Santa Claus left her The romp of love beguiles, a playful horse I know you love me mole and mountain bluff Mrs. Claus hated his bluff – She could play Santa answered she received letters Mrs. Claus hated when the big one Finally, one Christmas She left the sleigh, She hoo, ha, ha’ed the girl “Where’s your Daddy?” She would look to find him as Mrs. Claus walked, showing a leg. A man Eventually he noticed Just then, the The world was wrapped in gloom Joy fell from artificial boons With a poof Starlight appeared With a ho, ho, ha
a sonnet to read:
my heart a rider gripping spirit’s trip
a bit of banter falls from saddled lips.
A candor canters, musical in source
a clip-clop hoofing it, my fruit is tossed.
Her lust is cantaloupes so sweetly quipped
yet love’s a cherry deeply red of lip
outspoken rips in bound’ries’ gorgeous loss
I show my cards, won’t raise to bluff a love.
It’s real this deal of sharing zeal, a bliss
no gamble oneness riding thought enough
to join two souls, a coup by doves
who fly with coos to play the music’s kiss
rarely did she see
his cherry lips or cheeks
with farce no more, for
the fantasy wishes
in unlabeled boxes
would not suffice
for Mrs. Claus who
wrote free verse
while Santa was busy
delightful letters
from giddy children, but
of rejection from the
poetry editor,
a trochee donkey
iambic like an ass
went away on Christmas,
when the snow looked like
semen dried up and flaky,
his departing stomach
like a pregnant indulgence
she could only wish for
when no more
could she count the
melting snow flakes on her tongue,
count the elves, the reindeer,
the orphan toys, her emptiness
overtook her sanity, and
she took an empty sleigh
to drive into the city of sin,
her naked body wrapped only
in a fur coat, a pocket
for her Santa cell phone
tied the reindeer to a lamp pole,
strolled the streets showing a leg,
singing “Ho, ha, ha”; Heaven’s
white tears covered her head as
she peered into loneliness
waiting for a finger of love, but
she spied a lost little girl
’till the crying subsided,
asked her name
found a Lisa
She didn’t know,
said he went for a quickie walk
the snow thickened, her head covered
with a white crown of sorrow. Lisa skipped
and jumped close behind her like
a newly born calf not
straying too far, waiting for an available tit
appeared from nowhere, laid
his hand on her thigh
like a roadway, followed the path
her glistening tears. Looking
in her eyes, saw
he knew her
once before
Santa cell phone rang.
The Elf Secret Service said,
there’s been a sleigh crash, and
Santa is dead.
as Mrs. Claus
brushed snow from her head
and wrappers filled the ocean
unreal gifts
vanished in a twinkle,
elves all banished
to a realm of puff
on Lisa’s tears,
a word on innocent lips:
“Can we all be married, Daddy?”
and a ho, ho, ho
they vowed to
do better with love
to listen to snow
gust up and swirl,
to see a gift like a crystal
had already been born
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)
Archive for December, 2007
Mrs. Claus Hates Sonnets
Wilted Dreams
Hating roses is You were a healer I look for the For good luck Roses are red I wrap all red cherries
a passion fate,
a habit like
throwing out
chocolate without cherries
nursed the saved
rose above the battle
fire for awhile,
soothed the singed,
cauterized
squiggle code on the chocolate:
it tells me which to save
which pure chocolate must go
I gave you a rose
and a promise
for hot chocolate
I’ve heard, but
haven’t seen them
anymore;
hold your ghostly fire
in chocolate squiggles
never to giggle again,
to love roses wilted
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)
In A Posh Elevator
For Christmas I’ve ducked into the posh department store I could have taken The elevator jams, I’ve got my frozen chicken Into labor – Natural easy birth – Everyone who I am reaching in I push my hands It is a breach birth I am so full I am sick, and
I’ve shouted a poem
on a street corner
because I have no stage presence
except desperation, awkward
where I hear passerbys say,
what’s he doing, and
only my sign clues them in, and
they say, oh it’s poetry, but
I’m taking my frozen
spicy chicken home –
haven’t had such luxury
in a while
because I need to find
a bathroom
a single urinal
for the piss of a poet
the stairs to the third floor, but
thought I’d be posh
be nonchalant in an elevator
as if I’d buy gold things
stopped, of course, with me
and a pregnant lady in a crowd
of indifference
which says, fully cooked
and none of us will starve
I’ve heard of this
I’ve heard of that
could be sued, has
turned away
beyond what is proper
into her vagina
in an indecent way
and I must
turn the child around
of blood and sorrow
that the child cries
but I am not
turned around
only glad
the paramedics have arrrived
and I can get to the bathroom
before security
throws me out
for not buying any gifts
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)
When Leaves Are Afloat
The chirping of sorrow in the shadows of broken wings She is uncertain in the forest Newly grown camouflage She has taped plastic sheeting Melancholy is the cry of the shipwrecked, the flutter of pretty lashes Guided only by a random leaf,
let’s too many birds of loneliness
fall prey to predators
who pounce on despair.
if she should
sing or hide
seems to blossom and branch;
winds on tree tops tear off
a few deciduous victims
still green but detached
before the fall approaching
and cardboard
on her broken window, not letting
green leaves of happiness
fall in through her window,
not letting the fog drift in
that looks out onto the ocean
where his boat struggles
to land on her beach, but
is adrift in the fog, and
his horn seems
to not carry beyond where
she left her
beach blanket long ago.
not knowing where the treasure lies,
mast lowered. Exquisite is
when he sails onto land
beyond the seagull’s cry
tacking into her breezes.
he sees her broken window
and tears apart the plastic
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)
A Ghost Who Loves War
Noble bystanders observed Be serious and love war I died on Normandy beach, I thought Yet you waited to be serious My agony did not rest You waited to be serious You waited too long I love war Next time don’t wait. I will love the last war the best.
her tortured to death
from a diplomatic distance
where culture is relative
because to pacifists
war is bad, but
war is good
when she was
my daughter raped
when we win
to save you all from Tyranny
to be robust
to finally defeat the Soviet Union
when I visited prisoners in the Gulag;
I tried to comfort them, but
some did not listen to ghosts
or even believe
as I visited prisoners
in Saddam’s prisons –
need I tell you they were tortured
in sacred sovereignity
pain not our business
because you’re anti-war
against intervention, and
she was my daughter raped
not yours
like Chamberlain
to vomit
when it’s done soon
Evil doesn’t wait to teach hate,
to corrupt
to imprison my daughter
War is good.
Do it soon
do it well
win
so her screams
haunt me less
though I am
more ghost than you
but I fear going to the light–
I could not bear it if
she is not in heaven
or I will not be worthy to visit
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)
