Guest Post (A Christmas Poem)


by Rose Byrd 
Blog: Granbee: Writing Again As A Senior
Twitter: @Granbee


Big Croaker rolled in the last midge of his dinner
For it would soon be time for night’s rivetting chorale
For, you see, Big Croaker is the new winner
The new top boss of Big Pond morale.
Oh, yes, bow low, all peepers, all thinner
All multitudes, vast crowds even to SoCal.
Rivetting as his vast band should be,
Big Croaker soon grew bored with so many lowly peeps,
Now Biggy Frog bulged eyes and sprang to tree
Up on the hill above Big Pond, all the better for reaps
Of richer, juicier bugs of the night awaing in lee,
For, you see, Big Croaker would always want more in leas.
But, wait, halt–what is this little parade below?
What is this man, this donkey, this girl on the road?
What is this parade of the evening on a quest to tow?
What is this parade, of low esteem without Big Toad?
Oh, yes, this parade must have Big Toad leading the row?
How else would any quest be worth the load?
So now Big Croaker hopped with throat blown up,
All ready to lend some glory to man and donkey and girl,
Big Croaker only could give these three the proper shine up,
The proper line up with proper flippings of that tongue in curl,
So bulging were Biggie’s eyes at hopping out,up,out,up,
He never saw Caterpillar dropping from limb to saddle’s burl.
Cattie whispered in his fuzz, “I will go, I will see,”
And then did Big Croaker hop higher, croak loud, blow bigger:
“But I am the leader, I am the Biggie, you fake bee!”
“I will lead the quest, I know best, snigger,snigger.”
Then did Little Cattie wriggle and snug, just content to be
Riding on the trip of the ages, not heeding Croaker trigger.
So Big Croakie blew harder and hopped higher
Until little donkey’s hoof did fling him into ditch,
Blinding him with mud and dulling Croaker to Sigher,
For now Croaker was choked with a stitch
Of pain in the throat that once ruled the mire
of Big Pond, now forgotten in night’s pitch.
Little Cattie snugged in girl’s robe, holding truths under starlight,
“Oh, yes, I hear the song, oh yes, I see the wings.
Oh, yes, I am little, I am only one,I have no might,
But I am riding to Bethlehem with things

No home could make so right,       
Riding to Bethlehem held by the mother of God’s son.


I don't know what brought you here today, but I'm glad you're here. I invite you to sign up for my MONTHLY NEWSLETTER. It will be delivered right to your inbox just once a month. (No annoying daily emails.) Life is beautiful and though the days be short, sometimes, our troubles are long. Let's share a small part of the journey with each other! --jen


  1. says

    Sorry I confused the copyright symbol for my post with the @ symbol. Actually, I am @granbee on twitter. You can find me as granbee on Facebook and Twitter and Rose Byrd in LinkedIn; and I THINK as Rose Byrd on google+ (maybe not.). I was SO please when JenniferJames requested that I send her a guest post! She wanted something from a Boomer on her Gen X website. The use of unexpected critters traveling to Bethlehem on that first Christmas night arises out of my 1950’s childhood on a cattlefarm in Mississippi, not so different than similar livestock farms in Oklahoma, I have found. Many of us boomers were privileged to experience our childhoods in an America that was prospering and expanding freedoms and winning the Cold Ward without much bloodshed. I am blessed to share inspirations experienced during that era on this post today.

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