+ bleu clair rhapsody et la symphonie de (relocated) [crickets] +

rhapsody February 26th, 2008

March

“Ho!” roared March, and his lusty cry
Made all the leaves and papers fly.
The clotheslines leapt at his jovial glance,
And the flannels jigged in a scarecrow dance!

“Hi!” laughed March, and he winked an eye
At a slim young thing who was coming by,
But April fled in her flowery clothes
And slammed spring’s door on his bold red nose!


With thanks, again, to Barbara Beyer Malley,
for permission to post her mother’s wonderful
work.

• Poems by ECB
• Comments(0)

rhapsody February 18th, 2008

By Ernestine Cobern Beyer

Birthington Biddle (his friends called him Bertie)

Would have been nice if he hadn’t been dirty.

So grubby and grimy was Birthington’s face,

His appearance, alas, was a perfect disgrace.

You see, he believed soap and water were poison,

And tubs were for clothes–not to wash little boys in.

Crusted with dust which flew up from the street,

He grew heavier, daily, and slower of feet.

And though his poor mother could hardly endure him,

She couldn’t, it seemed, either change him or cure him.

On the day he turned ten, Bertie found to his shame,

He could no longer run or take part in a game.

Just one final cinder, just one speck of dust

Had at last overburdened the weight of his crust.

Yes sir, one speck had stopped Bert in his track

Just as one final straw broke the poor camel’s back.

Unable to move, Bertie let out a yelp . . .

A mud-smothered holler: “Help, Mother, help, help!”

Mrs. Biddle came running, and seizing a hose,

She hastily soused him from cowlick to toes.

The water gushed out in a glorious squirt,

And merrily melted his coating of dirt.

Thank goodness, that crust which had made him look fat

Was banished forever in two minutes flat!

His mother was filled with unspeakable joy

As she gazed at her clean little, lean little boy.

This was a day she would never forget–

His birthday! The day Dirty Bertie got wet!

That gurgle-and-slosh day, that sputter-and-splosh day,

Known in the village as Birthington’s Washday!

From Barbara Beyer Malley’s

work in progress,

Awesome Adventures

• Poems by ECB
• Comments(0)

rhapsody December 19th, 2007

THE PRIVATE LIFE OF SANTA CLAUS

BY

And so, Christmas morn, no longer forlorn,
The soldiers looked ever so jolly,
Each with his puny form decked in a uniform
Brighter and redder than holly!

*******************************************

Tommy’s Letter to Santa

Santa Claus, dressed in the loudest of vests,
Was reading his mail full of Christmas requests,
When he found Tommy’s note (rather smudgy to see)
Which said, SANTA, PLEASE SEND A BONNET TO ME!
“A bonnet?” thought Santa. The rest of the note
Said, SANTA, PLEASE BRING ME A SILK PETTICOAT!
AND PLEASE BRING A DRESS OF A COLOR NOT GLOOMY–
A BABY IS COMING, SO PLEASE MAKE IT ROOMY.
Santa glanced at his wife and remarked with a wink,
“This Tommy deserves something special, I think!
He asks for some presents,” he smilingly said,
But not for himself–for his mother, instead!”
Santa’s wife reached for a jar on the table,
A jar which had “MAGIC” inscribed on its label.
She then found a box, sprinkled magic inside it,
And helped by old Santa, she carefully tied it.

Mrs. Santa consoled him. “Her smile is so sweet,
And her wink’s so delightful, she’s really a treat.
She’ll make people chuckle, she’ll fill them with glee,
And laughter’s good medicine, don’t you agree?
She’s so funny, my dear, I know just what to do–
Why not give her to kids who have colds or the flu!”
On Christmas, he did this, I’m happy to tell . . .
And the little sick children all laughed themselves well!

Thank you to Ernestine’s daughter, Barbara Beyer Malley,

for permission to post.

• Poems by ECB
• Comments(2)

rhapsody December 14th, 2007

By Ernestine Cobern Beyer

Mrs. Santa was tiptoeing softly around,
Trying to cook without making a sound.
Santa, you see, was asleep in his chair,
Getting rested, no doubt, for his trip in the air.
He had kicked off his boots, and she saw to her woe
That his red woolen socks were each sprouting a toe.
With her mind on this matter instead of her cooking,
She stirred up a batter without even looking!

“Holes in his socks!” said this gentle old soul,
As she emptied a shaker of salt in her bowl.
“I’ll darn them tonight,” was her penitent thought.
And she threw in some pepper–far more than she ought!
“I wonder,” she mused, “if I’ve yarn of that color?”
She puzzled a moment, then tossed in a cruller,
A cupful of ketchup, some leftover pie,
And a few other things that were standing nearby.
Absentmindedly adding exactly one clove,
She then set her batter to bake in the stove.

At noon when old Santa sat down to his lunch,
He said to his wife, “I’ve the happiest hunch
That this dish you’ve prepared is a lovely surprise!”
“You’re right!” she replied, looking ever so wise.
“It’s surprising to me! It’s a funny receipt,
Which somehow I think would be hard to repeat.”

“Rat-a-tat-tat!” boomed a drum in the room.
“Boom!” said a tiny toy cannon. “Boom-boom!”
“What’s that?” Santa asked, sitting up in his bed
With his nightcap and tassel awry on his head.
“I thought I heard something–a gun or a drum!”
Mrs. Claus gave a yawn. “You’re dreaming. Ho-hum!”
Santa returned to his slumber once more,
Just as a doll softly opened his door–

The very same dolly whose feet raised the lid
Of the tissue-filled carton in which she was hid.
Climbing the bedspread, she sat on his chest,
Smiling and nodding her prettiest best.
Then, patting his cheek, she leaned close to his ear
And whispered a soft, “Merry Christmas, my dear!”
Santa Claus stirred and he uttered a sigh;
His rosy nose twitched as if touched by a fly,
And he smiled in his sleep as, at first flush of day,
The magical vapors went floating away!

************************

• Poems by ECB
• Comments(0)

rhapsody December 10th, 2007

By Ernestine Cobern Beyer

“Whoa!” shouted Santa–then grabbed at his cap,
But he might just as well have commanded: “Giddap!”
For Donner was dashing away in the sky,
Going so fast and so far and so high
That he very soon came to that place far away
Which angels reserve for small cherubs at play.

Another so hastily fled through the blue
That he tumbled his little gold halo askew!
“Whoa, Donner, whoa!” Santa loudly repeated,
Bouncing so high he was nearly unseated!
But rolling his eyeballs and snorting aloud,
Panicky Donner just fled for a cloud,
And reaching it, tunneled it hopefully through–
Only to find that the comet had, too!
Santa, poor fellow, was wearing a frown,
For by now he was riding along upside-down.

Then Donner swerved sharply, thus righting the sled,
And tailed by the comet, went plunging ahead
‘Til he presently met, looming up in his track,
A rain-swollen cloud of a thunderous black.
Towering awesomely there in the skies,
This cloud was so very enormous in size
That when it uncorked its spectacular spout,
“Glug!” said the comet–and meekly went out.

Greatly relieved, Santa straightened his cap,
Slapped at the reins, and once more cried “Giddap!”
He waved at the cherubs and winked a bright eye
As Donner turned ‘round and descended the sky.
And so, just as midnight was starting to chime,
He arrived at your rooftop exactly on time!

With thanks to:

Barbara Beyer Malley

&

Kathie Malley-Morrison

*K*

*******

• Poems by ECB
• Comments(0)

rhapsody November 26th, 2007

By Ernestine Cobern Beyer,

When Himself’s behind his paper and
the childer sleepin’ sound,
And the moon’s a winkin’ lantern
throwin’ shadows all around,
Forsakin’ fire and hearthstone, down
the Way of Dreams I start
To meet my darlin’ truelove in a
corner of my heart.

When Himself has grown a-weary
in the cozy evening tide,
A ghost it is that follows him and
settles at his side.
I’ll be so true and faithful that he’ll
never know, shall he,
I go to meet the laughin’ lad, the
lad he used to be!

*************************

• Poems by ECB
• Comments(1)

rhapsody October 17th, 2007

By Ernestine Cobern Beyer

It was Halloween night when I noticed my broom
With which I had lately been sweeping my room.
Seeing it move, I remarked with surprise:
“I cannot and will not believe my own eyes!
A broom doesn’t move from its place by the shelf!
A broom is a broom!” I declared to myself.

Yet it struck me as strange when I noticed, my dears,
That the broomstick was growing a couple of ears;
And I have to admit that I turned rather pale
When all of a sudden it sprouted a tail.
Said I to myself: “I am dreaming, of course!
A broom doesn’t turn itself into a horse!”

Refusing to look at the broom any more,
I hurried away, and I opened the door.
But there I was stopped by a queer little sound.
I paused with a shiver, and glancing around,
I lectured myself in my sensible way:
“You’re hearing things, silly! A broom doesn’t neigh!”

Little I knew! ‘Twas uncanny, of course,
But the broom had become a complete little horse!
He pawed at the carpet and whinnied at me:
“Hop up!” he invited, as plain as could be.

So I climbed on his back as he wanted me to,
Then out of the window he happily flew!
Feeling as if I had saddled a breeze,
I clung to his mane as he hurdled the trees.
Gracefully rising, he headed for Mars,
And the street that he galloped was cobbled with stars!
Now suddenly witches appeared in the night
And followed behind like the tail of a kite.
Uttering horrible cackles and croaks,
They swooped all around in their fluttering cloaks.
Heavens to Betsy! A spooky parade—
But somehow or other, I wasn’t afraid!

I was back in my own little cottage again.
I looked at my broom very sternly, and then
Said I: “I have never been out of this room!
It couldn’t have happened! A broom is a broom!
And untangling a cloud from its bristles—-once more,
I stood it aslant in its place by the door.

***************************

• Poems by ECB
• Comments(0)

rhapsody October 13th, 2007

Luke the Duke

By Ernestine Cobern Beyer

Luke was a ghost who had been a grand duke
In satin knee-britches and powdered peruke.
Now a ghost, as you know, is supposed to be scary,
But Luke was a phantom both timid and wary.
In fact, he knew well he was woefully wanting;
He hadn’t the ghost of a talent for haunting.
Sighing, he thought: “I’m a shame and disgrace
To every respectable ghost in the place!”
So to boost his morale, he began then and there,
To hunt for some promising mortal to scare.

Well, floating along in his usual way,
Whom should he meet but young Donald O’Shay?
Luke studied the lad and decided that Don
Was an excellent prospect for practicing on.
By all ghostly rules, as he certainly knew,
He should mutter at once a lugubrious “Boo-oo!”
But would you believe it, before he could do it,
A funny thing happened—-young Don beat him to it!
“Boo, you old ghost!” shouted Donny O’Shay.
“You don’t scare me a bit. Now get out of my way!”
Recoiling from Donald in terror complete,
Nervous old Luke nearly leapt from his sheet.

Thank you again to

Barbara Beyer Malley.

*K*

************************

• Poems by ECB
• Comments(0)

rhapsody October 13th, 2007

from Barbara Beyer Malley:

“These comments make me
very, very happy. I have been
feeling sad because for some
reason, my new activity book,
Read Me a Rhyme, Please, has
not done well since publication
a year ago. It may be because
it is much longer than the first
two and therefore much more
expensive. But the publisher
kept saying, “The longer the
better.” I would appreciate
feedback. I know the poems
are wonderful. Could it be
that the illustrations are off-
putting because some are too
much like cartoons? Thank you
dear people for lifting my spirits.

Jeeves, Jr.”

Well, in my opinion $19.95 is not
an outrageous price for an activity
book of this quality – an excellent
teaching tool that can be used over
& over again for instruction, & for
the introduction of both reader &
listener to the ever-enchanting
verse of Ernestine Cobern Beyer.

Barbara has, for quite a while now,
allowed me to publish her mother’s
work on this blog. For the month
of October, ’spooky’ poems will once
again be featured.

For anyone interested, search this
blog for the poetry of Ernestine
Cobern Beyer – & please comment
if you find yourself enchanted by
the work of this woman, who sang
with Enrico Caruso before giving up
singing to raise her family, provided
additional income by her published
verse, & received an award from
the National League of American
Penwomen in the early seventies,
before she passed away…

& are as confused as I am as to why
she has remained a virtually unknown
American treasure.

I thank you again for taking the time
to be delighted by her delightful work,
which will continue to be posted here,
so long as I’m a-bloggin’!

************************

• Poems by ECB
• Comments(6)

rhapsody October 8th, 2007

By Ernestine Cobern Beyer

Patrick was hunting, one Halloween day,
Through a trunkful of treasures long hidden away,
When much to the pleasure and profit of Pat,
He came on a wonderful magical hat.

Then thoughtfully scratching his smart little head,
“I think I will pull out some people!” he said.
And he did! From that hat so imposing and tall,
He pulled out a lady in bonnet and shawl.
A dignified man and his neighbor came next,
And one or two more whose expressions were vexed.
“I,” said the lady, “was having a nap!”
“And I,” said a man, “was at dinner, young chap!”

“I,” sniffed the neighbor, “was feeding my cats!”
“We hate,” they all cried, “to be pulled out of hats!”

With this, looking ever so grumpy and glum,
They jumped in the hat out of which they had come,
And–pffftt!–they all vanished! “Now, that,” approved

Patrick,
“Is what I would call a remarkable hat trick!”

***********************

• Poems by ECB
• Comments(0)