If you’re not a Sara Niemietz fan, this probably won’t make a lot of sense to you.  If you are a Sara Niemietz fan, but you’re not on her Patreon, this will make only slightly more sense.  If you’re a Sara Niemietz fan who attended her latest Secret Songciety, this is right up your alley.

Although I’m not allowed to expose our Secret Songciety plans for world domination by means of kazoo, I can tell you that at our last meeting, we rewrote “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”  We write songs by throwing out possible lines, and then our favorite singer (and extraordinary poet) chooses a few and puts them into the song. 

For the first day of Christmas, I suggested something about Houseplants (which is a Secret Term for Sara Niemietz fans) in poetry.  She liked the idea, but she tweaked into “Fred’s Fine Poetry.”  This was very kind of her, and I was honored.  The problem, of course, is that Sara Niemietz fans expected me to produce some fine poetry.  If it were prose, I would be perfectly competent.  My skills in poetry are all but nonexistent. 

T.S. Eliot can write poetry.  Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost can write poetry.  Sara Niemietz can write poetry.  I’m not in their league.  In fact, I’m not even in the parking lot of the ball park. 

I do, however, know some very fine poetry, and since it’s public domain, I will bring you a sample of my Favorite Fine Poetry as a Christmas gift.  These are Fred’s Golden Nuggets.

Since it’s December 24^th, Houseplants, I think this classic is appropriate.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now, DASHER! now, DANCER! now, PRANCER and VIXEN!
On, COMET! on CUPID! on, DONNER and BLITZEN!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!

 –Clement Clarke Moore

Of course, that’s about celebrating the night before the big day.  Those of you who actually know me, know that I’m an atheist, so you would think I wouldn’t have any interest in Christmas.  You would be wrong.  Christmas is meaningful to me in many ways.  I don’t need to believe a Danish Prince spent a lot of time with the Ghost of his murdered father to find meaning in Hamlet.  Nor do I have to believe in God in a traditional way to find meaning in the Christmas Story. 

I’ll leave you, then, with some of the most beautiful lines ever written.  While I don’t believe in Writing By Committee (I prefer to work alone, thanks), 47 scholars gathered all the information they could about the Bible between 1604 and 1611, and the editor, Richard Bancroft, approved this interpretation of The Big Day.  It comes from Luke 2: 8-14

⁸ And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

⁹ And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

¹⁰ And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

¹¹ For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

¹² And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

¹³ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

¹⁴ Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

Merry Christmas, Houseplants.  And I hope the New Year is filled with music, coffee (or in my case Diet Pepsi), pizza, and Taco Bell.  I love you all.

Fred Eder