Poetry 101 Continued…

I looked back through all my posts and realized two things:  First, I have posted almost 60 pieces of poetry since I started this blog.  Second, I have not shared my Christmas/Winter poetry with you.

I know it is summer, but that is the best time (really) to think about Christmas and winter – while you are warm and cozy and can go outside without a coat.

I love the Christmas season.  I have let that slide a bit in the past few years.  That needs to change.  I wrote my Christmas/Winter poems one year and had them bound stapled into a book pamphlet, copied, and gave them to friends and families.  Here are a couple.


Christmas Means

By Scott L Vannatter


Hustle, bustle, squeeze through, “Excuse, please!”

Run-around, up/down, swing-the-door, lock-the-car,

Hey! Mister, Wait!”, change stores, stores change,

Big sale, tent sale, all sale, no sale

Buy’em all they’re going out now. “You’re on the list”,

Two weeks-wait, “Three more weeks till…” “Here he

Comes!” on his lap, cry, scream, “Santa, I wanta…”

Toys, Boys, Joys, the real McCoys.

Here it comes, there it goes, blue light special!

Two-for-one, half-price, cut-price, the price is right!

Save-a-buck, no such luck, “Calgon take me…”

Excedrin headache number… here-we-come-there-we-go,


.     I

.               saw

.                               her

.                                               standing there, doll-in-hand, thumb-in-mouth,

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her…”

“See? There you are.”, “You’re welcome”…

“And, oh yes, Merry Christmas to you, too.



By Scott L Vannatter


Frozen albino flakes swirl, whirl

catching the cold currents rush

forward to a heated doom of contact.

The sidewalks absorb by their millions, billions

turning their floating voyage into a trickle.

Slowly the crystal soldiers take their stand

pounding relentlessly on the yielding earth

pounding, mounding they reach again for the sky.

Rolled tightly, solid and sailing- the target

covered as white hand-made pellets strike home.

A shout of glee and the walls are made even higher.

It is war!  Runny-nosed little bundles, no eyes, no hands

just flannel creatures of action rolling, jumping,

pumping little muscles into a frenzy of white and fur.

A strange war, indeed!  Won not by missiles of white

or pounding of flakes.  Won only by soft, white shining,

warming hearts and flakes to softness.




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