'Twas the night before Christmas, and wouldn't you know it, not a creature was stirring, except for the poet.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and wouldn’t you know it,
not a creature was stirring, except for the poet.
Scribbling his verse deep into the night,
he wouldn’t sleep until every word’s right.
It’d been weeks since he sat still and just wrote,
not since Thanksgiving, and not since the vote.
There were gifts to buy and people to see,
parties to go to, and places to be.
With all the obligations, he couldn’t possibly say,
“I’ll stay home and write, if I may.”
But during every errand, while waiting in lines,
he’d let his mind wander, and compose simple rhymes.
But the poet’s spirit began to simmer
for on the horizon was a hopeful glimmer:
paid holiday vacation away from work!
perfect time for writing, for just such a dork!
He didn’t ski to Tahoe, he didn’t ferry to the city
he stayed in his home, and drafted itty-bitty
haiku, tanka, and long-form free-verse,
he didn’t care if his writing couldn’t be worse.
He was glad, he was satisfied, in reuniting
with his first love, which was always to be writing.
So while everyone else slept with ease,
he happily tapped away at the keys.
Weeks after, in the glow of creativity he’ll bask.
And at other parties, when auld acquaintances ask,
“And you, what’s your resolution?”
To write and write, will be his solution.
He’ll return to his job, he’ll run more errands,
he’ll call his family, he’ll hang with friends.
But he promises to do more than his part
to make and protect enough time for his art.