Light Verse Poems for Holidays and Other Occasions:

The following light verse and satirical poems all have seasonal or holiday or occasional themes:

Resolution And Independence
Or: Fling Out The Old

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Nay! I'll remember all that lot
And leave them all behind.

I'll leave them all behind,
And ne'er be taken blind:
I'll spot their unkind mugs afar
And cross the street in time.

Panda Merry Christmas To All

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the zoo
Not a creature was stirring except Ling Ling, who
Was the last female panda on earth - and this night
Was about to give birth! O it HAD to go right!
All the scientists gathered with care round her pen
In hopes of a new chance for pandas and men...
"Here she comes! Here's the head!" cried a watcher with joy
Like a child's at the sight of his first Christmas toy,
And then - sweet reprieve from Darwinian Laws -
"Here's the shoulders! And look now! Here comes panda claws!"

Imperial, Fiat, Opel, Triumph -
The Rise Of Christianity In The Roman Empire

Roman emperors ruled by fiat - arbitrary, inconstant, ignoble -
Until one day Justinian said to his secretary in Constantinople,
"We must compile pandects" - a pandect being an encyclopedic
compendium of laws,
Omitting not the most trifling sub-clause;
So a legion of legal scholars toiled night and day to compile
compendia
For years and years until Justinian exclaimed, "O Pandects, is
there no end to ya?"
But at last they were done, all the laws written down,
And as copies were carried in triumph from town to town,
The people rejoiced, weary of unwritten, infinitely stretchable
spandex laws,
In every village cheering and singing: "Here come Pandect Laws!
Here come Pandect Laws!"

[Note: I hope you've sufficiently admired the 9-syllable rhyme in lines one and two of the above poem – that is, the rhyme of "...bitrary, inconstant, ignoble" with "...cretary in Constantinople".]

Howl-iday

School's out! Time for a holy holly holiday,
A fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-day,
A drink-enough-to-croak-through-one-more-ballad day,
Then wake to squint from underneath one raw lid, eh?

Outside bleak wintry light, a short, chill, pallid day;
The inside headlines howl their usual howl-a-day
To make us question, can this be a valid day?
(Spilled blood still runs, though streams have all turned solid, eh?)

We've had our struggle-through-a-crowded-mall-a-day.
(Is this a season or a hectic malady?)
And now it's brace-oneself-be-calm-be-stolid day.
(And let's not think of what's left in the wallet, eh?)

We strive for quality, not just a squalid day,
A getting-spending-and-pursuing-folly day,
"I-want-a-bike-not-just-another-dolly" day,
kids-screeching-jealous-of-each-other's-haul-a-day.
(They sound as if they're being disemboweled, eh?)

This shouldn't be a frantic, sullen, growly day,
A howling-like-an-owl-who's-lost-her-owlet day,
A "one-more-scream-will-knock-me-off-my-trolley" day,
"I-think-I'd-rather-be-in-Walla-Walla" day.

We should be joyous , children all enthalled – YAY!
There's turkey, ham, mulled cider – it's no salad day!
It's tie-a-big-red-ribbon-on-the-collie day.
It's peace-on-earth-and-may-God-bless-you-all-a-day.

Yet it's a day we're mostly glad to call a day.

I'd like to say it's, nonetheless, a jolly day,
Not just another bringing-in-the-lolly day,
A somewhere-guns-fire-volley-after-volley day.
I want to say it's Love-Wins-Out-By-Golly! day,

And would, but I've run out of rhymes for holiday.

Have I Got a Great Story for YOU!

Yeah, Harry, you've bought me strong material
before, but I can't do anything with this chazerei!
Look, it goes nowhere. A baby's born, people come
with gifts (What's this myrrh?), everybody's
happy -- where's the conflict? Your hero's
a newborn kid, can't even talk. Sex interest?
The only dame is a virgin, for Christ's sake!
You know what it means in a story if someone
starts out a virgin -- someone's going to
romance her pants off, or at least try. It's like
the gun in act one that's got to go BANG
in Act 5. But here, she's just a virgin
(and a mama, yet) and what? And nothing! -- so
is someone gonna grope the COW? Or what?
And where's the villain -- I mean, sure,
they have to pay taxes -- who doesn't? --
and there's the suspense of she's about to pop
with nowhere to lie down, has to do it
in a stable with animals, shepherds -- that's
not bad, we could have a comic shepherd, maybe
a shvartza -- no, we got one already, a wise guy...
alright, wise man, whatever -- so that's not bad, birth
in a stable, but then the kid's born -- now what?
On and on, nothing happening, just gifts, gifts,
everybody's happy, what's the point? Who's gonna
CARE about a story like that? Thanks, but no thanks.
Try Disney, they can animate it, make the animals
cute or something.

Following The STAR

These days following a star can get you sued
for stalking or harassment. Maybe "wise men"
is a mistranslation of magi. How about
"Paparazzi?" After all, angels are messengers
and Gospel is "good news" - happy news
(We all die and go to Heaven because God
loves us after all) or more likely GOOD news
(as in "a good news day" - lots of terrorist
bombings, man bites dog, man kills God).

The ancients surely had their paparazzi
at the scene, including Casper, the friendly
ghostwriter. Long before Christ, Moses,
outraged by their rumors of idolatry,
shattered the tabloids.

That's what the story is all about, getting out
the good news: A celebrity is in town!
VIRGIN MOM GIVES BIRTH TO GOD'S SON
CLAIM SHEPHERDS. UFO POINTED THE WAY.

In those days it was even rougher being a star -
no limos to snatch you safely from screaming crowds,
no sun-glassed anonymity (being born humble
didn't always work), no ranch in Idaho or mansion
in Connecticut to retire to when, after you'd been
the mob's darling, nobody wanted you anymore
("Sorry, kid, you're a great savior, but saviors
have been done to death. What's hot now
is ex-football stars who murder their wives.
If you're ever in town, call me,
we'll do loaves and fishes.")

and then, as now, everyone wanted
a piece of you. EVERYONE
("Taste of my meat")
wanted a piece of you.

Solving for the Unknown, X, we Get...

Xmas equals Christmas, so...
we go to the doctor for Christ-rays,
pay alimony to our Christs,
give alms to the Christigent,
sit in coffee shops discussing Christistentialism,
seek treasure where Christ marks the spot,
illiterately sign "Christ" on the dotted line,
purchase the generic Brand Christ,
mock Generation Christ,
make rubber from raw late-Christ,
absorb mentrual flows with Kote-Christ,
are demanding, Christacting employers,
scratch our Christema,
enjoy active sChrist lives,
or compensate by viewing Christ-rated movies,
eat our bacon and Christ,
Christ-tend our lives by our Christcellent habits,
Christist for decades, inhaling and Christ-haling,
Christceed our life Christpectancy,
nonetheless, Christspire at last,
and yet, Christtraordinarily (Christult!)
are not Christtinguished,
but Christstatic.

A Me For All Seasons

Spring is here and so am I.
All the poets write of spring,
But none of me. I do not sigh,
But of myself I sing and sing.

The Lion Sends 'Em Flyin'
or Lamb, Bam, Thank you, Maam

March huffs
And puffs
Off your
Coiffure.
March will stalk
Every walk
And dump upon it
Your Easter bonnet.

March is not lewd --
He will not grab her, masher-y.
When March is rude,
He blows her haberdashery.

March flips
Lids, tips
Tops, flaps
Caps, Snaps
Hoods, bats
Top Hats,
Dimples
Wimples.

March will pelt at
Your felt hat,
Knock a fedora
Off your head or a
Toupee
From Hupei to Guadaloupe.
In March winds, your beaver
Is a leaver;
Your urban turban
Goes suburban;
For your beret
You can but peret;
Nothing can preserve from peril
Your sombreril;
That splendid object, your derby,
Starts acting verby;
The pith hat you won't forthwith doff
Will get pithed off;
Hold onto your helmet
Lest the wind overwhelm it;
You may as well jettison
Your stettison;
If your manhood depends on your panama,
Soon you will be a ma no more;
Your fez
Sez
Goodbye
And far and high
Skims your skimmer
In the dusk's glimmer.

Damn!
There goes my tam!

Amended Chestnut

30 days hath September,
April, June and November.
All the rest have 31,
But February, which is done
In 28, though in Leap Year
A 29th day will appear.

Ouquet Douquet

Roses are nice,
Violets are OK -
Put them together
To make a bOK.

A Good Line -- Please Pick Up

Roses are red, violets blue;
I dedicate these lines to you:
To say I'm yours and you are mine
I choose a dedicated line.

Arctic Lament

Days stretch, nights shrink to nothing soon --
O what is so rare as a night in June?

Rare Jejune Days

O what is so rare as a day in June?
A purple cow? A bright blue moon?
Besides, June days are ordinary,
With thirty of them every year;
A June day's NOT (however dear)
As rare as a day in February.

Ah! More!

Summer -- we sleep in the raw more,
Sweat-slick nights in shiny amour.

Forty Was Sporty; Fifty Looks Nifty; But...

My books and papers everywhere -- a pigsty!
Today I'm sigsty.
Opinions harden toward a glaring fixity.
Today I'm sixity.
"Your name again?" Is this just eccentricity?
Or am I sicity?
Behind me and ahead, the years grow misty.
Can I be sisty?
"But life begins at..." -- Crap! "But sexy sixty..."
Damned and deep-sixed he
Shall be, dumped head first in the muddy Styx (tee-
Hee!) who says "sexy sixtee,"
And hang him high, transfixed on crucifix tree
For "life begins at sixtry"!
I'm balder, fatter...LOOK at this prolixity!
My God! I'm sixity!

Broaching a Delicate Matter

My wife's alive, and you, Dear, hot to trot,
But if my wife dies, what if, then, you're not?
Before I pull the trigger, give me warning
If you won't love me still when I'm in mourning.

Ode for September 30

Tomorrow remember
with sorrow September.
If this were October,
It wouldn't be ober.

Elegy for December 31

Today, untroubled, Man, you airy
Resolutions make,
But soon, raw-eyed, to January,
You must wake.

1588

O Spanish
Armada!
You vanish,
Are nada.

Ages of Man

Finger-painting with your drool,
Babbling as you squirt your gruel,
Watch out! Beneath your bed...a ghoul!
Now it's time to go to school,
Slowly learn to dodge each rule.
Now you just want to be cool,
Fascinated with your tool.
You know everything, poor fool!
Oops! She's gone! Life is too cruel.
Someone has to work, but who will?
Oh oh, can it be that YOU will?
Wife, kids, job – Oh, to start newly,
Maybe in Ultima Thule.
In your prime – your classmates rule
The world. You have two cars, a pool.
Retired, free – but low on fuel.
Fascinated with your stool.
Who's that in your mirror – a ghoul?
Gumming at your mashed up gruel.
Let's not notice how you drool.

Marriage

Lift dat veil,
Carry dat tune,
Git a little corny
An' you end in June.

Posthumous Instructions

Put my body anywhere;
Box it, burn it--I'm not there.
But shed a tear; I love to see
How tragically you weep for me.
Had I yet eyes, I'd shed tears too:
That poor dead thing, and poor sad you!

Two tiny dolls: To think that I,
now here, now there, now half the sky,
Once thought myself that bit of meat.
(I still look down, expecting feet!)
And yet it's lonely. I must find
a way to put thoughts in your mind:

I'm here! I haven't gone away!
I'm me! Can you come out and play?