and the biting

Fa la la la la, la la la

Barroom fights and family squabbles

Fa la la la la, la la la

Louder than a turkey gobbles

Fa la la la la, la la la

Frequent flier, 911

Fa la la la la, la la la

Claiming that his meds are gone

Fa la la la la, la la la

Overdose is never fun

Fa la la la la, la la la

Especially at half past one

Fa la la la la, la la la

Traffic stop, to be proactive

Fa la la la la, la la la

Sure enough a warrant active

Fa la la la la, la la la

It won't get that cop promoted

Fa la la la la, la la la

When they find out he has COVID

Fa la la la la, la la la

Working all night, on through Christmas

Fa la la la la, la la la

Sure do hope the family missed us

Fa la la la la, la la la

We won't join in with the choir

Fa la la la la, la la la

Unless they catch their tree on fire

Fa la la la la, la la la

When we get home and we're tired

Fa la la la la, la la la

Can't sleep because we're still wired

Fa la la la la, la la la

Family members give you some cheer

Fa la la la la, la la la

Save your stress until the New Year

Fa la la la la, la la laaaaaa........

Remember, every time you don't buy a book, the Grinch steals a tree.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

Tags:

911,
christmas,
emergency services,
holidays,
humor,
humor writing,
national emergency telecommunicators wee,
poetry,
seasons,
song writing,
songs

I stumbled across this column from way back in 2011 (Note that I use my wife's maiden name) after reading some poems on a writer's site. I thought, "Hey--I can rhyme!" And then I decided to repost it, mostly because it's summer, and I have an editing job, and I can't be online much. And also because I'm curious for your reaction. Okay, so I can rhyme ... but am I any good?

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

My fiancée is taking a poetry class this year, so I, being a writer, decided to take a crack at writing poetry myself.

Why didn’t someone stop me?

Thank goodness I’m better at prose. Thank goodness Emily is better at poetry, or she’d be scoring a big fat goose egg, which rhymes with … I don’t know, something.

My understanding has always been that poetry is writing that’s short and structured and rhymes, while prose just rambles on, the way I do. However, it turns out that poetry doesn’t always rhyme, and some poems have gone on to book lengths. There are, in fact, many dozens of types of poetry, from Haiku to Jintishi. I thought Jintishi was a condition related to too much drinking, but no.

I myself have written several: There’s my Summer Sonnet, which managed to rhyme “sunblock” with “wet sock” (you have to read the whole thing, it makes sense in context). That was the first part of a trilogy that ended with “Winter Depression Elegy”. Then there’s my most famous work of all, “Ode to Odious Odors”, a salute to sweat.

It was only after I realized poems didn’t have to rhyme that I completed my ultimate work: “Rhymes With Orange”. I expected to replace Arthur F. Mapes as Indiana’s poet laureate, but got into trouble when my application poem rhymed “laureate” with “lariat”. As I hadn’t bothered with something that actually made logical sense, my choice left the Indiana Arts Commission hanging.

By the way, the current Indiana State Poet Laureate is Imma Eaton Krapf; I used Mapes’ name because he lived here in Noble County. By the end of this century Noble County will be known as a writer’s paradise, home of Mapes, Stratton-Porter, Hunter, and Emily Stroud. (Don’t worry Emily; it’s not necessarily in that order).

As part of striving toward famous authorhood (You’ve heard of Authorhood; he stole books from the rich and gave them to the poor), and in an attempt to be a well-rounded writer, I thought I’d take another stab at writing poetry, despite the begging and pleading of both colleagues and fans.

As it happens, I’ve been discussing with writer friends the issue of which is better: e-books or good old fashioned paper books. Poetry should deal with the challenges of life, right? Well, you’re not going to see me at a poetry slam, screaming about drug abuse while sipping five dollar coffee, but I know the sick feeling of pulling a paperback out of the bathtub water. So here, from a writer’s standpoint, is my salute to modern technology:

I thought that I would never see

a book that didn’t kill a tree.

With pages scented paper sweet;

Appetizing termite meat.

No foliage falls for greater cause

then giving pleasure when we pause

to take it easy, and get lost

in stories great, at discount cost.

A too hot day in summertime

is good enough excuse to climb

into a room, all air conditioned,

assuming readership position.

And winter’s even better, yet

to put aside a day, all set

to ignore the crappy cold and snow

for Kipling, King, or maybe Poe.

But oh, the times will change, they say,

if you’ve the means with which to pay,

and wonders come, by hook or crook

electronically – such as e-book.

What a great way to read a story!

Romance, Sci-fi, or something gory.

The e-book holds a million tomes

that otherwise you’d leave at home.

Much less space used! The paper saved!

No more do printing presses slave

to murder trees and spray out ink:

To get a book, just hit a link

On a little screen, electronic

that can bring your reading tonic

and sooth the soul that needs that book

on Kindle, iPad, or the Nook.

It’s so much better, wouldn’t you say?

Your whole library’s there, all day.

No bending covers – doing that

would break an e-reader’s back.

No new book smell. No bookmark need.

No buying something new to read

from that little bookstore down the block;

they’re out of business. Closed and locked.

No comfort in those overflowing

shelves of print, the joy of knowing

no death of any circuitry

nor slowly dying battery

will keep you from enjoying it

in dull lines, or a bathroom visit.

E-books? They’ll come along, apace.

As new things will, they’ll have their place.

If people read, no matter how

it makes this planet great, somehow.

But print will stay, for fools like me,

who know it’s worth replanting trees.

"Later it might be a book, but right now it's the bathroom."

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I’ve been going through all the boxes of old paperwork in my garage attic—there were a lot of them—and I stumbled across some of my old columns. How old? Well, so old they’ve never appeared online.

There was a time when stuff didn’t appear online. No, really.

Since time has been very short lately (see above note about going through stuff, and also recently born grandbaby), I’m posting this as my annual Christmas column, a little more faith based than my usual fare … and you’d have never known it wasn’t brand new if I hadn’t told you. Well, except it mentions my youngest daughter’s fascination with Sailor Moon, which dates back to the turn of the century.

I’m typing this in without reading it first … I wonder if it’s any good?

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

Twas’ the night before Christmas, and all through the house

No noise could be heard but the click of my mouse

As I searched on the net for some gifts I could use,

To keep the kids happy, and thus stop abuse.

The reason, for me, was that Christmas meant presents,

And a lack of the same could make my life unpleasant.

For I have two daughters, who I thought could be mean,

Because one still knows Santa, and the other’s a teen.

So I surfed on the net, and I found Sailor Moon

Comics, two dolls, and all things cartoon.

For the old: books, tapes, her piece of the pie,

And she wanted orange clothing—don’t’ ask me why.

So my credit card screamed as I roamed cyberspace,

Begging for mercy while I wore down its face.

My bank account suffered, collapsed, and then died.

No team from “ER” could keep it alive.

Headlong for bankruptcy, I found myself hurrying.

Yes, I was broke, but I wasn’t worrying.

After all, I was experiencing the joy of giving,

And that seemed to me the way to be living.

Then in my computer I heard such a clatter,

I thought it was crashing! Almost emptied my bladder.

A new icon appeared on my desktop display:

“Press here for Santa—now, don’t delay!”

With a trembling hand I ran virus scans first,

But it said “nothing detected” so it wasn’t the worst.

I couldn’t resist; the button I pushed,

And suddenly Santa appeared with a “whoosh”.

Although no longer fat, he still had that grin.

“My wife gets the credit for the shape that I’m in.

The doc said lose weight or one day I’ll keel over,

So Mrs. Claus feeds me stuff that tastes just like clover.”

“You’re looking good, Santa,” I had to agree.

“And you’re in my computer—high tech now, I see.”

But something about my words made him frown:

“That’s why I’m here: You’ve got it all turned around.”

“But Santa,” I told him, “I’m into the spirit.

This stuff isn’t for me—I wouldn’t hear it!

I like buying for kids, it’s the spirit of giving;

Thinking not of yourself is the way to be living.”

He shook his head sadly. “You just don’t understand.

A big present exchange isn’t what should be planned.

What good does it do? What do your kids learn?

To get lots of things? To spend more than you earn?”

I sat there in shock—didn’t know what to say.

This didn’t sound like our Santa today.

“Why do you say this? You sound kind of blue.

Is material hoopla getting you, too?”

“It was different before,” Santa said with a frown.

“There wasn’t this focus on cost all around.

People were thankful, whatever they got;

Gifts came from the heart, that’s what they were taught.”

“Do you think what they want, or what you think is nice?

Do you buy best for each, or balance out price?

I know you like giving, but is that what they learn?

Or do they just know ‘get’ and you’ve money to burn?”

“All the gifts in the world don’t play a part

In the meaning of Christmas if He’s not in your heart.

And you know who He is! So get off your can.

If you can’t afford gifts make your kids understand.”

And then he was gone. He left no gifts from his sack.

But he did leave some interesting thoughts to take back

To consider for people who go fret and worry

About gifts and cards and the holiday hurry.

There’s nothing wrong with having a nice holiday

(At least until January’s bill paying day.)

But Santa’s not the Big Guy of the season, you see.

So relax and have fun … don’t just load up the tree.

Merry Christmas!

It's the Santa Mafia! And they're going to make you a present you can't refuse.

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I posted this back in February of last year, and for some reason I started thinking of it again this weekend. Really, it works best if you have the music playing in the background while you’re reading it.

____________________________________________________

Maybe you’ve seen “Frozen”. Maybe you’ve been frozen. Either way, I think you can relate to how I changed the song’s words, to reflect my feelings about winter. If you’re not familiar with the song, just ask any kid. If they don’t have the soundtrack or a karaoke version, they can probably still hum the tune from memory.

"I Don’t Want To Build a Snowman"
(sung to the tune of Do You Want to Build a Snowman)

I don’t wanna build a snowman.
Come on, are you crazy?
I’m not going near that frozen door
Call me a bore
I’m not going to freeze today.

I’m used to being warm
and when I’m not
I wish that I could die!

I don’t wanna get the frostbite.
I don’t want to see fingers white.

Go away, Winter.
Okay? Bye...

I don’t wanna build a snowman.
Or get hit with wet snowballs.
I think the outside may be for you,
I don’t like turning blue
and suffering from falls.

(Just hangin’ at home.)

I’ll stoke a fire or two
Staying in my room,
and at least then I won’t die.
(Brrrrrrr)

Please don’t make me go out there,
People are asking when it will end.
They say their skin has turned to ice,
Out there it’s not so nice:
Just go back in.

We’re not such a fan
Of this icy land,
But what are you gonna do?

I don’t wanna build a snowman. [sniff]

____________________________

So ... should I post my next great song, "Stop the Snow"?

But ... I'm so cool!

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I was waiting for this to be released on video and as a result waited too long … so now here’s my new Christmas column, coming out just in time for my youngest daughter’s birthday. I thought of deleting “Scrooge” and putting in “Jill”, but it just didn’t work.

This is a busy time of year for my publisher, and I’d imagine they couldn’t find the time to do the animation—hopefully next year. Meanwhile, you just have to read this and imagine my voice or, perhaps better, don’t. It was originally in print in the 4County Mall (previously the Kendallville Mall), then on their website here:

http://www.4countymall.com/mark-hunter---slightly-off-the-mark

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SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK:

How the Grinch Spent Christmas

I was in Dollar General—

I don’t make this stuff up—

When I ran into the Grinch,

And his reindeer, the pup.

“What brings you to town?” I asked, to be nice.

“The last time I heard you suffered the vice

Of hating all Christmas, the presents and lights;

Yet you stand in the isle of Yuletide delights.”

It’s true: We were right in the holiday lane,

The same place I cursed when Halloween came.

There were pine trees by pumpkins, costumes with wreaths.

You could get pumpkin spice with mint or with wraiths.

(See what I did, there?)

“I’ve joined the club”, he told me with a sneer.

“I’m going full out on Christmas this year.

I’m buying up lights and tinsel and stuff;

Don’t know what this is, but I can’t get enough.”

The thing he held up was a Thanksgiving display,

On clearance from last month, but I didn’t say.

“But I don’t understand,” I told the green guy.

“I thought you hate Christmas, and want it to die.”

“Oh, I do,” said the Grinch, with a Darth Vader like laugh.

(I don’t think Vader chortled, so that may be a gaff.)

“I’m joining the club; I’m going all in.

The result is a club they won’t want to be in!

“I’m putting up stockings, a tree in each room,

Outside speakers from which carols will boom.

Gaudy garland to drape all over my cave,

And starting that evening: all night holiday rave.

“I’ll have not tree skirts—oh no, tree gowns!

My garland will go wrapping around and around

Not just my home but the whole doggone mountain—

And a red, green, and yellow spice flavored fountain.

“Candles and pillows and shelves of snow globes,

Warm but so gaudy sweaters and robes,

Pillows and rugs and a gingerbread house—

And my wife will be decored … if I find me a spouse.

“Decoration limits? We won’t have any lid.

My holiday lights will take down the whole grid!

I’ll blind passing planes, then I’ll darken the state.

And then I’ll light candles and start a clean slate.

“And, oh yes, I’ll put my own name up in a blaze,

In rich Christmas colors, to cut through the haze

So all the Who’s down in Whoeville, that dump

Will know it is I who gave Christmas a bump.”

I have to admit, I was a bit mystified.

When it comes to the Grinch—well, this wasn’t the side

You think of when picturing this big green guy.

(Sure, he’s no Hulk, but still.)

So with great trepidation, I had to ask: “Why?”

“Why? You want to know why?”

(He sounded very much like Jack Nicolson at this point.)

“I’ll tell you why.

“My plan can’t be stopped, so I’ll tell you the reason:

By the time I’m done you’ll be sick of this season.

Everyone will hate Christmas: The music will grate,

The spice cinnamon stuff will make them hesitate

“To go out and carol, even if it fat free!

Or at least that’s how I’d feel, if caroling me.

And when it’s all done, they’ll feel the same way

As they feel about me—the Grinch—every day.”

I have to admit, he’d made a good plan.

Immersion attack from a Christmas hit man.

And it would have worked too, except he didn’t see

It had already been done, with consumerist glee.

I began to explain, but we’d hit the checkout,

And I realized what he was about to find out.

The clerk rang it up, a green sounding ring,

The numbers kept rising with every new bling.

The Grinch stumbled back, his hand to his head.

“With that bill the reindeer dog won’t get fed,

The heat will go off, hot chocolate won’t trickle—

I’ll end up a homeless, frozen Grinch-cicle!”

And he left his load there: every last light and trinket.

“If I knew of the cost I never would think it!

I’m going old school, next year I’ll lay low

And steal all the stuff from the Who’s down below.”

It’s an odd way to save Christmas, I think you’ll agree.

But that’s just how it happened … take it from me.

Tags:

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

T ’was the week before Christmas,

and I have to admit:

I wasn’t feeling the spirit;

not one little bit.

The stockings weren’t hung,

I didn’t know where they were!

This weather’s not festive.

It just makes me say “brrr”.

The world’s done crazy,

bad guys in control

and the good guys are lazy,

so we’re left in a hole

that would make the Grinch happy

with his heart way too tiny.

He’d think that this world

would be his kind of shiny.

Now, I’m not a Scrooge,

so don’t be mistaken;

I’ve just been so busy

my spirit was taken.

There hadn’t been time

to put up a tree

and entertain the family

(when it falls on me).

To save electricity

we hadn’t strung lights

to bring us some comfort

on those long winter nights.

( My wife, deep in finals for her last month in school, and me writing fiction like a publishing fool. )

Tags:

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

My fiancée is taking a poetry class this year, so I, being a writer, decided to take a crack at writing poetry myself.

Why didn’t someone stop me?

Thank goodness I’m better at prose. Thank goodness Emily is better at poetry, or she’d be scoring a big fat goose egg, which rhymes with … I don’t know, something.

My understanding has always been that poetry is writing that’s short and structured and rhymes, while prose just rambles on, the way I do. However, it turns out that poetry doesn’t always rhyme, and some poems have gone on to book lengths. There are, in fact, many dozens of types of poetry, from Haiku to Jintishi. I thought Jintishi was a condition related to liver damage from too much drinking, but no.

I myself have written several: There’s my Summer Sonnet, which managed to rhyme “sunblock” with “wet sock” (you have to read the whole thing, it makes sense in context). That was the first part of a trilogy that ended with “Winter Depression Elegy”. Then there’s my most famous work of all, “Ode to Odious Odors”, a salute to sweat.

It was only after I realized poems didn’t have to rhyme that I completed my ultimate work: “Rhymes With Orange”. I expected to replace Arthur F. Mapes as Indiana’s poet laureate, but got into trouble when my application poem rhymed “laureate” with “lariat”. As I hadn’t bothered with something that actually made logical sense, my choice left the Indiana Arts Commission hanging.

By the way, the current Indiana State Poet Laureate is Imma Eaton Krapf; I used Mapes’ name because he lived here in Noble County. By the end of this century Noble County will be known as a writer’s paradise, home of Mapes, Stratton-Porter, Hunter, and Emily Stroud. (Don’t worry Emi; it’s not necessarily in that order).

As part of striving toward famous authorhood (You’ve heard of Authorhood; he stole books from the rich and gave them to the poor), and in an attempt to be a well-rounded writer, I thought I’d take another stab at writing poetry, despite the begging and pleading of both colleagues and fans.

As it happens, I’ve been discussing with writer friends the issue of which is better: e-books or good old fashioned paper books. Poetry should deal with the challenges of life, right? Well, you’re not going to see me at a poetry slam, screaming about drug abuse while sipping five dollar coffee, but I know the sick feeling of pulling a paperback out of the bathtub water. So here, from a writer’s standpoint, is my salute to modern technology:

I thought that I would never see
a book that didn’t kill a tree.
With pages scented paper sweet;
Appetizing termite meat.

No foliage falls for greater cause
then giving pleasure when we pause
to take it easy, and get lost
in stories great, at discount cost.

A too hot day in summertime
is good enough excuse to climb
into a room, all air conditioned,
assuming readership position.

And winter’s even better, yet
to put aside a day, all set
to ignore the crappy cold and snow
for Kipling, King, or maybe Poe.

But oh, the times will change, they say,
if you’ve the means with which to pay,
and wonders come, by hook or crook
electronically – such as e-book.

What a great way to read a story!
Romance, Sci-fi, or something gory.
The e-book holds a million tomes
that otherwise you’d leave at home.

Much less space used! The paper saved!
No more do printing presses slave
to murder trees and spray out ink:
To get a book, just hit a link

On a little screen, electronic
that can bring your reading tonic
and sooth the soul that needs that book
on Kindle, iPad, or the Nook.

It’s so much better, wouldn’t you say?
Your whole library’s there, all day.
No bending covers – doing that
would break an e-reader’s back.

No new book smell. No bookmark need.
No buying something new to read
from that little bookstore down the block;
they’re out of business. Closed and locked.

No comfort in those overflowing
shelves of print, the joy of knowing
no death of any circuitry
nor slowly dying battery

will keep you from enjoying it
in dull lines, or a bathroom visit.
E-books? They’ll come along, apace.
As new things will, they’ll have their place.

If people read, no matter how
it makes this planet great, somehow.
But print will stay, for fools like me,
who know it’s worth replanting trees.

Tags:

Slightly Off the Mark

Deer, Booze, and Robert Burns

How I Saved Christmas, Kind Of

New Author Interview, New Old Book and July's Book Giveaway

Tis the 911 Season

Poetry Redux: I tackle poetry ... and get slammed

T'was the Poem Before Christmas

Nope. Still don't wanna build a snowman.

How the Grinch Spent Christmas

Changing Rhyme Schemes, or: The Not So Perfect Christmas Poem

column: I tackle poetry ... and get slammed

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