UberMas 05 - It's a Wonderful Life (670 hits)
Category: Quotes & Stories -> PoetryLabels: competitions
Rating: 2 on 21 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Orgasmatron (View user info) at 2005-12-09 03:19:02 EST
I - "Thomas"
When winter rings its static harmonies,
Its cold and its chills bring pause to every molecule,
Every fiber of me and you,
The very fabric of our days and nights;
So, too, then does the hand of Hestia make its play,
Cups fingers 'gainst the coming cold,
Weathered, wrinkled fingers caked with flour and cornmeal
Secures feeble flame from the wind
And gives us cause to move.
I am no Decemberist,
No celebrant to this white-faced madman
That cackles softly through dry, stripped lungs;
Here, on the edge of the year since passed,
This thirty-one sided precipice,
Death holds court and begs the jester sing.
But what is left to dance, or peal or ring?
Here, the cracking ice coats distant mile,
The frozen bank casts doubt upon the petrified lake,
And we have but frost and the bare reflection of its sheen;
Here, at the end of time, black leaves blow 'round empty trees,
But still we walk, still,
You and I.
How, then, when earth denies the lowered spade,
And chimneys weep gray tears into the sky,
Smoke blooming, unwinding like a jungle cat,
Ash and smoke curling over a lone bird in the flat morning air,
Circling its hollow bones, its feathers, beak, eyes,
Until altitude crashes and snuffs the gray wisps out.
How, then, can you presume to hope?
To search for something graceful in this land of naked forests
And held-still waters, stunned powerful like Moses seeing the face of God?
How can you profess a miracle in the roving eye of this cruel, twelfth son?
No temple, this month. No tabernackle, this.
Take my hand in yours and evangelize,
Hearth-warmed and steady against the elements, profess.
You I love, and ad...
Yes.
I do believe that is the miracle, after all.
II - "These, My People"
The concierge makes a call, ringing the suite
Of one Mr. E.R. Browning. No answer does
The tingling-ringling receive,
For outside on the numb flat streets of
The city, one Mr. E.R. Browning walks
With purpose and drive, blankets in hand,
Franklin eyes peeking out from every pocket
Of his coat, ankle length, thick and wool-worked.
No harsh bluster headstrong with the anger
Of an ancient slight deters him,
His wingtips tap on the local pavement,
Numb, flat streets - his shoes a metronome
Beneath his weight,
His light, airy weight.
Tock
Tock
Tock
Steady. Ready.
"Cold night tonight - take this.
Oh, and this. Merry Christmas!"
Pockets, deep from careful planning of
The years, birth unexpected tricks of the
Human heart, bring smiles to life
From faces far removed from the feel
Of a curled lip, and reveal teeth too
Accustomed to being flashed to rouse fear.
Browning works below the harvest moon,
Escapes the glare of sunlight and the
Roving, restless eye of the public;
The second (truly - the third) hand of
His watchface pounds out ticks
Of time, drumming up a meter
To his syncopated rhyme.
Tick-tick
Tick-tick
Tick-tick
Keep you true, moonlight, through this
Darkness, rude and thick.
"Please just take it, brother. Winter's here.
Wait, there's more."
Browning nods at the concierge while
Walking through the gold-hued lobby,
The little, suited slickman wonders,
Ponders long the absence, but soon forgets
Himself in the planning of cocktail hours
And tomorrow's to-do's. Quietly retires E.R.,
Old head reclining comfortably 'pon goose-down
Pillow, longcoat draped across the neck of
A maple-crafted chair, pocketwatch wrapped
lightly around the bedside lamp, quietly
Drumming out the backbeat of the night.
Browning's done his best again,
So come, sleep, close his eyes:
Eyes that have never seen the faces
(Faces too long looked past,
Huddled in the corners of life
Like refugees of humanity)
When, unwrapping blankets' fleece or flannel,
To ward the freezing dark,
They find a heavy roll of bills inside.
Ten years passed, ten million gone,
But Browning, he can spare it --
What good are the holidays
If everyone can't share it?
III - "On the Way to Tarsus"
The snow settles down over Harrington town as the wind creeps up slow from the west,
Picket fences, white - white painted and dusted white with snowfall -
Draped in garlands of green and wrapped in red hands of ribbon,
Frame the town of Harrington and wall the streets with cheer;
Settle, Zeph'rus, settle you, for Christmas time is near.
The carriage hustles down past Main and turns on 4th:
Hoofprints split in two, marked by constant trail of heavy wheels,
Canter muted by powder, light and luminous.
See how 'round the tree in the center of town
Fathers, mothers, dance through the square with their children,
As their fathers and mothers before them danced,
And as their children will dance with their own - in time, yes, in time.
Worn, torn mittens grasp for handfuls of snow,
Heads tilt, tongues bare in the dark,
Hoping to catch a snowflake, brilliant in the evening breeze.
The evergreen stands wrapped in strings of lights,
Rugged, sturdy branches bearing wonders in the night.
See the candy shop, and its windows frosted for the season,
The panes carry the smudges of countless fingers and noses
Left by sweet tooth'd children pressed against the glass -
Noses flat like roses preserved in the leaves of an old Dickens tome.
The confectioner works his fudge,
Folds it over and again, again and over;
Ripples, waves of chocolate flowing silently in sight,
Making children hungry for the sweets they'll have tonight.
The coachman doffs his cap to yonder parson and his wife,
Flicks his wristsand brings the Belgians back to speed and life.
Past the lit confection'ry a toysmith tends to tinkering,
His bench parked beside a wood-run fire,
Door open to permit the passage of a casual customer,
He sits with hammer, saw and wood and sculpts the thing of dreams;
The wind-licked flames before him crack
And stir the soul of winter,
The dry wood pops, the toyman jumps and earns himself a splinter.
See now the brother pull his sister in the sleigh
Along the streetside, puffs of breath visible before them,
His red cap bobbing like a lure in summertime,
Matching his gait;
Behind him she laughs,
Enchanted by the shadows falling on the picket slats,
And grips the sleigh with absent pressure,
So great is her occupation with the stars, the lights, the heavens, and the promise of the magic of this special night.
Before they left he dragged his feet and beat his boyish chest,
In years he'll look back longingly and love these times the best.
He bears a secret smile as he grows slow and she protests.
Look now, from the carriage, past the trappings of the lawns,
Past all the decorations that disguise shop and house,
Bank and inn and place of God,
Costuming them from the everyday.
Look now - look over trimmings, trappings, trifles, all,
Look past burning candle, holly wreath and painted wall,
Look and see the faces, the fam'lies safe at home:
See the husband hold his wife in arms forever hers,
See the congregation sing the mystery of the birth
See the lonesome grandmother surprised by late-night visits from friends
See now the tray of cookies, the tall glass of milk
See the busy table hold generations, three, stretched across its footage
See the forgiveness in the eyes of a mother, long troubled by errant son recently returned
See the father wrap presents quickly in the night
See now the old dog - joints pained by winter cold - curl at the foot of his boy's bed
See the child lie awake at night with watchful ear and eye for reindeer
See the snow fall thick around the husband, wife, the son,
Wiping clean that slate of old, awaiting what will come.
See all this, and more, from here beyond the carriage door,
Permit the snow of Harrington to fall on you tonight,
Bless you, keep you, all of you - for it's a wonderful life.
User Reviews
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-06-20 02:20:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by HighVoltage900 (user info) at 2006-01-11 15:01:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Santa Voltage drops in to pay a visit to the little boys and girls.
HERE'S A +2 LITTLE ONES! KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK! HO HO HO!
Submitted by minimumdino (user info) at 2006-01-11 14:19:45 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
when do we get out break?
Submitted by TigerLilly (user info) at 2005-12-12 16:00:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
You rule.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-12 15:14:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Here are a few pieces of what this poem might have turned into if I went in one of a few different directions. Aborted lines from my notepad:
The beeping begins, the alarm clock pipes up, and I drag my tired ass out of bed,
I shower and shave and prepare for a morning in traffic, whose gridlock I dread,
Arriving at work nearly twelve minutes late, I find my boss tapping her foot,
I've missed four phone calls and my Inbox is teeming with email that will not stay put.
I work nine to five, but this month it's past seven - for holiday oil I burn,
This extra time served will be great for the firm, but for me it's just cause for concern.
My car finds the driveway at quarter past eight, I know my wife's waiting inside,
Holding up dinner for daddy again, so our three children won't be denied
A meal together, a family affair - too often, now, I don't have time
To sit and relax and just nonsense about with this beautiful family of mine.
-
The cat's in the eggnog and Grandma is trashed, Steve's pantless upstairs with his wife
But I couldn't be happier, no, couldn't at all - it's a wonderful, wonderful life
-
Jimmy Stewart sat beside his desk on Christmas Eve
Glaring at the clock and wond'ring when he'd get to leave,
"Holidays are early-outs," the evil bosses lied,
But every single holiday they'd get turned loose at five.
Jimmy tapped his foot and thought "It's over, man, you're dead,
You should have done your shopping three weeks back like Donna said,
The malls will all be packed tonight, remember - they close early,
So understand that everyone you meet will be quite surly."
At ten 'til five the boss came by and said "Enjoy the break!"
And with a jump stood Jimmy and a beeline he did make,
He found his car and sped from out the covered parking deck
And drove into the gridlock which had made the road a wreck.
"Fuckbeans! Bitches! Damnit all!" old Jimmy, he did curse,
And watched the cars stand motionless as
Submitted by B-Nizzo (user info) at 2005-12-11 14:49:54 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 for Christmas!
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2005-12-09 14:02:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I never tire of your poetry.
You should publish a book. Seriously.
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2005-12-09 13:40:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-09 13:28:49 (#)
Ranking: 0
And yet, I also know if I kept cutting or adding that I'd just wind up overdoing it and lose the line.
-----
That is where I always shoot myself. I overthink and second guess until a piece that had promise is just beat to death. I've done this on maybe three things I was going to post here and then just tossed them aside rather than post something bad.
Anyway, excellent work.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-09 13:28:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Ramble away...be my guest.
I'm still not really sure what I think of it myself.
I wanted to do something different, and avoid the obvious. Something more to do with the feel of the season than the telling of a story outright. I'm pretty happy with it, but I know it needs a little something here and there. And yet, I also know if I kept cutting or adding that I'd just wind up overdoing it and lose the line.
I think I stared at my screen for two or three minutes last night thinking "you're not really going to post this, are you?" However, it was that hesitation that made me do it.
As my great uncle Halifax "Murray" Orgasmatron XXIII always said, "If you can't fuck around in an Ubersite writing competition, when can you?"
Submitted by Confuzitron (user info) at 2005-12-09 13:23:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-08 19:34:51 (#)
Ranking: -2
It's times like these that I think back to what my grandfather used to say a lot before he died: "Gasm, he'd say," (he called me Gasm) "I believe I was born in the wrong time. Sure, I had a chance to serve my country in Korea and watch America mature into the country that it is today, but my heart was never really in tune with the times, you know? I wish I had been a caliph in India, or a Templar Knight protecting the faith in Darkest Europe. Perhaps even a coachman in the Old West, ferrying heads of state to and from the most dangerous reaches of places where the Old Law still held sway. I think of this, and it saddens me. What have I done with my time? I have bakers hands, Gasm. Does the world really need another baker?"
He'd take a slow drag off of his hand-rolled cigarette and recline. And then - and this was always the same - he'd say, "Bakers are only good for one thing: kneading dough. You have baker blood in you, mark me. Make the most of it and marry a woman with a little extra'n the side, so you can knead the night away. Your Gramma still squeals when I tickle her dough with my rolling pin. Goddamn that woman can get as wet as a fishtank sometimes. Women only get better with age, Gasm. Remember I said that."
Then he'd put his thumb in his mouth, pretend he was blowing, and cut loose an old, dusty fart ripe with a bouquet of salmon steaks, snap beans and blood.
And then he'd laugh. Oh, my stars, how he'd laugh.
Even though I knew it was coming, it'd always take me off guard. And so I'd invariable inhale some of it, through my mouth and nose.
The memory of the taste of my grandfather's asshole in aerosol form is something that I will keep with me for the rest of my days.
Reading this post brought that memory back, and for that, I thank you.
--------
That might be the single most beautiful thing ever written. Ever.
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2005-12-09 13:09:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Alright.
I had to read through this about five times to really get my feel for it. The poetry I end up liking the most is that which I have to ponder, to savor. I need to be able to close my eyes and recite pieces of it to myself silently, letting the mental imagery it creates accompany the verse.
This had such a...I don't know. Maybe a Victorian feel to it. All the pictures it painted in my mind were reminiscent of those old Christmas paintings and cards, with the muted colors, old school Santa, lighted windows through the snow...
This was masterful.
It put me in a melancholy, thoughtful frame of mind that the holidays produce in me. This is a feeling that to me is more important than the joy of celebrations. Poignant, that's the damn word I'm looking for.
Still, it left me feeling a little hole inside, empty in one little untouchable place. To me that is where the power of it is. I need to go hug my kid.
I want to give this something like a 1.99998
Sorry for the rambling...
Submitted by ess-arr (user info) at 2005-12-09 12:43:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Teephphah (user info) at 2005-12-09 11:13:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Rather than rate nate's post, I thought I'd come here and give credit where credit is due.
___________________________________________________
Submitted by electrictoothsyndrome (user info) at 2005-12-08 19:39:12 (#)
Ranking: -2
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-12-08 19:34:51 (#)
Ranking: -2
It's times like these that I think back to what my grandfather used to say a lot before he died: "Gasm, he'd say," (he called me Gasm) "I believe I was born in the wrong time. Sure, I had a chance to serve my country in Korea and watch America mature into the country that it is today, but my heart was never really in tune with the times, you know? I wish I had been a caliph in India, or a Templar Knight protecting the faith in Darkest Europe. Perhaps even a coachman in the Old West, ferrying heads of state to and from the most dangerous reaches of places where the Old Law still held sway. I think of this, and it saddens me. What have I done with my time? I have bakers hands, Gasm. Does the world really need another baker?"
He'd take a slow drag off of his hand-rolled cigarette and recline. And then - and this was always the same - he'd say, "Bakers are only good for one thing: kneading dough. You have baker blood in you, mark me. Make the most of it and marry a woman with a little extra'n the side, so you can knead the night away. Your Gramma still squeals when I tickle her dough with my rolling pin. Goddamn that woman can get as wet as a fishtank sometimes. Women only get better with age, Gasm. Remember I said that."
Then he'd put his thumb in his mouth, pretend he was blowing, and cut loose an old, dusty fart ripe with a bouquet of salmon steaks, snap beans and blood.
And then he'd laugh. Oh, my stars, how he'd laugh.
Even though I knew it was coming, it'd always take me off guard. And so I'd invariable inhale some of it, through my mouth and nose.
The memory of the taste of my grandfather's asshole in aerosol form is something that I will keep with me for the rest of my days.
Reading this post brought that memory back, and for that, I thank you.
--------------------
That has got to be the greatest review of all time.
---------------
Amen.
Submitted by fudgepacker (user info) at 2005-12-09 10:41:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
very cool.
now rate mine, dammit.
Submitted by Confuzitron (user info) at 2005-12-09 10:34:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I feel inadequate.
I LOVED IT! I LOVED IT! I LOVED IT! I LOVED IT! I LOVED IT! I LOVED IT! I LOVED IT! I LOVED IT!
Pure awesome.
Submitted by Professional_Peon (user info) at 2005-12-09 09:46:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
So I should expect my birthday present to arrive approximately 3pm EST?
Huh? Huh?
By the way thanks for remembering. Now I feel special *blushes*
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2005-12-09 08:47:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2005-12-09 08:37:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
this makes me feel bad about my entry.
bleh.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2005-12-09 07:47:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
My neighbor's five year old can fart better stor... Oh wait,
that was my post, heh.
Gasm, I think you went and outdid yerself here.
Submitted by wardy (user info) at 2005-12-09 05:13:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
sure thing. now go read my shit.
and i mean it. it really is shit.
Submitted by a_reader (user info) at 2005-12-09 03:31:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I enjoyed this, however there were a few places in the first 2 parts where I thought you could have done away with the meter. It didn't quite have the flow that your pieces tend to have. Still very powerful, though. Good job.