Best In Stitches Poems
Twas the night before Christmas and I was a gasp
at the rumors that filled me with an odious fright.
For Santa Claus was now tired of working for free
and would be harvesting organs well into the night.
He would be looking for kidneys, livers and hearts
as well as others too numerous to mention.
All this was designed to lower his cost of production
and help his Elves with their healthcare and pension.
The reporters reported the disheartening news
that dear Santa had put an end to holiday cheer.
And to lock all our windows and batten the doors
to prevent a Christmas which could end only in tears.
Now the Media's record of telling the truth
was often wrong and extremely spotty at best.
So I had faith in Saint Nick and his message of hope
and would not give in to the lies they address.
So I fell into slumber to awake Christmas morning
and put my trust in the jolly old Elf.
But awoke latter that night when the stomping of hooves
caused several books to fall from the shelf.
Quickly grabbing a candle... I flew down the stairs
to see my tree laden with presents and toys.
As dear Santa had come through with his usual flair
and my trepidation turned to wonder and joy.
So I opened a window and peered through the night
and spotted the old Elf at the head of his sleigh.
I heard him yell from afar as he drove out of sight,
'You should rest in bed for most of the day.'
I pondered his point... unsure what he meant
as my body began to shimmy and shiver.
And as sure as the bells that would ring Christmas morn...
that fat bastard had taken half of my liver.
So as I lay in the bed and considered my stress
and the reason for my tension and plight.
But put it aside... when I realized by giving an organ
I put the spirit of Christmas in a more favorable light.
The End
Night before Christmas Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Date: Nov 29/2019
She was a jolly seamstress Miss Gritches
Who was a whiz at patchin' men's britches
And alterin' ladies skirts
And sewin' buttons on shirts
'Twas said she kept her patrons in 'stitches'
The tongue, the tooth or today,
Or then, the gaze with memories and sweat,
Left of the misery, the haze, or the blurred set,
The thoughts tied to the codes for the day,
The tongue, the tooth or the say today.
The better character to talk of for casuals,
Worth the keep, the dialogues and perusals,
Mirrored in own self, the beauty and remarks,
The hidden in phrases and in own consciousness,
The tongue, the tooth or the say today.
Or then the two extremities in own terms:
The miserable with pain and scolded for no ideas,
Devoid of the grudges, the determinate of times today,
The definitely egoed and tongued for them disappointments,
Or then, the strange attachment with catchment on all ends,
The tough tongued, the tooth or the acting today.
The back to back travels in stitches and toughness,
The foul tongued and today's writing in the wilderness.
Find Glitches In Stitches
In everyone and thing, we find glitches,
So God will gladly help us sew stitches,
And a dirty deal,
Does not appeal;
God likes keeping minds out of ditches.
Jim Horn
My laptop hiccuped twice last night.
Then sneezed a cloud of snot and phlegm.
The cursor did a moonwalk, a back-flip.
Then crashed in cyber fake delirium.
The printer printed hieroglyphs.
The toaster broadcast a fax.
My smartwatch went completely feral,
Demanding better bigger data packs.
Glitches in stitches, twitches, and itches,
Pixels doing flip-flop, digital switches.
Bugs in the plugs and chips in the ditches—
I’m laughing in stitches, at all the glitches.
My blender gained self-awareness.
It screamed and shrieked with binary leaks.
Liquefying my breakfast oats
Over the ceiling and my new wallpaper.
The traffic lights blinked green,
Then yellow, red, and blue between.
While sat-nav sent me confidently,
Through somebody’s washing machine.
The robot vacuum lost its mind.
Choked on socks I left behind.
It circled like a hungry Mako,
Then swallowed my baguette.
I tried to patch the glitches.
Reboot the brute, twitched machine.
But breakers tripped and circuits sparked,
While wicked wild widgets twitched so mean,
As chaos reigned supreme, in the neon sheen.
Glitches in stitches, twitches, and itches,
Rich little hitches in Silicon's britches.
They're all to blame, despite their fame,
Laughing aloud at my glitches in stitches.