A unique Christmas time for Santa Claus,
fiftieth year of journey without pause.
All gifts he stacks in the cart,
gets ready to soon depart,
he feels for a mishap there is no cause.
On snow-covered track Rudolph runs inspired,
chilled wind on the face, Santa feels he’s tired.
He spots bench in sunny park,
rests there after night’s hard work.
Soon slips into deep sleep though undesired.
Mistaking Santa’s snoring as some blast,
Rudolph thinks danger has arrived at last.
Lets Santa snooze, darts away
with gifts rattling in the sleigh.
Santa wakes up, along the trail runs fast.
She was wearing her pajamas,
while standing at the checkout stand.
There were pink curlers in her hair,
a box of twinkies in here hand.
A screaming child was on each arm,
two more crying brats in the cart.
One was pulling the fire alarm,
one was tearing boxes apart.
Half of the boxes were open,
cereal spilling on the floor.
The two kids just kept on screaming,
about how they needed some more.
Felt sorry when her total hit,
three seventy-eight and a dime.
‘Til she chose not to buy the meat,
kept the beer, cigarettes, and wine.
She wears a quiet confidence everyday, like a scarf
stained with sweat because she never takes it off.
That’s what she was wearing the first time she ever asked me
for yogurt recommendations.
She saw me standing with my hand on my forehead,
eyes furrowed before the sprawling cooler.
She mistook my indecisiveness as thoughtful
contemplation. When I spoke to her all the words
kept tripping over one another on my tongue,
embarrassing as trying to use cling wrap without scissors,
embarrassing as walking anywhere with a suitcase,
embarrassing as waiting to cross the street or losing
your balance on the train.
So she took her sweat stained confidence
and draped it around my shoulders,
delicate as childhood, and I said,
“go for the coffee flavor, it’ll surprise you,”
“I love surprises!” she said as she
set it and my heart down gently in the cart.
Christmas in hot humid July,
No clouds seen in the bluest sky.
I shop and buy and cannot stop,
From one shop to another shop.
Why? My three-year-old grandson
Who is the world under the sun.
So, Christmas is all year round;
I do get run-down I have found.
I don't mind spending my dimes
For my loving small boy that climbs
In the cart and says, I want that.
So, I look to see where the price at.
7/12/2022
Christmas In July Or July Celebration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
At the fruit stand, in a box,
Were melons that, to me,
Were unfamiliar, not the
Ones I’m likelier to see.
No cantaloupes? No honeydews?
The fruit guy shook his head,
But pointed to the box which held
The green-skinned ones instead.
They weren’t watermelons, so
I asked what they were named.
The fruit man and his partner spoke
(Not English) and exclaimed:
“They’re called the sweetest melons.
You should try them – 2 for 5.”
I bought one (for 3 bucks) in hopes
That fruit men don’t connive.
I found it very strange, though,
That the produce in the cart
Goes by names the fruit men cannot
To their customers impart.
I knew of a family
In an unpainted small house
In the poorest part of the town
The man of the house
Had met his love, Maria
Together they produced 8 children
I wondered where they slept.
The oldest child’s name was Kalle
And became my mother’s boyfriend
The man of the house a made living
Driving horse and cart emptying
Peoples rubbish taking it to the dump.
He had a beer in the cart
And sang when driving to the stable
Where he spent time grooming
The horse and feeding it.
He sat on a crate reading the papers
Which he could not do at home.
Still, he loved his Maria and I saw them
Holding hands, she had no teeth
“poverty” and had gone fat.
Yet it was a happy home we celebrated
Our Christmases’ there.
Kalle, who liked to wear a suit
Got a flat with a toilet in another town
And we didn’t see him so often.
Plain Pain.
There's a heavy pain on top of my joy,
Little room nails scratching my whole,
All of me helpless and hopeless,
The goal was joy now in the
Goal mouth there's sore,
Necessity to comprehend the whole thing
Is no more appealing to my present,
How old is I to be fooled?
How long from now will it take to appeal to be true?
Yesterday I wasn't perfect but real in the mud
Now I appear to be but fake in the cart,
Who is fooling who I wonder
Who else shall say it louder than I?
The present seem to be non kind
And my kind seem to be non present,
Who is I to follow with joy
When there is none in me in secret?
Who is I to laugh to the joke of reality
When they are not at all?
Who is I to judge human nature with an eye
That see far closer than nowhere?
There's a walk for me to take
I realised there's a lot at stake,
Alone with I,me and me
Releasing each drop for joy to be found
Never the less there's none to be for I to smile.
I am a pull-earth
Pulling the spirit of the earth,
Cracking imagery in the pool-earth.
I master the personification of the art,
Even when my metaphor is in the cart.
I treasure the cacophy of my word' luxury,
Closer to the motion and fire of my documentry.
Masking of the atmosphere I most cherish,
Breaking wild emotions with a beam I wish.
The testimony of my mouth dances in peace
Even as the words in my palm beam in their race.
I have touched the head of the joyful pool-TREE
And make meaning out of life from a tree.
I am not a poet but a PULL-EARTH
Pulling the spirited spirit of the EARTH.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
And they lived happily ever after
Most of the love stories say in the end
Sharing smiles, echoing loads of laughter
Never ever having to break or bend
That’s not what really happens, my friend!
Seen the rosy life off to a great start
Pause for cash to pay for food in the cart
They go to work at dawn; come back at dusk
Toiling the full day bent at desks apart
Where’s the time to inhale love’s flowing musk?
Written 05/16/2016
Dust is blown by the wind
As the coffin where lies
The corpse that was dearly beloved
Is transported in the cart
To the final resting place
3-4-2016
The rotten apple in the cart,
And lowest of the low,
A waste of space, a waste of time,
And not a joy to know,
A heartless witch, a nasty troll,
A trouble-making shrew,
The creature from the Black Lagoon,
And pile of doggy do,
A hateful, wicked bag of slime,
A monster hated for all time.
The mould was broken at her birth,
This angel, dear and sweet,
This blossom, delicate and fair,
Refined from head to feet,
This paragon of virtue glows,
A pearl before the swine,
A perfect rose amongst the thorns,
Champagne compared with wine,
A treasure trove, a swan, a dove,
And saintly lady filled with love.
For Vie’s Let me have it, then kiss my petunia contest
Every week in the post they come .
Supermarket Specials with a boast
Of prices low I hear their call.
To make me rush to the Shopping Mall.
I can’t stop now, I may be late.
Must get there before the closing date.
There are many bargains I could enjoy
I’m a sucker for their sales ploy.
I always get there within the time
To make sure they’ll be mine.
All the specials I’m going to buy
They’re all so good, they catch my eye.
In the store around I’ll dart
Pushing fast my trolley cart.
At each shelf I’ll quickly stop
And in the cart the items flop.
Round the corners I’ll sharply turn
Wheels will spin, tyres burn.
Down each aisle I’ll travel fast
I am always first, never last.
But now each day when the pamphlets come
I throw them all in my big black drum.
For why should I upset myself.
About those specials that I’ve no cash to get.
tho you wept
follow her foot step
[put the music
under your belt
it love and
weath
do it for self
if no one els
it a was a love lot
fill with sweet music cot
its all in the cart
she made her
mark
its a dream
an its clean
its has theme
its seen
you get hook
on the books
in the cart
its
PURE ART
Jewel Food Stores - Illinois
Looking at that roast in the cart
I savor its taste even now.
Yet never thinking that for my part
When I will cook it...or even how.
But I take it to the checkout lane
With all the other items that day.
Finally having to leave it...to looks of disdain
I didn't bring enough cash with me...all to my dismay.
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