Unscrutable

I don’t understand the folks who rant this time of year,

angry at the way some choose to wish them love and cheer.

How did “Happy Holidays!” become a hated phrase?

It’s a whole damned season that goes on for MANY days!

We still count Thanksgiving and the new year coming in.

Don’t say “Merry Christmas,” and some act like it’s a sin.

I want happy wishes spread, involving god(s), or not.

It’s not the words I care ’bout, but the warmth behind the thought.

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What Santa Doesn’t Know

rhymaphilia

It’s time for Christmas! Ho-Ho-Ho! I hope that Santa doesn’t know

my indiscretions here and there, like how (inside my head) I swear…

’cause other drivers make me mad. On Santa’s List, they’d count as bad.

In fact, it really is quite best he doesn’t know. He hasn’t guessed.

It’s also fine he doesn’t know that if a cookie’s not just so…

I can’t expect to serve it, right? And since it’s more or less a “bite…”

I go ahead and eat it. So? I’m just saying…he can’t know.

And since I don’t mind telling you, there has been something else I do…

From time to time I hit some sales to buy things for my family’s males,

but find that I am fixed upon some darling thing I then try on.

And if it doesn’t look too bad, and if the price won’t make me sad,

I take it…

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It’s a Christmas Miracle!

It’s only eight days until Christmas arrives,

and I, wanting so bring cheer to friends’ lives,

did go to the post office closest to me,

walked straight to the counter, no line I could see …

Weird. Had they just closed? Could it now be past five?

No, 4:29! Lucky time to arrive!

To make sure my eyes weren’t just playing a joke …

to prove I’m not dreaming and hadn’t awoke,

I looked at the thrilled postal worker, who smiled,

and asked, ‘Please Sir, tell me, has my mind gone wild?’

He lifted his finger to make a “shhh” sound.

He liked the place empty, and looked all around.

He said, “Please don’t jinx me. I want this to last.

See, it’s never happened, in all Christmas’ past.”

The Longest 40 Minutes

The longest forty minutes start at six o’clock each day,

right after you have called to say that you are on your way,

for I know you have left from work and they don’t own your time,

and yet, I’m not there with you, lips in contact, limbs entwined.

I picture you inside your car, the highway lane below,

lip-synching to whatever song is on the radio,

hair lit up and golden in the light the sunset’s cast,

passing by each exit, till you come to ours, at last.

Although it takes place daily in a standard business week,

this being the tenth year of our romantic marriage streak,

it still gets me excited, like the first time that we met,

awaiting your arrival at a locale we’d preset.

By now, the only difference is, we live where we will meet.

It’s not a restaurant. It’s just a residential street.

Although they’re long, these forty minutes do come to an end,

and I am reunited with my husband and best friend.

Growing Old

I want to be with you forever.

I plan to grow old by your side.

 We’ll go on adventures together,

both leaving no option untried.

Someday, we may have matching canes,

or blend all our food into soup.

We’ll talk, on the porch, of our pains,

and snog, even though we booth droop.

Then one day, when I need a scooter,

we’ll add on a special sidecar

so I may ride close to my suitor,

not caring if we look bizarre.

I welcome the wrinkles and gray,

wait up for the dentures and flab,

don’t mind if you need a toupée,

or stop for an afternoon nap.

As long as I’m with you, life’s great.

There’s no place that I’d rather be.

You’ll always be my perfect date,

at twenty-six or ninety-three.

Awkward

I haven’t been in public much the last decade or so,

my social interaction freezing in a lost tableau.

When I did get back out there, I was thinking of it wrong.

But I should know that nothing stays the same for quite that long.

Since I have lived with chronic illness, nothing is the same.

At times, I do not recognize this person I became.

The changes were involuntary, yet I can’t go back.

So, helplessly, I’ve seen my life careening off its track.

The Sick Me is so different than the Healthy Me had been,

which means I oft feel awkward, even here, in my own skin.

But being out in public is far worse than when alone.

When out there, I must live as though my woes are unbeknown.

Here, in my home, I don’t pretend that I am not in pain.

I don’t pretend my illnesses aren’t clouding up my brain.

In fact, I don’t pretend at all. That’s why I’m staying home,

and working out my feelings in another silly poem.

TGIO!

Whew! Thank god it’s over! It seems I’ve survived.

Six days past November, and winter’s arrived.

The waters were rocky, the rapids full blast,

with my raft behind, set to come in dead last.

Implosion was forecast. I wanted to quit.

But, not before adding that last little bit …

and just one more thing I’d forgotten to say ….

Such blabbering on! Filled up pages that way!

And I was reminded how wordy I am,

a great superpower to have in this jam!

 Ooh! Here comes Verbose Chick to ramble and rant,

to boost my word count when it’s shockingly scant!

My writing persona, complete with a cape,

sat typing her thoughts as my story took shape,

clack-clacking away with a cat in her lap,

who’d settled down there for his afternoon nap.

And so, she returned everyday till I won,

my passion renewed, like I’d barely begun.

If I had just quit, ’t’would have been a mistake.

Yet … thank god it’s over. I needed a break.

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