Thursday, December 23, 2010

Mele Kalikimaka & a knitters poem for you

... the poem, not by me. Happy safe holiday to you all!

’Twas the night before Christmas and all around me

There was unfinished knitting not under the tree.

The stockings weren’t hung by the chimney with care

’Cause the heels and the toes had not a stitch there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

But I had not finished the caps for their heads.

Dad was asleep—he was no help at all.

And the sweater for him was six sizes too small.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I put down my needles to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash.

Tripped over my yarn and fell down in my stash.

The tangle of yarn that lay deep as the snow

Reminded me how far I still had to go.

When out on the lawn I heard such a noise,

I was sure it would wake up both Dad and the boys.

And although I was tired and my brain a bit thick,

I knew in a moment it must be St Nic.

Yet what I heard left me very perplex-ed

For nothing I heard was what I expect-ed.

"Move Rowan! Move Patons! Move Koigu and Clover!

Move Shelridge! Move Starmore! Move Spinrite! Move over!

Lopi, don’t circle around, just stand there in line.

Pay attention you sheep and you’ll work out just fine!

I know this is hard, as it’s just your first year,

But I’d hate to go back to 8 tiny reindeer."

I peered over the sill.What I saw was amazing!

Eight wooly sheep on my lawn all a-grazing!

And then in a twinkle, I heard at the door

Santa’s big boots stomping on the porch floor.

I rose from my knees and got back on my feet.

As I turned around, St Nic I did meet.

He was dressed all in wool from his head to his toe

And his clothes were hand knit from above to below.

A bright Fair Isle sweater he wore on his back,

And his toys were all stuffed in an Aran sack.

His hat was a wonder of bobbles and lace,

A beautiful frame for his rosy red face.

The scarf on his neck could have stretched for a mile,

And the socks peeking over his boots were Argyle.

On the back of his mitts was an intricate cable.

And suddenly on one I spotted a small label:

"S.C." in duplicate on the cuff.

So I asked, "Hey, Nic, did YOU knit all this stuff?"

He proudly replied, "Ho, ho, ho, yes I did.

I learned how to knit when I was a kid."

He was chubby and plump, a well-dressed old man,

And I laughed to myself, for I’d thought up a plan.

I flashed him a grin and jumped up in the air,

And the next thing he knew, he was tied to a chair.

He spoke not a word, but looked down in his lap

Where I had laid my needles and yarn for a cap.

He began then to knit, first one cap then two.

For the first time I thought I might really get through.

He put heels in the stockings and toes in some socks,

While I sat back drinking a scotch on the rocks.

Quickly like magic his needles they flew,

Good Grief! He was finished by two!

He sprang for his sleigh when I let him go free,

And over his shoulder he looked back at me.

I heard him explain as he sailed past the moon,

"Next year, start your knitting sometime around JUNE!"

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