Check out my post on the Poetic Muselings blog on being inspired by other people’s poems. Read Mark Wyndham’s poem, and the one I wrote in response.
I blinked my eyes against the hot daylight. Drastic force had blown up the building complex. The broad end, the one that had contained the housing for the enemy’s troops, had been completely demolished, and the rest of the base had fared little better.
“That’s the end of that.” Marvin’s voice held a brute edge I didn’t like.
I grunted. He’d pushed my bitter button. However much the enemy had deserved to die, I couldn’t help but feel regret.
************** Check out the Poetic Muselings blog for the prompt that lead to this story. My words and the new phrases that resulted are posted in the comments.
Happy holidays, everyone.
Here are some holiday poems. The first two were written in response to a post on the poetic muselings blog
One cold winter day, I selected a pen
to write down a poem or two or three, when
there cam a rap, rapping, a tap on my door.
“Oh, bother, oh, darn it,” I said. “What a bore.”
“I have to stop writing.” And then I stood up,
gulped down the cold coffee dregs left in my cup.
The front door swung open, and who should I find?
The poet police, who said, “Dearie you’re fined.”
“The poetry fashion is all for free verse.
Yours has rhyme and meter. It couldn’t be worse.”
“We hereby command you to cease and desist.
You cannot evade us, so do not resist.”
I slammed the front door and slumped down,, debating
how long the verse coppers would stand outside, waiting
to haul me away, place me under arrest
from penning my rhymingest poetry best.
Somehow my mind is all a blank,
no memories remaining.
However hard I strain my brain,
all I get is complaining.
Recall’s a stall of holidays
or gifts both great and small.
So lift a glass to my old past.
It’s passed beyond recall.
And here are couple more:
What Happens Christmas Night
I’ve noticed that Saint Nick’s a bit
too big around for him to fit
inside our chimney, Christmas night
the struggle must be quite a sight.
Perhaps he oils his nice red suit
all over so that he can shoot
right down the chimney. Then you’ll see
he’ll cut his hand and sprain his knee.
I guess that all those aches and pains
will hurt so much that he’ll complain
that getting down was such a chore
he’s going to leave us by the door!
And here’s one I wrote one year when contemplating writing a Christmas letter. I never did write one.
Names Changed to Protect the Innocent
I am writing you this letter,
I had hoped things would be better
than they were the year before.
I am sorry I’ve not written
but it’s really hard to fit in.
I am sure you know the score.
I am hoping you are all well.
Did you hear my husband Al fell?
It has really been a bore.
We found that his leg was broken
when he went to let his folks in
and was answering the door.
He went and slipped on the ice.
He grabbed the rail but no dice;
getting up was quite a chore.
We took him right to the doctor;
the bad break has really shocked her.
His leg’s still really sore.
And my Mary’s back to drinking,
you can hear the glasses clinking,
and she drinks more than before.
We were hoping she’d stay sober,
that her drinking days were over,
and her drinking was no more.
Alas it was all a vain hope.
She says that she needs it to cope,
She finds holidays a chore.
And my Al has started smoking;
even though he’s always choking
he just keeps on smoking more.
James is smoking like his father,
it is really quite a bother;
I don’t need to tell you more.
And our Sally’s started dating
a boy Al is really hating
and the rest of us adore.
All the rest of us are betting
there will surely be a wedding,
maybe June if not before.
Little Gary’s grades are falling;
it is really quite appalling.
He won’t study any more.
I’ve tried everything they told us.
We have all made quite a big fuss,
and we’ve added to his chores.
Nothing that we’ve tried helps at all.
We have run into a wall,
I simply want to slam the door.
I hope your news is better
than the news that’s in this letter.
I feel I’ve been in a war.
I have written you all my news.
Please write back to me when you choose.
Love to everyone, Lenore
After Christmas Blues
by Margaret Fieland
Mrs. Claus is up in arms. Even with a full day to deliver the presents, Santa didn’t finish until 2PM on Christmas Day, and he’s so exhausted he’s in bed for a week.
“It’s outrageous,” Donner snorts when Mrs Claus asks for help. “We need a new plan.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Rudolph murmurs. “After all, it’s only once a year.” His nose flashes a couple of times.
Donner tosses his antlers. “Just wait until you’re my age, youngster. That sleigh gets heavier every year, and every year when I get back I’m too stiff to fly again for at least a month.”
“Well, what do you suggest,” Vixen pipes up. “We’re already limiting our deliveries to good children between five and ten who celebrate Christmas.” She tosses her antlers and smiles.
“Yes,” Blixen adds, “and we’ve got a stack of complaints from the parents of the under-fives.”
“There’s that new North Pole Federal Express office,” Prancer offers, shifting from hoof to hoof. “We could offload the excess, just leave enough so Santa doesn’t feel useless.” The reindeer all nod.
And that, boys and girls, is why most Christmas gifts come in the mail.
By author Kathryn Meyer Griffith
My real childhood Christmas memories, in fact most of my holiday memories, essentially began in my ninth year. Oh, I have memories, scattered and muted, of earlier times but none as crystalized as those after that year. That’s because months earlier on a sultry hot August day around my ninth birthday I almost died; the whole experience changed my young life forever from that time on.
It was early August 1959 – a terribly hot and long summer pre-air-conditioning – and I lived with my six siblings, mother and father, in a rambling run-down house near St. Louis. We didn’t have much money or material possessions, wore hand-me-downs and sometimes we didn’t have lunch money or even a working telephone. Our utilities were often cut off for lack of payment, things would disappear from the house and into the pawn shop and a car would one day be ours and the next not. But we had each other and…love.
My maternal grandmother, Mary Fehrt (joy bringer and storyteller of her generation) was always there for us when it came to providing the things we desperately needed; care packages of food and cash. As much as they could give because they weren’t rich either, but frugal; both worked long grueling hours at a dry cleaner. They’d gone through the Great Depression and could stretch a dollar. I always thought it ironic they’d responsibly had just one child, my mother, Delores, but she gave them seven grandchildren. I thought of my family as a modern day Walton’s. Heck, we even had a writer John Boy (me…though I was an artist and a singer with my brother Jim before I became one) and a musician, Jason (my brother Jim), a loving mother and father and a generous grandmother and grandfather. We were poor but happy. A good hearted family.
Anyway, that August I got sick. My side hurt and I lay moaning on the couch for three days while my mother and father agonized if I should be taken to the ER. Money we didn’t have. In the end, my mother won out and they took me. I had a bad case of appendicitis and the doctors, as they rushed me into the operating room, told my parents if they’d waited another hour the appendix would have burst and I might have died. Died.
Thank God, I didn’t. Afterwards I languished in a hot hospital room (I can still smell the antiseptic, bloodied bandages and feel the pain of the stitches to this day). Ech.
My ninth birthday was two days after I returned home and my family, relieved I was alive, showered me with gifts. A brownie camera. Art supplies. Homemade cake and ice cream. Everyone was there. I, for once, was the center of attention and loved it. I look back now and realize that was the beginning of wanting to be different, to stand out, make a difference in the world, to shine, and shortly after that I began drawing pictures and singing with my brother on the rusted backyard swing set.
The holidays that year were different for me and my family as well. Thanksgiving was full of grateful laughter, a huge roasted turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes and marshmallows (my favorite) and lots of my father’s special treats, nuts and tangerines. I was acutely aware of everything. I was looking at the world through new eyes and was excited at the life I’d been given back. Happy. Thankful for my loving family.
Christmas was a child’s sweet fantasy. Christmas Eve, as the snowflakes, the temperature and the night’s amethyst twilight fell, my brothers, sisters, mother, father and I piled into my Dad’s big Buick and drove through the woods and neighborhoods of twinkling lit up houses to our grandmother and grandfather’s house. We usually stayed home on Christmas Eve and opened our presents the next morning when our grandparents arrived. Not that year. Dad and mom announced it was special and we were going to grandma’s house. Opening our presents there that night. Yippee! What child didn’t want presents early. Sooner the better.
It was snowing heavily by the time we drove into their driveway and I can still see what I saw as a child as I walked wide-eyed into grandma’s house (my grandmother loved the holidays and had twinkling Christmas lights, the big fat old-fashioned bulbs, strung along the front of their house and there were decorated Christmas trees in every room). My grandmother had outdone herself and there wasn’t corner of her home that wasn’t full of Christmas.
We traipsed downstairs and into a Christmas wonderland. Grandpa had gone out and cut a huge pine tree that stood at the end of their 50’s remodeled basement in all its glory. On its fragrant limbs hung hundreds of cherished family heirloom ornaments and beneath it were piles of brightly wrapped presents, more than I’d ever seen in my life, and a miniature Christmas village with a tiny train that chugged noisily around a little metal track, blowing its whistle. The whole glittering sight took my breath away.
They made us kids sit on the floor and handed out our presents one by one. Grandma and grandpa had gone overboard, as always, and I remember sitting there unwrapping present after present and crying because I’d gotten so many of the things I’d wanted. A large drawing tablet. Colored pencils. Pastels. A watercolor set. A sparkly (some of you remember those don’t you?) paint-by-number of winter sunsets. A new blouse. A big bag of my favorite nuts, cashews. All for me. I was in seventh heaven. The other kids did pretty well, too. By today’s standards, nothing much, but small trucks, cars, new clothes and dolls meant a lot to us.
I gave my grandmother and grandfather a set of porcelain fishes; my mother an inexpensive necklace and father some gloves. My brothers, sisters and I had gone out on a cold night days earlier to the local five and dime and picked out what we could afford, not much, but it was given from the heart. After the gifts we sat down at the long table full of grandma’s delicious food and ate, laughed, and made memories as the snow continued to drift outside the windows. Later, stuffed, content and exhausted mom and dad loaded us all into the Buick and slowly drove us home on the slick streets. Magic. I’ll never forget that night and the joy of my large family. The love. It’d sustain us through the hard and bad times to come and to this day gives me a smile and a catch in my throat whenever my thoughts touch it. Merry Christmas everyone! ***
Written a lifetime away on this nineteenth October day of 2011 by author Kathryn Meyer Griffith
Kathryn Meyer Griffith has been writing for nearly forty years and has published 14 novels and 7 short stories since 1984 with Zebra Books, Leisure Books, Avalon Books, The Wild Rose Press, Damnation Books and Eternal Press in the horror, romantic paranormal, suspense and murder mystery genres. Learn more about her at www.myspace.com/kathrynmeyergriffith or www.authorsden.com/kathrynmeyergriffith or www.bebo.com/kathrynmeyerG and http://www.facebook.com/#!/profile.php?id=1019954486
Her published novels & short stories:
Evil Stalks the Night (Leisure 1984; Damnation Books 2012)
The Heart of the Rose (Leisure 1985; Eternal Press Author’s Revised Edition 2010)
Blood Forge (Leisure 1989; Damnation Books Author’s Revised Edition out Februry 2012)
Vampire Blood (Zebra 1991; Damnation Books Author’s Revised Edition out July 2011)
The Last Vampire (Zebra 1992; Damnation Books Author’s Revised Edition 2010)
Witches (Zebra 1993; Damnation Books Author’s Revised Edition 2011)
The Nameless One (short story 1993 Zebra Anthology Dark Seductions;
Damnation Books Author’s Revised Edition 2011)
The Calling (Zebra 1994; Damnation Books Author’s Revised Edition out October 2011)
Scraps of Paper (Avalon Books Murder Mystery 2003)
All Things Slip Away (Avalon Books Murder Mystery 2006)
Egyptian Heart (The Wild Rose Press, 2007; Author’s Revised Edition 2011)
Winter’s Journey (The Wild Rose Press 2008; Author’s Revised Edition 2011)
The Ice Bridge (The Wild Rose Press 2008; Author’s Revised Edition 2011)
Don’t Look Back, Agnes short story (2008; ghostly short story Eternal Press Jan. 2012)
In This House (ghostly short story 2008; Eternal Press January 2012)
BEFORE THE END: A Time of Demons (Damnation Books June 2010)
The Woman in Crimson (Damnation Books 2010)
The Complete Guide to Writing Paranormal Novels: Volume 1 2011 (Kathryn wrote the foreward)