Thursday, December 14, 2006

Christmas 2004

Still posting my custom cards from Christmas' past. Sometimes I have original ideas, sometimes I like to do tributes to those who inspire me. The poem was inspired by the great Shel Silverstein. No one ever did this kind of poetry better than him.

Margaret Mercedes Mellon-McGee
Just loved to decorate the Christmas tree,
On other holidays she would not have fun,
It was something that just wasn’t done,
Those July Fireworks could remove a finger or toe,
And turkey dinner made her go real s - l - o – w,
Halloween spooks aren’t her kind of thrill,
And thoughts of Valentine love make her quite ill,
It’s way past bedtime for a fancy New Year’s ball,
And, let’s face it; Kwanza makes no sense at all,
As for Easter eggs . . . . well . . . . uhm . . . . (They make her fart.)
And about Presidents day, please don’t even start!
“Christmas is the only day for me,”
Oft said Margaret Mercedes Mellon-McGee,
Now once dad stands the tree is straight in its stand,
Margaret Mercedes assumes decoration command,
First, ‘round the base goes a thick skirt of white;
As if it had snowed both day and night,
On and in and around this avalanche of cotton snow,
Went a miniature village full of Christmas glow,
With a grand old town hall,
And a new strip mall,
A police station, a court house, a dingy jail,
The last with a cashier, in case you make bail,
A theater for plays,
A kennel for strays,
A doctor’s office, a clinic, a hospital that’s new,
With a big pharmacy in case you get the flu,
There’s a retirement home,
And a Corporate Sports Dome,
House after house in row after row,
Filling the space where the presents should go,
In went loud saloons and sleepy inns,
A church or two to confess your sins,
A spacious Wal-mart and a smelly pet shop,
An empty train station and a lonely bus stop,
There’s an old toy shop spelled with an extra P E,
And cars in a jam, as far as I can see,
Shovelers shoveling, shoppers shopping, salesmen selling,
And four mini carolers that won’t stop caroling,
“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells” is their constant refrain,
And I can’t wait for the triple A batteries to drain,
Look, there’s George Bailey near the Building and Loan,
And an angel named Clarence with wings of his own,
A snowman stands by as a dog barks at it,
And, why there’s one dog all alone, I think having a fit,
Here’s a park with a tall hill and a smooth ice rink,
And a little wood shack with hot chocolate to drink,
There’s skating and sledding and a snowball fight,
All this and lots more made for true wintery sight,
Yet, for Margaret Mercedes nothing was too much,
And a Lionel train ‘round all was her final touch,
But there were so many train cars and so little train track,
The front of the front touched the back of the back,
There was not a smidgen of space left under the tree,
But now was not the time to sit and see,
‘Cause Margaret Mercedes Mellon-McGee,
(With almost an uncontrollable glee,)
Finally could start on the actual tree,
Now Margaret began with the illumination,
(Well, actually first, she tapped a power station,)
For she added light string to light string, line to line,
And lost count after some seventy-nine,
Big round bulbs and little Italian lights,
Guaranteed to make days of nights,
Lights of blue, white, red, yellow, green, but not pink,
Bulbs that can twinkle and bulbs that will blink,
Dazzling, blinding, glaring, flashing,
Margaret Mercedes thought nothing of clashing,
So in went bulbs of every shape and style,
Even some with that odd bubbling liquid vial,
And with the heat from many bulbs so bright,
The room temperature raised 20 degrees Fahrenheit,
Lest her holiday plans were to be upset,
Margaret Mercedes ignored the sweat,
She started the next part of her plan,
With jolly Santa faces and a plaster snowman head,
Sticky, sweet candy canes striped with red,
Family pictures in tiny frames,
And heirlooms with painted dates and names,
Ceramic moons and metallic stars,
A pair of die cast motor cars,
Styrofoam balls wound with shiny gold thread,
Soldiers made from hand cast lead,
Sleds, skis, skateboards, and bicycles,
Half-melted imitation icicles,
There’s a tiny pickle, though small is size,
Be the first to find it and you’ll win a prize,
There are wooden drums and horns cut from tin,
And some expensive glass made in Dresden,
Realistic Pine cones and spicy cinnamon stick,
A bearded old man dressed like St. Nick,
Fragile angels with spun glass wings,
And all sorts of odd indescribably shaped things,
A fully decorated miniature wooden tree,
A tree on a tree? Is that irony?
There are orange slices, bunches of grapes,
And assorted other fruit-like shapes,
Silver bells made from hand blown glass,
And, I think, a little rubber bass,
Clear plastic balls hold cheap plastic toys,
Yet, somehow, still hold fun for both girls and boys,
And sure to elicit wide toothy grins,
Are the reindeer made from three clothespins,
And Margaret Mercedes Mellon-McGee,
Was still not yet finished with the Christmas tree,
Although the time was well past Twelve o’clock,
She would not stop to hang up her sock,
She would not pause to read a single card,
But she hung the garland yard after yard,
Some of it was silver; some of it was gold,
It was more than any tree could hold,
Margaret twisted and tied and hung,
She wrapped and piled and strung,
Margaret worked day and night, night and day,
Until the tree looked just the right way,
And as she put the star on the very top,
She was ‘bout ready to drop,
But, what happened was really the worst,
The tree branches would sag, just a little at first,
The tree trunk began to list,
And the tree trunk, it started to twist,
Then the tree trunk did crack,
And could not ever ever be put back,
Then from under the stress of that decorating weight,
The floor just would not stay straight,
The boards were heard to squeak and creak,
And things for Margaret were looking quite bleak,
Now don’t even think to bat an eyelash,
‘Cause I know you are expecting a terrible crash,
But rather then let this get Stephen King gory,
Here is the moral of this little Christmas story,
Don’t be like Margaret Mercedes Mellon-McGee,
And only want to decorate the Christmas tree,
Let joy and goodwill be throughout your whole year,
Don’t save it all for just one day of cheer.

(For those who need to know this is based on Shel's poem Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take The Garbage Out. If you have never read Shel Silverstein's work, turn off you computer, go to your local bookstore, and by a compilation of his poems. NOW.)

1 comment:

The Magic Utopian said...

I agree. Silverstein's "A Light in the Attic" is a wonderful book. "The Giving Tree" is a moving piece of literary art also.