329 and 330; and 339: The Seven Days of December: iv

O stomach ache, O stomach ache, do tell—

where did you learn to weave up woe so well?

How is it you have learned to torture me

so painfully and picture-perfectly?

You seize, yea, every part of me at once,

your heinousy for all my solace hunts,

and tho for ibuprofen do I go,

you make pain out of pain pills even so!

No comfort can be found, even in prayer,

are you greater than gods in aether air?

Or is your power such that, when grace comes,

‘tis after holy battles, strong as suns?

Alas, my hope, as long as you’re with me,

is that you will get bored with me quickly.

~~~

“My dear advent’rous traveler, come nigh,”

I heard the fae within the wood supply.

“Why, I, unlike the others, will not lie--

lie down a bit, and listen, and reply.

Try not to judge a fairy, do, do try,

by bargains he must make so’s not to die,

Why, while I do, on borrowed souls rely,

I do not want to steal your soul, but buy.

My price is yours--what will you sell it by?

Aye, I will pay what ever price, says I,

I’m given, seen or unseen, by your eye,

sky high, or deep as hell, do not be shy.”

“Why, sir,” says I, “I can’t, your bid, defy.

My price is that all that you’ve said’s a lie.”

~~~

“Some winters are like this, perhaps,” you say,

when out of doors no ice nor snow is found.

And that would not be bad, but it’s still gray,

and hasn’t got that clean ‘December sound’--

you know the kind. The crunch beneath your feet,

the way the cars are seldom, slow, and mute.

When icicles are lined along the street

reflecting sounds like keyboard bells en route.

Without such, no December can be had,

leastways not that one that you’ve heard about.

How do those climes which ne’er by snow are clad

enjoy the season without such sounds out?

A holiday without the tinkling ice?

Perhaps, to some, the idea is nice.