Mrs. Claus Hates Sonnets

Santa Claus left her
a sonnet to read:

The romp of love beguiles, a playful horse
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 know you love me mole and mountain bluff
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

Mrs. Claus hated his bluff —
rarely did she see
his cherry lips or cheeks

She could play
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

Santa answered
delightful letters
from giddy children, but

she received letters
of rejection from the
poetry editor,
a trochee donkey
iambic like an ass

Mrs. Claus hated when the big one
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

Finally, one Christmas
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

She left the sleigh,
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

She hoo, ha, ha’ed the girl
’till the crying subsided,
asked her name
found a Lisa

“Where’s your Daddy?”
She didn’t know,
said he went for a quickie walk

She would look to find him as
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

Mrs. Claus walked, showing a leg. A man
appeared from nowhere, laid
his hand on her thigh
like a roadway, followed the path

Eventually he noticed
her glistening tears. Looking
in her eyes, saw
he knew her
once before

Just then, the
Santa cell phone rang.
The Elf Secret Service said,
there’s been a sleigh crash, and
Santa is dead.

The world was wrapped in gloom
as Mrs. Claus
brushed snow from her head

Joy fell from artificial boons
and wrappers filled the ocean

With a poof
unreal gifts
vanished in a twinkle,
elves all banished
to a realm of puff

Starlight appeared
on Lisa’s tears,
a word on innocent lips:
“Can we all be married, Daddy?”

With a ho, ho, ha
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)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Wilted Dreams

Hating roses is
a passion fate,
a habit like
throwing out
chocolate without cherries

You were a healer
nursed the saved
rose above the battle
fire for awhile,
soothed the singed,
cauterized

I look for the
squiggle code on the chocolate:
it tells me which to save
which pure chocolate must go

For good luck
I gave you a rose
and a promise
for hot chocolate

Roses are red
I’ve heard, but
haven’t seen them
anymore;
hold your ghostly fire

I wrap all red cherries
in chocolate squiggles
never to giggle again,
to love roses wilted
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

In A Posh Elevator

For Christmas
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

I’ve ducked into the posh department store
because I need to find
a bathroom
a single urinal
for the piss of a poet

I could have taken
the stairs to the third floor, but
thought I’d be posh
be nonchalant in an elevator
as if I’d buy gold things

The elevator jams,
stopped, of course, with me
and a pregnant lady in a crowd
of indifference

I’ve got my frozen chicken
which says, fully cooked
and none of us will starve

Into labor —
I’ve heard of this

Natural easy birth —
I’ve heard of that

Everyone who
could be sued, has
turned away

I am reaching in
beyond what is proper

I push my hands
into her vagina
in an indecent way

It is a breach birth
and I must
turn the child around

I am so full
of blood and sorrow
that the child cries
but I am not
turned around

I am sick, and
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)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

When Leaves Are Afloat

The chirping of sorrow in the shadows of broken wings
let’s too many birds of loneliness
fall prey to predators
who pounce on despair.

She is uncertain in the forest
if she should
sing or hide

Newly grown camouflage
seems to blossom and branch;
winds on tree tops tear off
a few deciduous victims
still green but detached
before the fall approaching

She has taped plastic sheeting
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.

Melancholy is the cry of the shipwrecked,
not knowing where the treasure lies,
mast lowered. Exquisite is

the flutter of pretty lashes
when he sails onto land
beyond the seagull’s cry
tacking into her breezes.

Guided only by a random leaf,
he sees her broken window
and tears apart the plastic
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

A Ghost Who Loves War

Noble bystanders observed
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

Be serious and love war
when we win

I died on Normandy beach, I thought
to save you all from Tyranny

Yet you waited to be serious
to be robust
to finally defeat the Soviet Union

My agony did not rest
when I visited prisoners in the Gulag;
I tried to comfort them, but
some did not listen to ghosts
or even believe

You waited to be serious
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

You waited too long
like Chamberlain
to vomit

I love war
when it’s done soon

Next time don’t wait.
Evil doesn’t wait to teach hate,
to corrupt
to imprison my daughter

I will love the last war the best.
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)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

On The Cookie Of The Moment

She earned her spurs
though she had no pony

had a ponytail to be
unwoven at a moment’s
unbraided seduction

Racing men at
the pedal of the moment
the double-click of a mini-mouse
who runs down the clock,
she has the game
and eats the victory cake too
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert