My Special Christmas Guest tonight is…

15 Sleeps till Christmas

Timothy Tocher and Help Wanted

I confess I have no idea who this gentleman is other than he’s a writer of fiction and non fiction and has written poetry for both kids and adults alike.

This poem, however I had to post cause it is brilliant, funny, colourful; heck I just love it. Thank you Mr Tocker and Merry Christmas to you!

Help Wanted

Santa needs new reindeer.
The first bunch has grown old.
Dasher has arthritis;
Comet hates the cold.
Prancer’s sick of staring
at Dancer’s big behind.
Cupid married Blitzen
and Donder lost his mind.
Dancer’s mad at Vixen
for stepping on his toes.
Vixen’s being thrown out—
she laughed at Rudolph’s nose.
If you are a reindeer
we hope you will apply.
There is just one tricky part:
You must know how to fly.


Timothy Tocher, “Help Wanted” from Kids Pick the Funniest Poems. Copyright © 1991 by Timothy Tocher.

My Special Christmas Guest tonight is…

Walter de la Mare and Mistletoe

Walter John de la Mare was British born in 1873 but of French descent. He was a poet, short story writer and novelist. He was also a write of ‘subtle’ psychological horror stories.

So why did I choose this one, self explanatory really; as well as being a beautiful yet mysterious verse, who doesn’t like a smooch under the Mistletoe eh!

Holly and Mistletoe; couldn’t be me more appropriate for this time of year. I remember my mother nipping into town to the Market and buying freshly cut sprigs that she’d tie into little bunches and hang over the front door and decorate the house.

Ahh good times; by the way… 20 sleeps till Christmas.


Sitting under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

One last candle burning low,

All the sleepy dancers gone,

Just one candle burning on,

Shadows lurking everywhere:

Some one came, and kissed me there.


Tired I was; my head would go

Nodding under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

No footsteps came, no voice, but only,

Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,

Stooped in the still and shadowy air

Lips unseen—and kissed me there.

My Special Guest tonight… In Remembrance

Rudyard Kipling and My Boy Jack

My Boy Jack

“HAVE you news of my boy Jack? ”
Not this tide.
“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

“Has any one else had word of him?”
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

“Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?”
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind—
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide.

My Special Ghost tonight is…

Maurice Kilwein Guevara and A Rhyme for Hallowe’en

After bargaining with the Boatman he agreed to take me to the internet underworld for some Hallowe’en Trick O Treats, where upon I dug up this chilling little number.

It was written by the poet, playwright, and actor Maurice Kilwein Guevara who was born in Belencito, Colombia, and raised in Pittsburgh. A very learned man, earning a BA and a PhD in English, a BS in psychology and a Master of Fine Arts from Bowling Green State University.

He is a founding member of the National Latino Writers’ Association and has taught at the University of Wisconsin and at Indiana University of Pennsylvania.

Now here’s a Guy educated in the arts and a great poet to boot if this verse is anything to go by.

So come from beneath the bed sheets and have a peek at this; if you dare…

A Rhyme for Hallowe’en

Tonight I light the candles of my eyes in the lee
And swing down this branch full of red leaves.
Yellow moon, skull and spine of the hare,
Arrow me to town on the neck of the air.

I hear the undertaker make love in the heather;
The candy maker, poor fellow, is under the weather.
Skunk, moose, raccoon, they go to the doors in threes
With a torch in their hands or pleas: “O, please . . .”

Baruch Spinoza and the butcher are drunk:
One is the tail and one is the trunk
Of a beast who dances in circles for beer
And doesn’t think twice to learn how to steer.

Our clock is blind, our clock is dumb.
Its hands are broken, its fingers numb.
No time for the martyr of our fair town
Who wasn’t a witch because she could drown.

Now the dogs of the cemetery are starting to bark
At the vision of her, bobbing up through the dark.
When she opens her mouth to gasp for air,
A moth flies out and lands in her hair.

The apples are thumping, winter is coming.
The lips of the pumpkin soon will be humming.
By the caw of the crow on the first of the year,
Something will die, something appear.

My Special Guest tonight is…

Lord Byron and She Walks in Beauty

Simply known as Lord Byron, AKA George Gordon Byron and born in January 1788; he was an English poet, peer, and politician who became a revolutionary in the Greek War of Independence.

He was considered one of the leading figures of the Romantic Movement and is regarded as one of the greatest English poets, still remaining widely read and influential.

Our Lord Byron was also a bit of a scoundrel. He was described as being flamboyant, notorious and a bit of a celebrity in his era both for his success as a Romantic poet and for his aristocratic excesses. He had financial issues, sex scandals with both women and men and there were rumours of a little incest on the side.

It was said of Lord Byron that he was “mad, bad, and dangerous to know”.

Go Georgie!!

This poem, I Love. It really is a beautiful piece. And regardless of his escapades or lack of dignity, depending on your point of view, for me this really speaks from the heart to the heart.

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.


One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.


And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!