The Ugliest Christmas Sweater

When I sit down with pen in hand

to write Santa Claus my annual letter,

the only thing I will ask him for

is the world's ugliest Christmas sweater,

one that depicts Cthulhu

driving a big red sleigh

and a hippopotamus in a tutu

performing the Nutcracker ballet,

a sweater sprinkled with snowflakes

of many sizes and shapes

and Santa in a spaceship bringing presents

to the Planet of the Apes

and a unicorn and llama

running though the snow,

while Godzilla and King Kong

play hockey on a giant ice floe

while standing by in a Santa suit

would be Edgar Allan Poe,

and a Yeti wearing an ugly Christmas sweater,

so I would have an ugly Christmas sweater

within an ugly Christmas sweater.

Could there possibly be anything better?

Maybe a Yeti wearing an ugly Christmas sweater

depicting a Yeti wearing an ugly Christmas sweater

depicting a Yeti wearing an ugly Christmas sweater

depicting a Yeti wearing an ugly Christmas sweater

ad infinitum.

That's the only item

I'll ask Santa for

when I write him! - Jeff Barnes

Happiness

Sometimes it's enough

to sit and drink coffee

and observe

the leafless dance of branches

in the gray morning breeze

through the glass door

of a November kitchen. - Jeff Barnes

The Treachery of Words

If we have Christmas in July

why can't we have Independence Day in December?

What is the use of sleeping on memory foam

if it never helps us to remember?

An angel fish doesn't have a halo,

nor does it play a harp.

Its main boasting point seems to be

that it's much prettier than a carp.

You may like antipasta 

but that doesn't mean you're against spaghetti.

A Himalayan snowman isn't really abominable,

so please, just call him a Yeti.

Why are gooseberries not made of geese?

Why is breadfruit not made out of bread?

We know that water never sleeps

so what's the use of having a riverbed?

Why do they call French toast French

when it did not originate in France?

Why don't they call it a fowl ball

when chickens go to a formal dance?

Why is there always a traffic jam

but never traffic jelly?

Why can't we buy Indian food

over at the new deli?

Why can we call someone the apple of our eye

but never a grape or pomegranate?
How would we explain our screwed-up language

to someone from another planet?

Why can there be a fork in the road

but never a spoon or a knife?

Maybe I should stop this train of thought

and work on getting a life. - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

Deep in September

under the night clouds, crickets

sing summer to sleep. - Jeff Barnes

Picnic

Blue fauns, green mastodons, and pink-speckled swans

cavorted on the ground.

We carefully avoided the eyeball daisies

as we spread our blankets down.

A woman stood at an ironing board

on the neon purple grass.

We offered her a sandwich,

but she said she'd have to pass.

Then she rode her board like a surfer

and bade us all goodbye.

She said she had laundry to deliver

as she zoomed off into the sky.

Some fish at at the bottom of a pond

were enjoying their afternoon tea.

We got a craving for ice cream cones,

so we picked some from a nearby tree.

As the day morphed into evening

the daisies all closed their eyes.

The sun gave us a wink and wave

and said he had somewhere else to rise.

We lay back on our blankets

after he vanished from sight

and gazed at the backbone of the universe,

the skeleton of night. - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

Cat sits regally

like a statue of Bastet

in the litter box. - Jeff Barnes

Gardener

She realized

as she uprooted

his neglected flower bed's

overgrown weeds

that he gardened

like he fathered,

disappearing shortly after

he had sown his seeds. - Jeff Barnes

Concert

These days we look

more like retirees

on a cruise

than the bohemian

flower children we once

fancied ourselves

as we line up outside

the concert venue, waiting

for the doors to open.

The lead guitarist plays

his solos as flawlessly as ever,

though he resembles

the Crypt Keeper

when he glares at the audience

with a "get off my lawn" scowl,

and I wonder if he will

start shaking his

sunburst Gibson hollow body

like a cane as he shouts

at people for talking,

and tells them

to stop taking photos.

But still, I make you laugh,

as I do every time 

at these events

when I lean toward you and,

with my mouth to your ear

say, "This is a rock concert!

What are all these old people

doing here?" - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

July afternoon --

sun splashes the pouring rain,

turns the leaves silver. - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

That frog keeps croaking.
Well, it is Saturday night.
He wants to get laid. - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

He flops on the couch

like a grounded zeppelin --

big fluffy white cat. - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

The town I am from

doesn't exist anymore.

It's there but it's not. - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

Decaying city --

old buildings like broken teeth

bite the empty air. - Jeff Barnes

Australian Dream

Last night when I slipped into slumber

I had a dream about the Land Down Under.

I was surrounded by lorikeets and wallaroos,

wallabies, dingos, koalas, and emus.

I felt rather stoked and jolly.

I was out woop woop with my swag and brolly

when I encountered a kangaroo,

who hopped about while playing a didgeridoo.

I said, "Now I feel a bit drongo,

because I should have brought my bongos

so that i might accompany you."

"No wuckas!" said the kangaroo.

Then he finished playing his song

and jumped into a billabong.

He invited me to go with him.

He said, "Get yourself nuddy and we'll have a swim!"

"I never learned to swim,"  I said.

"I think I will just walk instead."

Just then a wombat and a platypus

drove up in a Volkswagen minibus.

I asked if I could bum a ride

and they said,  "Sure! Come on inside!"

We drove to the sounds of Accadacca,

then got hungry and stopped at Macca's.

Then a kookaburra swooped down on me

and carried me up to his old gum tree.

It was just a dream, or so I believed

until I woke up covered in eucalyptus leaves. - Jeff Barnes 

Displaced

I'm a sunflower

growing out of an iceberg

drifting in a northern sea,

an octopus hanging

on the uppermost branch

of a California redwood tree,

a meanderer lost 

in the Sahara Desert

with no transport but a canoe,

an emu wishing

he were a wedge-tailed eagle,

flying in a sky of prozac blue. - Jeff Barnes

Punchline

You took the idea

of heaven and hell

as seriously as

you took life,

which is to say

not at all.

You always said

that life

was a joke,

that there 

was no meaning

to it, only

a punchline

which everyone

is told

at the moment

of death,

and I believe you

on spring evenings

like this.

I feel your presence

when I laugh in time

with the croaking toad

outside my window. - Jeff Barnes

Gifts From Dead Writers

Last night I had a dream

in which H.P. Lovecraft came to me.

He reached into his suit coat pocket

and gave me a silver key.

Edgar Allan Poe descended

out of the gloomy sky.

He presented me with a raven

and a black cat with one eye.

Franz Kafka walked up to me

looking paranoid and wild-eyed.

He handed me some insurance forms

and a can of pesticide.

Lewis Carroll popped out of a rabbit hole,

accompanied by a jubjub bird.

They bequeathed a vorpal sword to me,

then disappeared without a word.

I awoke from my dream

feeling as though I'd been drugged.

When I sat up I a saw a silver key

lying on the bedroom rug. - Jeff Barnes

Unsaid

I tend to stumble and

fall over my words,

you know.

I was in a field of 

clover and wished 

you were there.

I wandered

all over the meadow south of town. 

You know the one I mean.

I went into the 

dell over by Route 131. 

You know where that is.

I saw

foxgloves there. 

You always thought they were beautiful.

I

will overthink
things quite often. 

You know how I am.

I 

spill over with words that fall short. 

You know it, I think.

I know.  I know.

I can read between lines.

I can read between words.

I can read between letters.

I know.

xo - Jeff Barnes

The Story of My Name

I followed a prompt to write a poem in which the first letter of the last word in each line, read downward, will spell out your name.

The Story of My Name

My older sister named me Jeffrey.

She got permission from Mom when she was expecting.

She named me after a fictional

character, the boy named Jeff on the old Lassie show, for

whom she carried a torch. Really.

I'm just glad she didn't name me Elvis.

Paul McCartney hadn't become famous yet.

I would have been named Paul if I had been born just

a few years later. Paul would have been an okay

name, but I prefer mine, to be honest.

I think it's a good name.

Mom wanted my middle name to be Tyrone, because

she liked Tyrone Power, the actor,

but some nun told her she couldn't name me that. Really.

Because we were Catholic, my name had to be a saint's name,

but coming up with another middle name was easy enough.

She named me John, after her cousin, even though he was no saint. - Jeff Barnes

The Little Poem That Tried to Be a Haiku But Missed by Two Syllables

Poor little poem --

just slightly too short

to be a haiku. - Jeff Barnes

A poem to commemorate National Lost Socks Memorial Day

Lost Socks

Is there a place where
all the lost socks go?
I have a grieving single sock
who would really like to know.

Does the Land of Lost Socks
actually exist,
or is it a silly idea
that is easily dismissed?

Is there some sort of portal
in the washing machine or dryer
that leads to another plane of existence,
perhaps one that is higher?

Those who are turned into sock puppets
or dust rags, or simply thrown away
cling to the hope that they'll be reunited
with their lost mates someday.

If you are a sock who has lost its mate
and are seeking surcease of sorrow,
take heart, for the Widowed Socks Support Group
will meet again tomorrow. - Jeff Barnes

Poking William Carlos Williams With A Stick

Okay, so I have had a bit of fun with the works of William Carlos Williams.  A few years ago I wrote a golden shovel poem based on his poem, "The Red Wheelbarrow."

Here's a refresher:

The "golden shovel" is a fun poetic form to work with.

Here are the rules for the Golden Shovel:
Take a line (or lines) from a poem you admire.
Use each word in the line (or lines) as an end word in your poem.
Keep the end words in order.
Give credit to the poet who originally wrote the line (or lines).
The new poem does not have to be about the same subject as the poem that offers the end words.
If you pull a line with six words, your poem would be six lines long. If you pull a stanza with 24 words, your poem would be 24 lines long. And so on.

Here is the original poem:

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens - William Carlos Williams

And here is the golden shovel poem I wrote, based on it:

Questions for William Carlos Williams

Why do my thoughts torment me so?
Why did Edward R. Murrow smoke so much?
Is that a statue of Buddha from whose nose an icicle depends?
Do you have a more comfortable chair to sit upon?

Who decided that the first letter of the alphabet should be a?
Who is that alluring woman in red?
How long did humans exist before someone invented the wheel?
Whose body lies buried beneath that barrow?

What kind of doughnut do you want, jelly or glazed?
Is it a preposition you’re not supposed to end a sentence with?
Do you think it’s going to rain?
Shall I bring you a glass of water?

Whose dog is that cat lying beside?
Is the most commonly used word in the English language the?
Why do I always spill something on myself when I wear white?
Damn, I wish I knew how to read tea leaves or the guts of chickens! — Jeff Barnes

Today I have been having a bit of fun with his poem, "This Is Just To Say."  This one is not a golden shovel poem; it is just a parody. Here is the original poem:

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold - William Carlos Williams

And now my parody:

Plum Crazy

This is just to say

I have fondled

the plums

that are in

the fridge

and which

you might have

been saving

for breakfast, lunch

or whatever

Forgive me

they seemed to have

little purple

buttocks

I could not keep my

hands off

Forgive me

for being

such a

perv - Jeff Barnes

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 30

Here is it, the final day of National Poetry Writing Month.  The prompt today is to write a minimalist poem.  Well, a haiku is certainly minimalist, so here is a companion piece to my poem of the other day, "Sonnet Envy."

Haiku Envy

There was a sonnet

who wished to be a haiku.

He dumped his baggage. - Jeff Barnes

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 29

The prompt today is to write a poem " that meditates, from a position of tranquility, on an emotion you have felt powerfully."

Haiku

Easter afternoon.

Your body caught up with you

on your journey home. - Jeff Barnes

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 28

The prompt today is to write a meta-poem -- a poem about poetry.  Here is a silly one I came up with.

Sonnet Envy

There was a haiku who wished to be a sonnet.

He wanted to have more syllables and lines.

He became quite depressed when he dwelled on it,

and wished he at least had a few rhymes.

He thought about how wonderful it would be

if he were written in iambic pentameter,

and had fourteen lines instead of just three.

Yes, he would have liked that a lot better.

Being a haiku, he always felt like a shrimp

among all the sonnets and villanelles.

He wanted to be epic but he felt like a wimp.

He could only whisper when he wanted to yell.

Your size does not matter as much as what you say

Little haiku, I hope you will understand that someday. - Jeff Barnes

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 27

Today's prompt is to "remix" a Shakespearean sonnet.  Well, I went to "Sonnet XII" and stole the first line, then took it in my own direction.

Morning Sonnet

(With apologies to William Shakespeare)

When I count the clock that tells the time

and see the garish day replace the holy night,

I so dread the alarm clock's chime

and the bedroom flooded in morning light.

When the cats jump on the bed

and run like tigers through the house,

most insistent that they be fed,

we must arise though we may grouse.

Though we may dread another day of work,

we take some comfort at the sound of the beep

that tells us the coffee is starting to perk,

and the caffeine will ease us from our sleep.

We hope the day will speed by so that then

we can come home and start the cycle again. - Jeff Barnes

If you're curious and have not read it, here is the original by Shakespeare:

Sonnet 12: When I do count the clock that tells the time

By William Shakespeare

When I do count the clock that tells the time, 

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; 

When I behold the violet past prime, 

And sable curls all silver’d o’er with white;

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves 

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves 

Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, 

Then of thy beauty do I question make, 

That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake

And die as fast as they see others grow; 

   And nothing ‘gainst Time’s scythe can make defence

   Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.