THE I-CAT WAS NOT AMUSED AT CHRISTMAS by Phil Comer

A PERSNICKITY FELINE GETS HOLIDAY COMMUPANCE, A STORY IN VERSE.

We're the Imperial Cat; that would be

 I-Cat to you.

Things are all a dither. We find ourselves

hot in a stew!

We are the Imperial I-Cat; we are not amused.

We are not impressed by Christmas.

We're Holiday abused!

We are not amused by Santa with all his

Ho Ho Ho.

We're sick and tired of Christmas.

It's high time for it to go.

Neither are we amused by strings dangled before our paws;

Nor by balls, rubber mice, or yet more tales of Santa Claus!

We're not amused by smashing Grandma's keepsake ornaments;

Nor by Mom, Pop and Junior in holiday adornments.

We are not amused by catnip sprinkled

in paper bags.

We're not amused by velvet ribbons,

lights or hanging tags.

We discovered our belly in sudden

need of washing;

That we couldn't finish; we spied bugs

that needed squashing!

We were diverted by arrivals knocking

at the door,

Then Lex, the neighbor's smelly dachshund, dashed across the floor!

We flipped our tail, ignored the beast;

a hairball we did cough.

We further were offended by the fruitcake

they'd dropped off.

In disgust, we sharpened our claws

upon the wicker chair.

We skittered when Papa shouted,

"No! No! No, Cat! Not there!"

We dove for our secret hidey-hole,

and crouched out of sight.

Momma started scolding too; we might be stuck here all night.

These folks have yet to learn how

to properly address we!

But we shan't yowl too loudly; the bed and board come scot-free.

We rearranged the manger and hid

the baby Jesus.

Perchance we'll think to put it back,

just before Hell freezes.

Cattle lowing, sheep and camels, we found the creche well set.

Junior shouldn't play inside with trike or

new crash helmet!

We were vexed by cats' pajamas from our Christmas stocking.

We're not amused by mistletoe; that we found quite shocking.

We sang no Christmas carols although

we know the lyrics.

The family blames our ill temper;

we fault atmospherics.

We were not amused by cuddles;

we struggled to be free,

But the jammies came with Velcro;

that's how it's gonna be.

We clawed to be let out; we felt

prerogatives denied.

Outdoors, the snow wet our paws;

we yowled to get back inside! 

For us, Santa left lumps of coal;

now those are some sick jokes.

Mom, Pop and Uncle Charlie just stepped out in winter coats.

That's when we lost our temper:

Junior yanked upon our tail!

We fluffed, hissed, fanged and spat; with our claws we sought to impale.

Junior is annoying when left to his own devices.

We've more important tasks: Tending shadows. Killing mices.

We're unimpressed by chestnuts toasting over open flame;

Now, chipmunks roasting over fire, that's our idea of game!

What's this? Mom and Pop are back with

Uncle Charlie in tow.

Yet another present, a basket with

a big red bow!

We pretend not to hear when informed,

this one is for we.

Snarl, spit and hissy fit! It's a kitten

under the tree!

It blinked. It purred. It raised a paw.

Heavens, that thing is bratty!

It blinked. It purred, "Are you my new Mommy? Or my Daddy?"

Though knowledgeable of the facts of life,

in the classics we've been tutored,

"For goodness sakes, Kitten, I don't know.

It's been ages since I was neutered!"

I flipped, sniffed and studied this kitten

from every angle.

Well, lo and behold, I mewed,

"I think I'll call you Angel!"

We went on a rip, raced all around

until we were exhausted.

Then a miracle! The tree's branches

all became frosted!

I showed our buffet; that Angel was famished was among my surmises.

At the litter box I advised, "Now, these people, they don't like surprises."

From the toilet I sipped, "The water is fine

for drinking."

Mom ran in stamping feet, "Cat, what on earth are you thinking?"

The kitten was tired; we were wiped out;

I groomed Angel's whiskers.

Christmas gone, something remains: Small purrs like elfin whispers.

In the end, when one's a friend,

Christmas is about caring.

"Snuggle close, Angel. My hidey-hole's

just right for sharing."

THE END

Still want more of the Holiday spirit?

Check out my rap tribute to Chuck Sambuchino, Gnome for the Holidays!  [go]

Text Copyright © 2011 Phil Comer.

Photo credits: O Tannenbaum Guy: Ryan Gosling "Christmas Lights"; "Lilly in Afghan" by Phil Comer; "Broken Ornament," unknown; "Fruitcake," unknown; "Creche Without Jesus," unknown; "Cat's Santa Pajamas," unknown; "Lump of Coal," unknown; "Christmas Kitten" by Catheryn Carcamo; "Cat Under Tree," unknown. Additional attributions will be made as available.

Unless stated otherwise, illustrations and links outside this blog are for information and are not the property of the author.

SONG FOR BENNY by Phil Comer

Oh, poor Mae Ree Snell, she’s done gone away,

She would if she could, but she could not stay.

She had two peg legs and thick nappy hair.

Tongues wagged. Fingers pointed. Folks stopped. They’d stare.

She had them wood legs and a hacking cough,

But consumption wasn’t what carried her off.

A high yella' fella' from Waycross town,

Burt up them legs. Mae Ree stuck to the ground.

Them sticks he stroked; they spontan'ous combust!

Scared that man off, left Mae Ree in the dust.

All day Mae Ree tried. All night Mae Ree cried.

But stuck there she was; ’fore dayclean, she died.

Doctor Buzzard then, he called in his kin,

By high sun that day, Mae Ree flew away.

Geechee/Gullah Oystermen, Lowcountry, Jawja

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

First couplet based on an epitaph from Chumleigh Church, Devon, England.

“Dayclean” is a Gullah/Geechee term meaning “dawn.”

Next in the Silly Poem series:

“Breaking Up Sucks,” a snarky lament on heartbreak.  (Go!)

 

© Phil Comer

Disclaimer: Characters and events are none you or I know. If you think this doesn't totally suck, please Comment, Follow and click Like. Thanks!

Text is copyright material of the author. Painting by Ralph Parker, Student Vineville Academy of the Arts, Macon, GA, Paulette Winters, Principal, used by permission. Photo by Phil Comer. Vintage video linked to title: “Yonder Comes Day,” Georgia Sea Island Singers. Unless stated otherwise, links and artwork are for information and not the property of the author. 

IN MEOWRIAM by Phil Comer

            Perrt, Brr-Ack, Nee-Oww,

            the cream's all been lapped.

            Stretched, curled, contented,

            the sunbeams catnapped.

            Pillow kneading purrfected;

            catnip rips now neglected;

            crouching and pouncing complete,

            to dust little cat feet creep.

2000, For Billy Buckhead

Billy Buckhead

 

 

Next in the Silly Poem series:

“Limerick Plus,” a limerick that doesn't know when to quit.  (Go!)

© Phil Comer

Disclaimer: Although loosely based on reality, characters and events are none you or I know.

Text is copyright material of the author. Photos by Robert Apsley. Unless stated otherwise, links are for information and not the property of the author. 

NO PLACE FOR GNOMES by Phil Comer

Chuck Sambuchino is an air guitarist of note and editor at Writer’s Digest Books. He’s also a known gnomophobe dedicated to saving us from the great gnome menace. His book is How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack: Defend Yourself When the Lawn Warriors Strike (and They Will).

Research has taken Chuck throughout the gnome world, and he’s fluent in their gnomenclature. He even pursues these nemeses where they Twitter.

Chuckie and his little hang-ups inspired this punny poem.

(Stanzas sung to first and last verses of Home for the Holidays. Refrain MUST be rapped.)

NO PLACE FOR GNOMES

Stanza One

Oh, there’s no place for gnomes these holidays,

‘Cause gnome matter how far away they roam;

Sambuchino will gnomewreck their red cone toupees,

And make gnomework of these gnomeskulls, hear gnomes groan!

Gnome Rap Refrain

If you read Nostra-gnome-us, you’d pick up the clue phone-us.

Those pics you’d best forget? Gnomes upload to the Net!

Gnomes tangle up our hoses, right beneath our noses.

On garden paths they mosey, and trample down our posies.

They terrorize the bunnies, then shred the Sunday funnies.

Gnomes gobble up our spinach; they hide tools before we finich!

On playground swings they loiter; one ain’t gon’ date MY daughter.

They wet upon the lilies; their grins give me the WILLIES.

Gnomes cower brute Alsatians, even once you’ve Maced their faces in!

These creepy little vermins, we blame upon the Germans!

Stanza Two 

No rooms again for gnomes at inns these holidays,

No discount rates, just blackout dates for

sl-gnome-bers.

Egnomeration and gnome-schooling, now passee,

Let’s end gnomish praises,

Make us unenc-gnome-bered,

Shatter gnomish glazes, 

These ghouls’ days are gnomebered!

THE END

Not quite The End:

Chuck blogged of this post: "Phil Comer, on his ‘All Write by Me’ blog, did an amazing job writing out a ‘Gnome Rap’ (!!!). Definitely worth a look-see." Chuck Sambuchino, Editor, Guide to Literary Agents, Writer’s Digest Books.

Thanks much for the shout-out, Mr. Sambuchino!

Next in the Silly Poem series:

“In Meowrium,” a wee elegy for a lap a cat.  (Go!)

© Phil Comer

Disclaimer: Although loosely based on reality, characters and events are un-gnome to you or me. If you think this doesn't totally suck, please Comment, Follow and click Like. Thanks!

Text is copyright material of the author. Gnome photo, Getty Images. Unless stated otherwise, photos and links are for information and not the property of the author. 

LIMERICK PLUS by Phil Comer

A a limerick that doesn’t know when to quit.

DUCK IN WATER

There once was a man from Barbados

Who stuffed his cellar with tomatoes.

He started to shiver, and said with a quiver,

"Now where will I hide from tornadoes?"

Avast!

There are no tornadoes on Barbados!

Occasional cyclones make tourists groan,

A sometime hurricane drives ships from the main,

Locals crave tomatoes and potatoes.

Soprano castratoes? Obbligatos!

But, tornadoes are verboten on Barbados!

 

Next in the Silly Poem series:

“Song for Benny,” a ballad of Lowcountry, Jawja.  (Go!)

© Phil Comer

Disclaimer: Although loosely based on reality, characters and events are none you or I know. If you think this doesn't totally suck, please Comment, Follow and click Like. Thanks!

Text is copyright material of the author. Photo by Kerry Coburn, model Robert “Duck” Apsley. Unless stated otherwise, photo and links are for information and not the property of the author. 

BREAKING UP SUCKS by Phil Comer

I awoke at 3 a.m., a cat between my knees,

soiled pillow, matted hair beneath my head.

The night began with heady wine, dark, oaky, bold;

swirled in goblets, legs clung to the glass; yours entwined mine.

We unhinged jaws and shed skins like the snakes we have become.

Control-Alt-Delete. Blue screen of death. Windows has stopped working.

The good gone, we ended on rotgut and string cheese;

my tongue swilled the last of your dregs.

Meet halfway, one is not enough, some more than others, endless clichés.

Apples, bananas, we never mixed MP3s or DVDs.

Drive home, one eye open the other shut, weaving for a DUI.

Where’d I put the keys? Where’d I park the car? How’d I get inside?

Figure all that later, in light of day, as I reboot.

Tank’s almost full, should take me far,

someone somewhere new, not you.

Even sleep evades, a distant rugged un-clambered vista.

The cat between my legs resembles none I know.

Must have crept in while you filled me to distraction,

tomorrow – maybe – I’ll give it a name.

Next in the Silly Poem series:

“Stalker Poem (My Darling),” demented stuff.  (Go!)

© Phil Comer

Disclaimer: Although loosely based on reality, characters and events are none you or I know. If you think this doesn't totally suck, please Comment, Follow and click Like. Thanks!

Text is copyright material of the author. Grainy photo by Phil Comer, models Elizabeth Corrigan and David Gatchel. Police photos came out much better. Unless stated otherwise, links are for information and not the property of the author.  

STALKER POEM (MY DARLING) by Phil Comer

My Darling, what can I say? You stir me,

Your sideways glances ever affirm me,

You look away yet know how that spurs me.

We’re meant to be one! Why twitchy squirmy?

You disdain me. My hopes are "long-termy,"

My entreaties endless, still you spurn me.

You step back. Do you find my breath germy?

Come with me. My love’s not can-of-wormy!

My obsession: You, me, sticky spermy.

Whips, leather, chains, I hear you "Yes Sir!" me!

CHEMISTRY NOT SINCE ENRICO FERMI’S!!!

That you reject me doesn’t deter me,

Silly court papers only defer me.

We’re inevitable, not unworthy,

You are my fate until they inter me!

My head on a stake, your taxidermy,

My skin your lampshades, as if they were me,

Please, My Darling, don’t call an attorney.

Or the police.

Next in the Silly Poem series:

“Gnomes Go Home” is a punny gnome rap.  (Go!)

 

© Phil Comer

Disclaimer: Although loosely based on reality, characters and events are none you or I know. If you think this doesn't totally suck, please Comment, Follow and click Like. Thanks!

Text above and dialog in video are copyright material of the author. Photo by Phil Comer, model Scott Whatley.