A little under two
years ago (in the middle of the night, New Year's Eve, to be exact,) I waxed
poetic musing on a brief poem about "Arturo the mouse" that
accompanied a bag of cookies I had picked up at our local BiLo, my select
grocery store. Amused at my parody of
Clement Clarke Moore's immortal work, I emailed a few verses to a few buds,
attempting to enlist them in a little competition. No one bit, however, and I was left holding
my own bag. Oh, well, though greatness
eludes me, the work remains, and, since the Christmas season has again encroached
upon all that is holy I find the need to resurrect little
Arturo. Maybe this will be his
year. SVG, December 2012
A Visit from Arturo
Twas the day after
Christmas, when all through the house,
The kids were all
hunting for Arturo the mouse.
We parents were,
likewise, all consumed with the thought
That this Christmas
might pass with our wits still uncaught.
If you wonder what's
happening, you won't be alone,
For this ditty's been
sent to many a crone
And, if you choose, you can take up your pen
And write out your
verses from beginning to end.
Just stay hale and
merry, don't be a retreater,
And copy the rhythm and
attend to the meter,
And soon you will see
your pen will have written
Your own Christmas
verse (with a smile you'll be smitten.)
Fifty-six lines is the
name of the game,
If you've not
fifty-six, it just won't be the same;
And so, here it is,
you've been issued the call
And you may respond or
not answer at all.
Whatever you do, you
know I don't care,
You may type out your
verses or just sit there and stare.
More rapid than eagles,
the verses they came,
If you're working on
yours, you have no one to blame.
Come line! Come verse!
Now meter, be merry;
If you don't like my
offing, 'tis your right: Be contrary.
To the top of the page,
to the top of the folder,
Now run with the ink
like a looney-tunes bolder.
As old friends, when
smitten, get a glint in the eye,
When they meet an
assignment, and put on the try;
So up to our keyboards
we all soon drew,
With dictionary,
thesaurus, and St. Nicholas, too.
And when with that help
we searched high and low,
To find thoughts that
would cause our assignment to grow,
While we hiked up our
night shirts and were just sitting down,
Across the floor rushed
Arturo, to the kitchen he's bound:
He was brown, like I
thought, from his head to his foot,
His demeanor was more
than this writer could put,
(down on paper, I
mean,) but back to the question:
Just who is Arturo, and
what is his lesson?
His eyes--two brown
orbs! His whiskers, were hairy?
His feet were in motion
like a feather-weight's parry;
His mouth carried two
teeth set right at the front,
And that's all that I
saw, he was ready to punt.
From somewhere in the
background, I heard a ref's whistle,
And away went Arturo
like a latter-day missile.
Away to the kitchen, he
flew like a flash,
Made his way to our
cupboard and then to the trash--
It was then that I saw,
sitting out on a shelf,
A bag of small cookies
from our furry, small elf.
Chocolate chip, they
were, and that's only right,
For a gift from the small
guy in which all could delight.
And now that I know why
Arturo was sent,
I now can go back to
the quest that's my bent:
While eating what
cookies the kids left behind,
I'll end up this work with
a satisfied mind.
Away to my task chair
while the tea-kettle whistled,
And soon stacks of
paper to my out-box had bristled;
And for you, my good
friends, all in internet sight,
Be it Christmas or New
Years, God bless you this night.
---Sven
441612020671
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