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Tuesday, October 1, 2019

Sounds of the Season: a Preview

Xmastide! What fun to ride! 
Ye faithful hear 'adeste,'
while tots hear Nick shout 'Blitzen.' 
(No way’s Xmas second-best day!)
How sweet the sound of 'candy canes' 
eclipsing 'lic’rice whips,'
as 'dreidel,' although Jewish, 
slips (flips, drips) through Xian lips.
An 'elf'’s heard come December 
(far less frequently come June),
while 'French hen'’s sounded solely 
in that Partridge-Pear-Tree tune.

Is 'greensleeves' just an Xmas word…? 
Vaughn Williams never hinted.
Unheard is 'handbell' till 
the Xmas choral program’s printed.
An 'ivy'’s sung alongside 'holly.' 
Such a jolly pairing!
Nor’s 'jingle,' juxtaposed with 'bells,' 
held seasonally daring.
Noms Noël…? I’m hearing 'Kringle' 
even in the loo.
And 'lords a-leaping.' 
(Partridge-Pear-Tree-wise, we’re all all through.)

'Mistletoe,' unheard befo’e, 
runs wild midst mild Decembers.
'Nativity' trumps ev’ry child – 
September’s child, November’s…
Phrases feat’ring ‘O’s resound 
all ‘round our Xmas trees: “O Tannen-
baum...,” “O Little Town...,” “O Holy Night...” 
(I cite in threes).
'Poinsett’a' popcorns off the walls, 
and not just walls of florists,
while 'quismas' exits mouths of babes 
in other parts of forests.

As Autry croons his 'Rudolph' 
and Torme his 'Chestnuts' renders,
we check their noses: 
have those nuts and reindeer been on benders…?
Good folks forbid all talk of 'tinsel' 
till their trees they’re trimmin.’ 
Only outres utter 'unto us…' – 
not normal men and women.
Is 'Vixen' ever heard 
in vernal conversations…? Nope.
(Were 'Wenceslaus' heard ‘round our house, 
abandon’d be all hope.)

Is ‘krissmiss' meant or 'exmiss,' 
when you 'Merry Xmas' hear…?
Not 'exmiss,' surely!
'Krissmass' purely bursts upon the ear.
Those 'yule's you may encounter 
in October (linked to 'logs')
have less to do with Xmas 
than with tales of shaggy dogs.
'Zwarte Piet'…? It’s indiscreet: 
Dutch racialism, right…?
Now…Merry Xmas! Bless us everyone! 
To all: goodnight!

Yves Has At 'Em: a Riddle Rewrite

As Yves was mot'ring toward St. Ives,
he pass’d a guy with seven wives.
(Imagine what a Hausfrau drives.)
Each “better half” held seven hives
she'd subdivided, using knives.
Each bride had sliced those into fives --
the bees sent fleeing for their lives,
each executing seven dives
(if spook’d, an insect truly strives:
it’s how each at-risk hive survives.
In last analysis, it thrives)
each dive a writhe of seven jives,
set free, each, from confining gyves.
Gyves, jives, dives, lives,
fives, knives, hives, drives –
plus just one guy, though seven wives.
So: how few motor'd toward St. Ives...?

Christmas Day: A Mare Egg...

     "A Mare Egg, Her Wrist, "Miss Two 'U'"