Poetry from Gracie O'Neil Author Paranormal Romantic Suspense

My Grammar and Me

My Grammar, to me, was the best kind of friend.

We'd spend time together. As the day'd end

She would tuck me up tight in my comfortable bed

And weave tales of fantasy over my head

While her cat batted gently with subjunctive clause

At the knitting my Grammar kept just for indoors.

Her stories were compound--though some were complex--

And I never quite knew what was happening next

'Cause Grammar saw life from a different angle.

She always let grumpy participles dangle.

(With the only sure things parataxis and death

My Grammar believed in not wasting her breath!)

In one of her stories--Count Noun And The Goose--

A terrible serial comma was loose!

All subjects were sentenced to compound arrest.

Although the Count did what he thought was the best,

Few voices were passive. Many entreated,

And some were just shouting [expletive deleted].

Count Noun and his soldiers they quartered the halls

While an army of predicates guarded the walls,

And they caught that rogue comma! A palpable hit!

(I'm told objects broke and infinitives split.)

Then factitive missions convened at great speed

Addressing directly the singular need;

To keep closer watch on restrictive declension

And give violations their proper attention.

I loved Grammar's heroes. I'd dream in a daze

(I was going through my prepositional phrase)

Of a past perfect person of positive mien

In whom no irregular thing could be seen.

Of masculine gender specific was he,

And he rescued the heroine long before tea.

Yes, I loved Grammar's stories, the fun and the glow

And I reduplicate them wherever I go.

Sure, I hope that my language and stuff is OK

But the story's the challenge ... I keep it that way.

A Cracker Christmas

It just so happens, in our town,

The local council has laid down

A law that makes it wrong to hang

Up anything that might go "Bang!"--

That is in places which can be

Defined as 'Public Property'.

But anyone can decorate

A pine tree at the garden gate,

And string bright lights from limb to limb--

Just like my dear old Uncle Jim

Whose wondrous skill's viewed with suspicion

By the council electrician.

Most townsfolk here enjoy the fun.

In fact, for twenty years they've run

A pool to find out which display

Will take the "Best Dressed" Prize away,

And Uncle Jim works with a will

To make sure he's original.

I liked the year when Rudolph's nose

Was making snoring noises. Those

Were quite a nifty trick to run,

And people's faces were such fun

To watch as they passed underneath.

Old Mr Jensen lost his teeth!

Then someone phoned from Channel Two--

They came out with a camera crew

To interview the family

For thirty seconds on TV.

Yes, Uncle Jim's a clever man.

In late November, if he can,

He climbs into the Macrocarpa *

(Making all the magpies scarper)

Fixing lights with tender care

In places others would not dare.

I helped him once, before my Dad

Saw the ladder that he had

And told me I was not to scale

Up something from a Star Trek tale.

(I don't know what Dad said to Jim.

I didn't get too close to him!

I only heard them kind of muttering,

Stringing Santa from the guttering.)

Mum said it was best to leave

The ladder to my cousin, Steve.

I'm glad Steve wasn't badly hurt

When he dropped Prancer, ripped his shirt,

Then fell through thirty feet of tree

To hang suspended from his knee

Where the extension cord was tied

In knots. My auntie nearly died!

The worst part was that Uncle Jim

(Who thought the shouting was for him)

Then pushed the circuit breaker in!

You should have heard the ghastly din

As swift electric current traveled

Up, and that huge knot unraveled.

Steve was yelling! Lights were flashing!

(Auntie Freda's teeth were gnashing!)

Sparks were flying, and the choir

Of heavenly angels caught on fire.

The Star of Bethlehem on top

Exploded with a mighty "POP!"

And rained down luminescent tears

On Dasher's nose and Blitzen's ears.

Then Steve crashed, panting, on his back

In piles of rope and Santa's sack.

My Uncle Robert's heart was won

By the bearing of his son

Until - tears running down his face -

Steve snarled, "Good thing it wasn't Grace

Who climbed that rusty piece of tin!

You wait till I get hold of--" "Gin!"

His father bellowed, "Over here!"

You'll be OK, son, never fear.

Your mother knows about First Aid.

Has someone called the Fire Brigade?"

Now, every year, first of December,

All the family--every member--

Meets to delegate the job

Of helping Uncles Jim and Rob

To decorate the Christmas tree.

And I still pray it won't be me!

*Macrocarpa : a naturalized cypress tree which, here in New Zealand, can grow to over 40 meters tall, and has been known to have a 3 meter trunk diameter.