Below is the poem entitled Twas A Month Before Christmas which was written by poet
Herber. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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Twas a month before Christmas, when all through poetry soup
The poets were writing, their latest scoop.
Their hands flew, across the keyboard with care
Hoping to create, something they could share.
The writers were perched stubbornly in their chair
While visions of success left no time to spare.
And Michael writing, And Sharon scanning the site
Had just settled in for a long productive night.
When on my computer, I read such a poem
I sprang from my chair, and danced around home.
Up the stairs, I flew like a flash,
Forgot to open the door, and my nose I did smash.
The lights had been turned off, on the floor above
Leaving the stairway, dark like a glove.
Darn those kids, I screamed at the door
One of these days …I promised once more.
Back to the computer, so lively and quick
I knew if I didn’t hurry, the phone line would click.
More rapid than a river, the poetry members came
And they listed their poems followed by their name:
Now Robert! Now George!
Now Carrie and Laura!
On Christy! On Rhoda!
On Karen and Carol!
Now keep writing! Keep writing!
Keep writing all!
Outside the cold wind, blew with a rage, but I didn’t pay it no mind,
trapped in my poets cage, The house shook, and the windows rattled,
but it was only my dictionary I chose to battle.
And then in a twinkling, more poets came in. There was Mark and Sue
with talents to win. As I leaned back, and was stretching around,
more poets and writers came with a bound.
They were all dressed in words, from their head to their foot
and their poems were not tarnished, with ashes and soot.
A bundle of talent, they had flung on their back
And they sound like friends, with an talented knack.
Their words, how they twinkled! Their comments how merry!
Each poet was sweet, as sweet as a berry!
There were holiday poems written just so,
And poor old Deborah was still writing about snow.
The concentration of words, they held tight in gritted teeth
And the final draft, encircled their heads like a wreath.
They were a large group, that made you laugh and cry,
They inspired you to believe, you really could fly.
They verbalized no words, but went straight to their work
And filled out hearts with poems, that caused tears to jerk.
And entering their poems on the members page
And giving a nod, left their poetry cage.
They turned off their computers, with a satisfied whistle
And to bed they all ran, like the down of a thistle.
But I saw them write, ere they logged off line,
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL TO ALL A GOOD WRITE!