Thursday, December 24, 2009

A Christmas poem for 2009

'Twas the night before Christmas,

when all through the hills

not a creature was stirring

thanks to the 16-24” of freakin’ snow!

The stockings were hung

by the chimney to dry,

they were all soaking wet;

no dry ones, I sighed.

The puppies were nestled

all snug in the bed,

while visions of rawhides

danced in their heads.

With Molly chewing a kerchief,

and then on my cap,

I’d just settled my achin’ back

for a short winter's nap.

When out on the roof

there arose such a clatter,

I laid in the bed as

I knew what was the matter.

I opened the blinds

just to see a big flash,

snow ‘bergs falling off the roof,

just missing the sash.

The moon on the breast

of the week-fallen snow

constantly reminded me

that this snow was going to

be around a loooooong time.

When, what to my wondering

eyes should appear,

but a snow plow on the front

of a big green John Deere.

With a little old driver,

so worn out and weary,

I knew in a moment

it must be Joe Leary.

More rapid than snails,

his chained tires they came,

and he whistled and shouted

but I couldn’t really hear him because

the tractor made so much noise:

No, I’m serious…I couldn’t

hear a damn word he said…

As dry snow that before

the wild winter storms fly,

when he met with an obstacle,

lifted his blade to the sky.

So up the steep road

to the house he did creep,

with the sleigh full of ice melt

and chains, a supply he did keep.

And then, in a twinkling,

I heard on the roof

the prancing and pawing

of reindeer hooves?

As I drew in my head wondered

if I’d had too much of

Aunt Jenny’s egg nog,

up the driveway Joe came

with a waddling jog.

He was dressed all in polarfleece,

from his head to his foot,

and his clothes were all soaked

from being in the elements

longer than he’d like to remember.

A big bag of salt he

had slung on his back,

and he wearily said,

“Where do you want it, Jack?”

His eyes--how they watered!

He had ‘some’ and tottered!

His cheeks were like roses,

his nose like W.C. Fields...

or Dean Martin...or Brooks (Foster)!

His droll little mouth was

drawn up like a pucker,

and the beard on his chin

was like any road-haulin’ trucker.

The stump of a cigar he

held tight in his mouth,

smoldering while he mused

how’d we get so much snow

so early here in the South?

He had a broad face

and a little round belly;

lots of Twinkies and cola,

and biscuits with jelly.

He was chubby and plump,

but I didn’t care,

and I laughed when I saw him,

with his fly-away hair.

A wink of his eye

and a twist of his head

soon gave me to know

this guy’s gonna need some

professional help real soon.

He spoke not a word, but

went straight to his work,

dropped the bag of salt,

then turned with a jerk.

He slipped on the ice

and fell down on the ground,

and giving a nod he was okay

up on the tractor he bound...kinda.

He fired the engine,

to the pups gave a whistle,

and away he did lumber

like a three-toed sloth missile.

But I heard him exclaim,

'ere he drove out of sight...

(Well, again, with that tractor’s

throaty diesel I really couldn’t

hear him at all, but I THINK

it was something like….)



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