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Nat Lipstadt Dec 2023
sad fact and none truer,
despite my accumulation
of millions of trinkets,
and millions of lottery tickets,
useless word combines,
acres of scripted scripture
of scrumptious scarred
and dollars,

I boast not of my good fortune
for I am a waste not~want not
tykee type, no spendthrift me,
and my phone and writing tablet
date from the Paleo Age, technically,
and one’s batteries live in the
red and yellow light of the
dying lightening edge of the


otherwise known as nearer to death experience.

carry chargers everywhere but my
batter usage habits have eroded my
charging life and happiness for us
a mere clean
green clean 20%

you see or maybe
you don’t,
my devices
have endured countless
drops and falls, just like
my body at this tender age,
and the male man ~~😵 female connectivity
of plug and plug hole are deformed,
bent so that charging is a struggle moderne,
a dance of avoidance of an earliest death

Living on the edge of 1%
changes a human, one thinks
constantly of the fragility of the
electric grid, and how the hell
we will charge all them unwanted
EV’s with insufficient charging stations,
not to mention all those spanking brand
new power plants we are rushing to build

(cmon, you can’t be unaware of this
contraction, for it is the guiding principle
of urban design, today)

anyway, my tablet is in the bathroom sink,
whose rigid porcelain angles allows for 
a conjoing  of the cord into that
flux capacitor hole to make tentative
kissy noises
and by the light of the
early morn,
said antique Generation 1 ipad
will be restored to usable status
for yet another brief moment
in time
and another
bad poem

this choring is a skill honed bendless endless
experimentation as to how
to insert a Peroni shaped
(beer bottle; no, not not a Pony Man plug shape)
into a lightening squarish O, and witness the
miracle of ******* of
Yes! Yes! YES!
(thank you Steven Spielberg))
a semi functioning de-vice,

vice being the exactly right adjective

my mind is weird, true,
but I draw on my experience
to share with you the specialness
of being in the  elite,

so you can be less envious.
you satisfied boors,
awakening refreshed after
eight hours sleep and a green light indicator
smugly informing you are an overheated hoi peloi
member of the

yes I’m done!
why does my software
keep asking me that?
MetaVerse Dec 2023
2 little whos
in whoville dream
while dr. seuss
screams, "sam i am!"

a redblue fish
carols a zart
ious schlittenfahrt.

the grinch steals x-
ask, "who will fix
a boy named sue?"
I S A A C Dec 2022
happy holidays, fresh white snow
eggnog ***** and fuzzy robes
red nose reindeer and frost-bitten toes
jingle bells and warm throws
happy holidays, hot black coal
SZA's SOS album and ctrl
apple pies and chip-filled bowls
cinnamon candles and a hearty soul
sofolo Aug 2022
My childhood comes in fond waves of recollection.

The holiday seasons of Thanksgiving and Christmas were always my favorite times of the year. Times in which familial bonds felt their strongest. It was so easy and wonderful to be swept up in the whimsical magic of the holidays. Little problems or concerns are forgotten for the sake of repeating another year of well-constructed joy.

I would shiver with glee as we unpacked our three-foot-tall artificial spruce, set it on a stack of boxes covered with sheets, and decorated it with care. Proudly displayed in the window of our single wide trailer. Every night before bed I'd stare at it admiringly.

It ******* glistened.

My mother and I would piece together a jigsaw puzzle on a card table set up in our living room while watching Christmas movies on TV. It was humble, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I recall being upset one year when my father (correctly) guessed that I bought him a Buck Knife for his Christmas gift. He then made a comment suggesting that he didn't need another knife. It crushed me because I thought it was the perfect gift for a man I tried so hard to relate to.

Most of my childhood memories are filled with joy.

Pretending my G.I. Joes inhabited the branches of our softly lit tree. The elf and angel ornaments were either friend or foe and offered either shelter or a diabolical plot of destruction. The angel atop the tree (from my mother's first marriage in the '70s) was the queen that all the other ornaments and soldiers bowed down before.

She was a goddess.

These days I can't help but be brutally honest with myself and acknowledge that the connection to my biological family is barely existent.

There are no jigsaw puzzles.
No Buck Knives.
No glistening lights.
No tree.

Just me alone in an apartment with a glass of whiskey.

There was a time when I carried on the gleeful tradition of the holidays. With my own three children by my side, I carefully placed that angel from the '70s atop the tree.

I think they were as enamored by her as I once was. I could see the innocent thrill in their eyes.

I haven't looked into their eyes for over a year.

The naive childhood excitement of the holiday season is a distant memory. Now, these days on the calendar remind me of things I will never experience again. They gently, but painfully enter like a dagger between my ribs.

The wound is reopened every ******* year.

I look around and see happy little families shopping for holiday meals and gifts as I push my humble cart around the grocery store alone. I imagine them with a crackling fireplace in their living room like I once had; decorating the tree and listening to holiday tunes. Dancing and giggling.

I can't help but wonder if my children are placing that angel atop the tree with their new dad.

The angel their grandmother passed along.

Her broken marriage.
My broken marriage.

And still, that cardboard angel sits atop the tree spreading joy.

She's a goddess.
Written 11/29/2015
Three thousand feet up! Up the side of Mount Crumpit,

He rode to the tiptop to dump it!

"Pooh-pooh to the Whos!" he was grinch-ish-ly humming.

"They're finding out now that no Christmas is coming!

"They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do!

"Their mouths will hang open a minute or two

"All the Whos down in Who-ville will all cry BOO-HOO!"...

At the top of the mountain he untied his dog

From the sleigh. And the valley was filling with fog

As thick as the Who Hash he'd grinched just before.

He chuckled with glee at what was in store.

Now the Grinch grabbed the sacks from the top of the sleigh,

And with a mighty "HEAVE **!" he shoved them away.

The bags filled with toys well they weaved and they shook

With the weight of the things he so sneakily took.

Until finally momentum made things far less slow.

They fell 3000 feet to the jagged rocks below.

A sickening crunch and several sharp cries

At first startled the Grinch but caused him to realize

When he stole from the Whos down in Whoville his pride

Had gotten the best of him; he'd thrown some children inside.

He giggled maliciously, grabbed his dog Max

And got back in the sleigh, for he couldn't relax.

He had to go back, for his job wasn't done.

All the Whos down in Whoville, every last one

Every man, every woman, every daughter and son

Would be dead in their beds by the dawn of the sun.

The trip down Mount Crumpit was faster than up

As he growled to himself, "where's that ***** with the cup?"

He jumped off the sleigh, machete in hand

And marched straight into Whoville, whose gates could not stand

For the rage made him strong. How he hated the Whos

With their **** cheesy smiles, and their dumb pointy shoes,

Turned up noses and pigtails and hideous songs,


And now he'd make sure that the Whos sang no more...

At Cindy Lou Who's house he kicked down the door

And strode into the bedroom of Cindy Lou Who.

She woke with a start, murmured "Santa? That you?"

The Grinch, with a sneer, grabbed Lou Who by the hair,

****** her out of bed seven feet in the air,

And with two sharp knives pinned her arms to the wall.

Her screams roused her parents just down the hall.

They ran to their child to save her from harm.

The mistake that they made cost them each their right arm.

Writhing on the floor in their own ****** mess,

They looked at the Grinch in a state of distress.

"Why would you do this?" they managed to hurl,

"Please, you can **** us, just not our little girl!"

He listened to their pleas with a wry little smile,

He patiently heard them, then after a while,

He cut out their tongues with another sharp knife,

First of the husband, and then of the wife.

Then he turned to young Cindy with glee,

And hissed in her ear, "you'll do something for me..."

Cindy shook her head violently, but to no avail,

For the Grinch had the tongues on a rusty old nail.

He shoved them down her gullet. She started to choke,

Then she finally died, for the rusty nail broke.

He stepped over the body of mother Lou Who,

And the Grinch slithered over to house #2.

With this house he made quick work of the Whos.

He set them on fire to cure them of the "blues."

The blaze that resulted would spread down the street,

Drawing Whos from their houses like flies to dead meat.

A grenade waited for them in center of town.

A click, then a boom mowed, like, half of them down.

The other half attempted a weak attack.

With a Type-67 the Grinch kept them back.

The little Who children could do nothing but stare

In open-mouthed horror as the Grinch, without care,

Shot them down one by one till the snow was stained red,

And he would not stop firing till they were all dead.

And as the sun rose oe'r the grisly scene,

The Grinch drenched in blood of adult, child, and teen,

With a pentagram smack in the center of town,

And the tree in the middle would slowly burn down.

With the scalps of the Whos down in Whoville in hand,

The Grinch called his dog Max, who could barely stand

Because he was violently shaking in shock.

He could not even whimper, let alone walk.

Not a Who was left standing, not a song to be heard,

Save for that of a single Who bird

Which was quickly snuffed out by a single pistol round.

And after that there was not a sound.

The Grinch, his work finished, got back in the sleigh,

Cracked the whip over Max, and slithered away.

The last thing the poor town of Whoville would hear:

"If there's anyone left, well, I'll come back next year!"
Tony Tweedy Dec 2021
I reflect upon the season and memory of Christmas' past,
and I cant help but to wonder if this may be my last.

A thought not born of this season and its promises of joy,
but rather from the pained reflection I am no more a boy.

I think upon friends and family at distance from my day,
who I love so very dearly though they be so far away.

I find this season lonely, with a sadness now become its gift,
yearly every passing nearer to loathing has been my shift.

At an age now to be more a cynic than an optimistic man,
seeing only greed and commerce and not some godly plan.

A Christmas of my childhood, of love, good will and of care,
forever wish I for you all,
never knowing sadness and loneliness' despair.
Mixed feelings season again.... 60 down.... god knows how many more.
Joseph C Ogbonna May 2021
Joyous angels an entire night spent,
singing with flutes they ceased to relent.
Shepherds lowly pitch their dusty tent.
A story indeed reminiscent
of ageless advents when we all went
to sing in churches in wintry Kent.
In fright we gazed at Santa's beard length,
in a speed sleigh drawn by the Elks' strength.
We sought more fun for an extra cent.
But after pleasure we did repent,
speaking solemn words of a good gent:
'Oh, what a pleasant time in advent,
to usher in the infant God sent.'
A Christmas poem for kids. Christmas in Europe and the Nordic.
RLee Feb 2021
The frosty air bites
As I go looking for my elf
There I find her in my  backyard
Sitting on a trampoline
That Santa got for me
One Christmas Eve
Seranaea Jones Dec 2020

Looking out into the Dawn,
frost is a welcomed viewing,
snows hesitate here once again,
this Day is gentle to us.

through the clear blue, He looks
down and gazes upon the Earth
as i sit here in quiet reflection.

the only sounds are the shudders
of the refrigerator motor as it
kicks on and off,

the warm air blowing
thankfully through
the floor vent,

the pops and crackling
of joints, both of me &
the chair,

and the heartbeats that
He listens to intently-

the thought of this
reminding me—

i am never alone...

s jones
25 Dec 2007

Timmy Shanti Dec 2020
i breathe in
i breathe out
crossing fingers
black out

down my drink
tryina think
i don't blink
why do you?

got somena hide?
take it in your stride!

ride wit me
vibe wit me
be dope wit me
got hope wit me

rubbin shoulders
breaking boulders
we giants
ain't said we compliant

hate the game
not the player
ain't no shame
say a prayer

for yoself
and for us

what's the fuss?

we be  levitatin
xmas yet?
we celebratin
24 xii MMXX

merry, gay, nice, sugar and spice xmas and new year to you, luvs!
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