October 31 All Hallows Eve

HALLOWE'EN

Pixie, kobold, elf, and sprite

All are on their rounds to-night,-

In the wan moon's silver ray

Thrives their helter-skelter play.

Fond of cellar, barn,or stack,

True unto the almanac,

They present to credulous eyes

Strange hobgoblin mysteries.

Cabbage-stomps-straws wet with dew-

Apple-skins, and chestnuts too,

And a mirror for some lass,

Show what wonders come to pass.

Doors they move, and gates they hide,

Mischiefs that on moon-beams ride

Are their deeds, and, by their spells,

Love records its oracles.

Don't we all, of long ago,

By the ruddy fireplace glow,

In the kitchen and the hall,

Those queer, coofllke pranks recall?

Eery shadows were they then-

But to-night they come again;

Were we once more but sixteen,

Precious would be Halloween.

-Joel Benton

Christmas Card 2005

The
Melancholy December
of Lionel T. Lunt.


Lionel T. Lunt needed a something special
to brighten a certain once a year December day.

But he had not a thought,
not a hint or a spark or a seed
or an inkling of a idea.

He usually had ideas, many ideas
This time he needed to find just one.

He looked to jog a memory in a
box of curios, but the box only
held some long forgotten dust.

He paged through a album of photos,
but the faces there had all faded into ghosts.

Lionel went from avoiding
to meditating, ruminating,
endlessly debating.

He re-arranged his cabinets,
alphabetically.

He looked under the bed, but
dust bunnies do not answer questions.
(even under the most vigorous interrogation)

Lionel stared at his writing paper;
it stared back blankly.

He went to the store and
read every Hallmark card.
even the funny, but not too funny ones.

He made-up solitaire rules
for popular board games.

He tried to drink--which really
worked for Hemingway--
but it just made Lionel sleepy.

He drank some milk and ate sugar cookies.

He dreaded the reminding,
tock, tock, tock,
sound of the clock.

Lionel asked for help from a passing caroler.
She refused to stop singing until he finally brought
her a hot chocolate.

He watched reruns on the television,
mostly b&w sitcoms from the 50's.

He listened to talk radio.

He eavesdropped on several
indiscrete conversations between
a newly widowed woman and
his clergyman.

Sometimes, he would save his random thoughts
written on note paper and left in the pockets of his old suits.

All he found was a few balls of lint
saved in his pocket corners.

He searched every tradition and
seasonal song on the internet for just
the right sentiment.

But the single idea he had was that
to say something simply is usually the best.

So Lionel told everyone to
Have a Merry Christmas.

And so do I...Bill

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,
THE HANGING OF THE ORNAMENTS began,
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.)

Christmas Card from 2003

It's Bad to be a Monster on Christmas


I.
It’s bad to be a monster on Christmas.
The size of your family is sure to increase
When you are put together piece by piece.
Each part of me has its own family tree,
Why, in moms alone I equal thirty-three.
Brothers and sisters fill the dining room,
Nieces and nephews play down in the tomb,
Aunts and Uncles in the parlor, den, and hall,
And there’s just no room for cousins at all.
It’s bad to be Frankenstein’s monster on Christmas.

II.
I found a fine place to lurk,
While Molly finished her late holiday work.
But, it certainly was not the place to be,
‘Cause a few too many hours of work did she.
For, Molly, who was just doing her job,
Dressed me in a hat, vest, watch chain and fob.
I guess since I’m covered head to toe with hair,
I’ve been mistook for a Vermont teddy bear.
GRRR...It’s bad to be a Werewolf on Christmas.

III.
Of this Christmas thing I’ve not been told,
Though I am over five thousand years old.
Are bandages part of the holiday theme?
They must, for a pre-wrapped gift I must seem.
Freddy added a tag and stuck on a bow
And now I’m gift to his crazy Aunt Flo.
It’s bad to be the Mummy on Christmas.


IV.
I’m to be greeted with shock, surprise, or fright,
When I try to take my nightly bite,
But, at Xmastime, I’m the one all agog,
‘Cause everyone I bite tastes like eggnog.
Yuk....It’s bad to be Dracula on Xmas.

V.
Terrorizing a lagoon can be really quite nice,
Until swimmers become skaters and you’re stuck under thick ice.
It’s bad to be The Creature from the Black Lagoon on Christmas.

VI.
Every other time of year,
When at the witching hour I did appear,
My shocked victims would run far and fast.
Now they ask, “Which one are you? Future, Present or Past?”
It’s bad to be a Ghost on Christmas.

VII.
I once was the monster under your bed,
But now that’s filled with presents instead.
I tried to spook the closet next, but that made me blue,
When the monster there said, “There’s no room for two!”
I was fit to be tied,
A monster with no place to hide.
Hmmm, maybe behind that strange tree,
Oh no...what’s this...more gifts I see?
And this one... it’s addressed to... (gulp) ... me!
It’s good to be a monster on Christmas.

Time to Think Christmas

It is time for me to start thinking of Christmas and my annual Christmas card. Every one of the past few years I’ve written a poem and hand-made a book for it. I only send a few out (20-30) and only to a special few people. Last year was a tough year for ideas and this year doesn't look any better. I got to get to work.

Here is the first one from 2002, inspired by the great work of Edward Gorey



The Horripiláre Family Christmas

A is for ALICE, frigid cold and all soaking wet,
Should’ve stayed home and shopped by internet.

B is for BRAM, who waged war aside his G.I. Joe,
‘Til the toy land mine decided to blow.

C is for CAROL, who wished for a blue party dress,
Instead, she was crushed in her new wine press.

D is for DANIELLE, who tried to straighten the pine wreath,
When out jumped a bat with monstrous teeth.

E is for EDMUND, who went up the chimney to greet St. Nick,
And was smothered when the smoke got too thick.

F is for FELIX, from all manner of toy could he take a pick,
But, he vanished himself with his new magic trick.

G is for GRANDPA, who gives the holiday toast,
Even though last year he turned into a ghost.

H is for HORTENSE, who ate all the fruitcake,
It took an extra large coffin to complete the wake.

I is for IGNATIUS, who could have tried to walk, run or jog,
Rather than drive after drinking the spiked eggnog.

J is for JANICE, whose dolly seemed, oh, so real,
Fittingly, she fed her an arsenic meal.

K is for KRIS KRINGLE known over the world as Santa Claus,
Until eight mad reindeer taught him who’s the boss.

L is for LESTER, who waited for a kiss under the mistletoe,
And failed to hear them all call, “Look out below!”

M is for MARGARET, now trapped under the ice,
Her new pink skates did fit perfectly nice.

N is for NAOMI, who made cards full of Christmas greeting
But could not stop the paper cuts from bleeding.

O is for OSCAR, who wanted a friend for his lone guppy.
Alas, what he got was one rabid puppy.

P is for PRUDENCE, who tried to fix a broken ornament,
But inhaled way too much model cement.

Q is for QUINCY, poisoned by licking bad envelope glue.
Yes, I think I saw that on Seinfeld too.

R is for REGINALD, who got a patriotic American flag,
But preferred to play in the plastic bag.

S is for SIDNEY, who held onto the string so tight
And was carried away by his new box kite.

T is for TAYLOR, though the warnings were clearly plain,
Somehow got run over by his own toy train.

U is for UMA and her best friend URIAH,
Both died of boredom during Handel’s Messiah.

V is for VANETTA impaled on a Harry Potter broom,
And now encased in an oddly shaped tomb.

W is for WENDY, who was smashed under a gift,
She had not quite the strength to safely lift.

X is for XAVIER, who couldn’t wait to go out and play,
And promptly was hit by a runaway sleigh.

Y is for YOLANDA, Please try not to stare.
She hung herself by the chimney with care.

Z is for ZACHARY, who would survive to his surprise and shame.
For want of a happy ending, the author gladly takes the blame.

Lord Isaac Ackerley Butterworth-Toast

This poem is based on the poem, Colonel Fazackerley by Charles Causley. I did it as a writing exercise, rhyming quads instead of couplets. I thought it turned out fun.


Lord Isaac Ackerley Butterworth-Toast
bought an old castle complete with a ghost.
A resident, I’m sure, he rather not host,
especially him being more British than most.

It was a manor home beyond compare,
but why would a Lord risk such a scare?
You see, the estate seller failed to declare
to Ackerley that a spook was in there.

Late that first evening, while waiting to dine,
Lord Isaac was tasting a new sherry wine.
And just as the bell rang seven, eight, nine,
a light from no source began to shine.

Lord Isaac Ackerley could do nothing but gape,
at this oddly bluish translucent shape.
Thinking that perhaps it had just been the grape,
he wished, “Oh! for a blank video tape.”

From where, the Lord had not a clue,
came this light the fade color of blue.
It looked like a man, but in space it flew.
It could hardly be someone he knew.

“My dear fellow,” Isaac said, ‘that is really the best.
Can you do that long, or do you need to rest?
If so, then please, sit, be my guest.
And tell me your trick, I’ll not be a pest.”
At this, the dread ghost gave a hideous yell,
so deep and dark, like from the depths of hell.
“Please,” Isaac asked, “could be it a secret spell,
or something we can produce, package, and sell?”

The phantasm had then made a horrible face,
as it flew to and fro, all about the place.
It broke every plate, two mirrors and a vase.
It even tore the curtains of delicate white lace.

Isaac hardly could open his eyes to peek.
The Lord laughed, as tears run down his cheek.
“Here’s the entertainment for which I long seek,
and just as things were looking most bleak.

“My house-warming party I hope you won’t spurn.
I dare say, kind sir, you must give us a turn.
And please, dear fellow, don’t take me too stern,
but this fantastic trick you just must help us learn.”

And now, the poor spectre --quite out of his wits--
proceeded to shake himself almost to bits,
this man, he was giving him these terrible fits,
so he even tried singing some of Barry Manilow’s hits.

But Lord Isaac Ackerley, just as before,
was simply delighted and called out, “Encore!”
At which the ghost could stand no more,
and was never again seen on a castle floor.

“Oh dear, such a pity!” Isaac Ackerley said.
“I will certainly miss that dear old Ned.
He never was so much more alive, when dead.”
And thus, Lord Isaac Ackerly did away to bed.

Hearse Song

Everytime is a time for spooky things in my world, but in October the rest of the world joins in with the fun. I will be post a lot of interesting poems and stories for the holiday season.

First, two books to read to help you get in the mood.

Chicago Haunts by Ursula Bielski -- I've read every book on ghosts in the Midwest and Chicago and this is the best. From the Chicago based small press publisher Lake Claremont Press, Ursula's book is better written, better researched, and more interesting than any other ghost book. These universal stories could come from your home town, but you'll also get some Chicago history and sociological insight.

Death Makes a Holiday by David J. Skal -- The true history of Halloween. David cuts through the propaganda, miss-conceptions, distortions, and bullshit surrounding the "ancient" holiday of All Hallow's Eve. The truth is out there and it is in this book.


Second, I bring to you a slightly rewritten version of The Hearse Song, a fun little poem that I have never seen credited to any author. If you know the history of this poem, I am interested.

The Hearse Song

Show due respect as the hearse goes by,
for you may be the next to die.
They zip you up in a big black sack,
embalm you so you don't come back.
They stuff you in an expensive box,
only to cover it with dirt and rocks.
Soon your coffin will begin to leak,
and all sorts of buggies play hide-and-seek.
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,
they squiggle and squirm and slither about.
They'll eat your eyes, dine on your brain,
if you weren't so dead you'd go insane.
They set up house in your open chest,
and use your guts for an egg nest.
They chew and chomp and crunch from head to feet,
'til there is nothing of worth left to eat.
Then you'll dry like an old bread crust,
and finally crumble into powdery dust.

a limerick

I wish I could explain this voodoo curse,
but all my conversation must be kept terse,
I’m a poet you see,
though annoying it must be,
‘cause all I can do is talk in verse.