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Editing - polished draft

Santa’s Indelicate Condition

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when throughout my house,
All was silent, and bourbon induced me to drowse.
I envisioned in this nook—or that one right there,
The gift l would look at every day of the year.
Somehow I knew, my stocking would hang in its place,
Of course—not filled with someone who has a cute face.

Old Santa had failed to keep warm at the pole,
The wife, too, was cranky—they’d run out of coal.
His tummy feels crummy; he mutters and snorts,
“Hey, Missus! what gives with the starch in my shorts?”


winter spreading―
on a wire between two buildings
sheets stiffen
Samantha Beardon

Meditation (meisousuru koto)

I have come to see
Mount Fuji—Fuji-san
the sacred mountain

In morning Alpenglow
seekers look up at you,
a deity’s incarnation

On this misty early morn
I won't tread your trails
while among others

I will wait; visit dancing cranes
at the pond's shore and listen
to distant temple bells

Then, by the rising sun
I can submerge myself
in you at my journey’s end.

“Misty rain;
today is a happy day,
although Mt. Fuji is unseen.”

Dream Upon the Magic Mountain

Am I the youth upon an Alpine mountain slope
who tends his sheep and goats, then plays
his flute and thinks of you at every trill?

Am I that naughty Pan who lures you,
lovely sylph, into his hidden grotto?
Let me remain the simple shepherd boy
who innocently attends to you
and breathes kisses upon soft lips,
then rests his face upon your hands
to absorb their caresses.

My heart

you were my dējàvu
I was your gladiolus
on a pashmina my dreams were wooven
wishing we could have a pas de deux

rapidly I feel my pleura plunge
then I retreat to plodding
and I surmise
it must be my malevolence in encumbrance

am I displaying bigotry
or stoicism
confusion as the order of the day
I cut my coat giving my heart a second coat

This World of Ours Can Seem So Cold

How my heart can ache
For the lonely,
I’d like to comfort them all,
Hold them close
Until their sorrow goes,
This world of ours
Can seem so cold,
And some of us
Will end up alone,
And so low,
Longing for someone,
Forlorn souls,
Someone to save them,
Or someone to love them.

The Baby Pond

(a poem for inquisitive children)

A stork flew over hill and dale
To bring these words from lands beyond;
Of birds and bees is not this tale,
But little babies in a pond.

It is the womb of unborn babies.
This fertile pool gives life to man;
The stork takes one—or more—to ladies,
Who then must do the best they can.

I learned, by way of lengthy talk,
This feathered, stilt-legged, flying friend
Brings babes to folks with pleasant squawk,
And runs his errands without end.

The Infamous Myth

I was once in thrall to the infamous myth
Of the suffering artist,
But I’ve come ultimately to see it
As the cruelest of delusions.
But could it not be said
That it’s still among us,
That malevolent notion
That the artist is a spirit set apart
For some special purpose,
Of which pain is an essential component?

A Vampire in Claire de Lune (Moonlight)

Claire de Lune, Oh Claire de Lune,
beware of the moon in fall
when she nears her fullest roundness
near the time of Halloween.

The mid-autumn’s moon
casts peach blossom colors
over my dark mind
and I see my existence enveloped
in pastel hues of love. Beware!
O Clair de Lune, this is my night to love.

The night is so romantic, “erotic.”
See? I remove my fangs, my snaggers,
these sharp canines,
pointed and honed like daggers--
but--fear not, my lady;
tonight I shall be your lover.

The Tale of Paddy Mcgee

So, I don't mean to boast
but I have a ghost
and his name is Paddy McGee.
He comes here to me often,
when I should be sleeping,
I can hear him although I don't see.

So I asked him why
[Why for did you die?]
My heart is pounding
when he makes his reply.
... my wife, she is a nagger,
not much of a shagger,
I didn't know exactly what to do;
No peace when in the bath,
and how I'd hear her laugh ~
Not even any solace on the loo.


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