With sincere apologies to Clement Clarke Moore…
‘Twas the week before Winter, and Christmas Day too
And I worked on a blog post, to try something new;
No hosiery, dress code, nor office attire,
For transmitting thoughts over ether and wire;
My husband was nestled asleep in our bed;
While phrases and verses did vie in my head;
The hour struck midnight, I’d hoped to be done,
As my goal was to wrap up this poem by one.
No editor here to revise or improve this,
Confuse not devotion with artistic smoothness.
By monitor light my mind spun like a top,
To quell writer’s block for I disdained to stop.
The glow from the terminal monitor screen,
And the blueness of pixels were almost obscene,
When what from my key striking fingers emerged,
But ideas coalesced in a creative surge,
With a Muse who descended, crowned myrtle and rose,
By piping her flute, thus Euterpe composed.
More rapid than broadband, ideas they came,
Create groupings and tags, on the byline my name:
Compose it! Post pictures! Now preview and publish!
Upload it! It’s sending! Connection is sluggish!
To the internet swift! To the internet take!
Now blog away! Blog away! Make no mistake!
But words can before one’s eyes lose their traction,
And out to the world fly, fragmented and fractioned;
I pulled back from the web my unpolished work
Success was diminished, I felt like a jerk –
And then, with an inkling, I knew in my pate,
That now was the time to improve on this slate.
As I sucked in my breath, and rended my hair,
Beatific Euterpe was still standing there,
In her resplendent vestment, her swathe how it flowed
She leaned in and she winked, and keyed airs I’d not known;
A bundle of words did slip soft from her drape,
Wafted in through my mind and the poem took shape.
Her eyes—how they twinkled! Her music, how merry!
Her cheeks flushed like roses from vocabulary!
Her features then sharpened, my pulse skipped a beat,
Anapestic tetrameter’s a bitch to complete.
She raised up her flute from the crook of her arm,
This gesture dispelling the fog with its charm;
The gentle notes floated from over my shoulder
The verses flowed on, and the measure grew bolder.
Oh her presence was grand, statuesque she inspired,
Silver flute flashing brightly, with success we’d conspired;
And giving a nod, she was gone on a whim
The notes of her flute fading distant and dim;
She never did speak but she finished this rhyme,
I posted this blog, it submitted on time,
Divine inspiration has brought this to be,
This confabulation has rarefied me,
I’m now off to bed, and I thank you for reading,
I desire to dream for aesthetic reseeding.
And I say to you all, ere I log off tonight –
“Merry Christmas to all, may your Solstice be bright!”