Natalia was in charge of the Gothic Nutcracker Ballet
It was held in the darkest, dankest, nastiest alley way
The mice came out to trot around without their soldier suits
Feral cats pranced around the production, tummies full of toots
The Gothic Nutcracker, how marvelous, a few old ladies said
We love it too, remarked the vampires and others, all undead
This ballet is not attended by just anyone, invitation only you see
You are not invited unless you drink some spider eyeball tea.
Let’s all get ready for the Nutcracker stomp
We need to lift those legs high for a big old romp
The other nutcrackers looked like I was crazy of course
But stomping away was the Christmas horse.
this nutcracker is twisted, warped, there is something wrong
he does not know he’s not supposed to kick up in this throng
his feet are supposed to be stationary, his ways are not right.
This dancing, twirling and kicking give the others a fright.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a wooden body with steady onyx eyes
fixed through the warm, festive glow of
glimmer-strung branches heavy with ornaments
crimson ribbons curling like frozen candy canes
stalwart he stands, gray musket upright
at rigid attention guarding wrapped promises~
stern eyes track the vintage train’s circuit
buzzing relentlessly round tree-rooted tracks.
devoted guardian rooted in pine needles
preserving whimsy’s last spark in tinsel-strewn shadows~
protector of wide-eyed wonder when snow silences streets
keeper of memory’s embers — cinnamon, carols, and cold cheeks.
no mouse king approaches, no cracked walnut threatens;
yet, still he stands watching over Christmases present and past~
a soldier of sentiment safeguarding the fragile, the glitter,
the longing, the ache in the throat when the last bulb dims.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a wooden body with steady onyx eyes
fixed through the warm, festive glow of
glimmer-strung branches heavy with ornaments
crimson ribbons curling like frozen candy canes
stalwart he stands, gray musket upright
at rigid attention guarding wrapped promises~
stern eyes track the vintage train’s circuit
buzzing relentlessly 'round tree-rooted tracks.
devoted guardian rooted in pine needles
preserving whimsy’s last spark in tinsel-strewn shadows~
protector of wide-eyed wonder when snow silences streets
keeper of memory’s embers — cinnamon, carols, and cold cheeks.
no mouse king approaches, no cracked walnut threatens;
yet, still he stands watch over Christmases present and past~
a soldier of sentiment safeguarding the fragile, the glitter,
the longing, the ache in the throat when the last bulb dims.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a wooden body
with steady onyx eyes
stares through
the warm, festive glow of
glimmering lights strung
around the traditional Christmas tree
decorated with sparkling ornaments
and crimson ribbons
stalwart, the nutcracker stands
its gray musket at attention,
ready to defend
the carefully wrapped gifts
piled beneath the tree
with stern eyes
it faithfully watches
the circle of vintage trains,
buzzing around the tree's base
like a devoted guardian
he sits beneath the holiday tree
preserving holiday whimsy,
protecting childhood awe,
safeguarding adulthood memories
of Christmases long past
protecting everyone
from holiday distress.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am a sentinel of wood and paint,
my joints, stiffened by time, creak like old doors.
My painted smile is fixed and hollow,
beneath the weight of unfulfilled wishes.
Distant clock chimes, reminding me of battles I fought
when I was a strong and brave soldier,
protecting sugar-spun realms,
where candy canes grew like trees
and laughter rang like crystal bells.
I remember the way silk tutus swirled~
the sugar plum fairies, their feet
light as snowflakes, spinning through the air,
the delicious smell of candied dreams,
and the wish for a dance that will never happen.
Now, I am nothing but a relic, my wooden heart splintered.
Oh, how I long for the moment
when I am again more than wood,
able to leap and twirl
amongst the sugar plum fairies.
Our Christmas traditions ...
They came across the sea,
From the old, old towns
In the heart of Germany
Sugar and spice - filled
Were the gingerbread men,
Cut by hand ... carefully
As was the tradition then
A wooden nutcracker guards
In a frosted windowpane,
To keep away evil spirits ...
Out wandering down your lane
And, the advent calendar
Which hung on the wall,
The Christmas carols sung
In the home by one and all
Ornaments of blown glass
And the Christmas tree ...
Born in many an old town
... A gift from Germany.
he sits in front of us with his family
nice touch but then it is evident from
his long pig face
that there; has been some foul play
the sweet woman welcomes us before
proceedings with a monologue of length
i stare at the seat in front of me
cake wasted and my wife brings a Coca Cola
the bloke is the first to applaud
the introduction with idiotic enthusiasm
and his son notices and they high-five
i should have brought nunchucks
the second half is boring
white bread stuff
my son is asleep
yawntastic
never move your eyebrows when talking
"I want to be a nutcracker!"
Came my announcement one day.
I won't need the strength of a linebacker
to make my chosen profession pay.
"I want to be a nutcracker!"
Grasping them tight like in a vise.
Even the big ones, I'd call a 'wacker.'
I might have to squeeze those twice.
"I want to be a nutcracker!"
Those that are ripe enough for picking.
With every blow, I'd be the attacker,
getting all the sweet meat by pricking.
"I want to be a nutcracker!"
It's a job at which I'd excel.
I'd earn the title, 'Best Nut Smacker,'
when they shout, "That hurt like hell!!"
"I want to be a nutcracker!"
I'd be picky ‘bout the ones I'd choose.
No one would ever call me a 'hacker,'
for when I'm done, there'd never be a bruise.
*Thank you, Caren Krutsinger, for graciously agreeing to allow me the use of your title. We took different forks at the crossroad. ;-)
When I grow up I want to be a nutcracker my son said.
I thought he meant ballerina, was he right in the head?
It’s not because he’s a male but he simply can’t dance.
As his mother I hoped that someone would give him a chance.
I will hire him said grandma, all of my older squirrel friends will too.
Our teeth are worn out and rotten, it is so hard to chew!
He began his career at the age of twenty-two.
He opens all of their nuts with hatchets of yellow, red and blue.
*Image of A Cedar Waxwing in Winter by The C Lab.
a crack at the nutcracker
sole *waxwing natures
crowned nomen swathed pastel fair~
seats heart hints of hues
*These birds are berry eaters and nut droppers for sustaining their future.
2022 December 07
*6th Place*
Winter Nature Themed Haiku
~~Tania Kitchin: Judged 2022 December 13
**HMS.
Too big to Crack this nut.
Too big to Crack a nut.
But leave it up to imagination.
Cosmo Star Beings and superstition.
Producing a morning prayer rumpelstiltskin.
Nut Cracked Her and sometimes you feel like
a nut, sometimes you don't.
Old rotten owl rumpelstiltskin.
Odd and rotten in the days of the nutcracker.
The nutcracker stockings could not resist the urge to play
They sat silent without moving the entire long day
But at night when the lights went out,
They began to whirl twirl, twist and shout
We are the nutsies, the mighty mighty nutcrackers!
These silly humans are crazy, completely polly-wackers!
The humans heard, and two ran down the stairs.
But the stockings were fast, and they hung and gave them stares.
The humans went back up and the nutcrackers sang a song.
Footsteps on the stairs, they knew it would not be long.
The humans were bamboozled, confused, did not know what to do.
Nutcracker stockings kept them on their toes until a quarter after two.
In the chasm of the Nutcracker
Shadows of urgency implode upon the stage
Dancers are cloaked by ominous fog
Mist oozing from the pleats and corners of nothingness
In the chasm of the Nutcracker
One lone pure one ballets across in magic slippers
The lightest of foot, contrasting with the rest
They are competing but she is the one you watch
In the chasm of the Nutcracker
There appear to be hidden dangers
Selfish, greedy motives, unknown agendas
Twirling dancers conceal some anticipated evil
In the chasm of the Nutcracker
There is a cold elegance
But a contrasting purity and innocence
I watch the dance and smile at the black snowflakes
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