HI,
I'd like to nominate Eric's poem,
December for consideration in the January IBPC. As mentioned in his companion poem's thread,
Streetwalkers, I was thinking that both poems might work well as one combined poem (since only one poem per person is allowed in the IBPC per comp) with the titles merged perhaps to read: December Steetwalkers. I'll post December first below, followed by the combined effort. Let's wait to hear from Eric.
December by Eric LindenDecember darkness nibbles bits of day
until there’s hardly any left, it seems,
at least not much. Ice covered ponds and streams
are Meccas for both young and old to play
a game of shinny. Children on their sleighs
go hurdling down embankments – mortal screams,
as off they spill into a drift. Two teams
in forts let snowballs fly each other’s way.
Electric lights in rainbow-colored hues
adorn the busy city streets and stores
where shoppers bustle back and forth, like bees.
And everywhere you look, each avenue
has yards and homes alit in bright decors;
wreaths hang on doors, garlands on leafless trees.
Footnote - It was brought to my attention that "shinny" is perhaps not known to everyone. It is very much Canadian, we being the frozen north. It's hockey, but not formal. It goes back to where a bunch of boys would strap on skates and take whatever shape of hockey stick available, then head for the pond or wherever there was ice. Not everyone had a store-bought stick, but hey - who cared? A good time was had by all.The merging of both poems yields this:December Streetwalkers by Eric LindenDecember darkness nibbles bits of day
until there’s hardly any left, it seems,
at least not much. Ice covered ponds and streams
are Meccas for both young and old to play
a game of shinny. Children on their sleighs
go hurdling down embankments – mortal screams,
as off they spill into a drift. Two teams
in forts let snowballs fly each other’s way.
Electric lights in rainbow-colored hues
adorn the busy city streets and stores
where shoppers bustle back and forth, like bees.
And everywhere you look, each avenue
has yards and homes alit in bright decors;
wreaths hang on doors, garlands on leafless trees.
It’s almost solstice time. How woeful nights
appear to one misguided, tortured soul
who works nocturnal downtown streets where lights,
like bright electric stardrops, hang from pole
to pole, aglitter in December air.
A speaker somewhere overhead blares out
What Child is This, then
Jingle Bells. “Who cares?”
she thinks, and moves away. “It’s all about
the mighty buck today, which I ain’t got
and by the looks of things, I’ll never get.”
Salvation Army bells. Their plastic pots
hold hope that expectations can be met
and no-one goes off hungry at this time.
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