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Eleven bottled up poem on the wall, eleven bottled up poems, take on down, pass it around, eleven poems on the wall to go up. Yikes. What a long, poemy year it has been. I did have some good poem shards while Christmas shopping with HP today (thank you to my dear friend JJ for entertaining the Ds, and in such great style. Actually, they’d rather live with you, now, they say), but I’ve lost them all. One was so great that I reached for my pencil, but we were in the middle of a mattress store, so I was outta luck.

I am, like always, behind on Christmas. We got the Ds done today, but I still have to get gifts for HP, my brother, my sis-in-law, my Hp’s sis and family, and stockings. That’s a lot.I also have to mail cards, since I actually got some this year. So actually, given that, I’m not as behind as most years.

It hasn’t snowed hard yet. Maybe that is what is given me the humbugs. Maybe I should write a poem called Humbug. Gonna.


If the land wore white and became sculptable, in inches fluffed and compacted and audible, maybe then the joy would come, and I would get over the carols in minor keys, and find the joy, and not be visited by time spirits. If there were nutmeg in the house, and cocoa, if sledding were possible, then maybe I could drown out the news, and ignore the rain, and enjoy the dark. Maybe I’ll stand and scream at the sky, or maybe I’ll bend to the earth in prayer, and maybe it will work and tomorrow will be lost in cold cold cotton, and messy roads that slow us up and make us still. Yearning for ice is a strange thing, a thing that makes us Northerners, people of mountains and seasons, lovers of the downhill, the swoosh, and the sodden mitten.


Sweet little poems lately. Think snowy thoughts, poemfirends. Happy Saturday!