Andrew Brehaut

Anagrammy Awards > Literary Archives > Andrew Brehaut

Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

The falling rain comes
And forms puddles on the ground
Like tears in my eyes

Ice falls from the skies
And lines empty London ground
I nurse my aged heart.

On cold August nights
Flames refine like hymn's end note
Praise my dear lord.

As Spring changed early
One listens to summer heat
Like my old friend found.

This Alpine fog aired
Sun frolicked on damsel's rhymes
Young tender lament.

Clouds are stark - lonely
Almond sun offered meaning
Heightened my spirits.

Fall ruined young trees
Their poor scant leafless kingdom
My hidden amens.

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The Dash by Linda Ellis

I read of a reverend who stood to speak
at the funeral of his friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
from the the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth...
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own;
the cars...the house...the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard...
are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left.
(You could be at "dash mid-range.")

If we could just slow down enough
to consider what's true and real,
and always try to understand
the way other people feel.

And less quick to anger,
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we've never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
and more often wear a smile...
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy's being read
with your life's actions to rehash...
would you be proud of the things they say
about how you spent your dash?

An Ode to Those Lost at Virginia Tech

The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.

A quiet day in a downtown American school.

It's cold but the sun rises.

In bed, hot sweethearts are waking breathless to a new day; hefty brothers are showering; fashionable women are applying their facial makeup; a few more kids make calls to their folks.

Vital, hopeful students who are doing just what they should: preparing to attend, write, study, learn, achieve.

Fragile innocents who live their lives, not to fear the present, but to hope for the future.

It all happened so fast.

They would not have considered that the following day their worlds were to be shattered, broken.

They would not have fathomed that tomorrow, their harrowed, hollow faces would be newsworthy, plastered on newspapers and shown on television screens.

They would not have foreseen the hateful, bloody scourge that was to mark their future with hollow sorrow.

No, they would not have imagined that there, there in the shadows, lay the deadly offender... but, somehow, they should have...

Because the deadly offender's name is not the hotheaded Cho Seung-Hui...

It is the foolish Second Amendment - the Goddamn right to bear arms.

What a waste.

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Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare,
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones,
And cursed be he that moves my bones.

Beneath these stones, see Shakespeare's bed
Our Stratford bard rested his head
Scribed on the uneven tomb
See faceless judgment of ghostly doom.

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'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, Donder 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."

A Soldier's Night Before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas,
The man lived all alone,
In a one bedroom house
Made of worn plaster and busted stone.

I had come down the unswept chimney
With my sparkling presents to give,
And to see just who it was
That in this shabby house did live.

I searched all about,
What a harsh sight I did see,
No tinsel and no wrapped presents,
Not even a wretched tree.

No stocking by the worn mantle,
Just unwashed boots filled with sand,
And in the hallway hung worthless pictures
Of exiled, offshore lands.

With medals and badges,
Between awards and wreaths of kinds,
Then, an awakening thought
Came into my mind.

For this house was all different,
When I could see in the dark,
I had found the home of a soldier,
It was withdrawn and stark.

The unabashed hero lay sleeping,
He was hushed, he was alone,
Curled up on the floor
In this bleak, one bedroom home.

The face was so gentle,
The room in such disorder,
Not at all how I pictured
A twentieth-century soldier.

Was this the mighty national hero
Of whom I had just read,
Nestled up in a cheap shawl,
With the harsh floor as his bed?

Then I thought of the wealthy families
That I saw this harsh, white night,
Who owed their lives to those fallen soldiers
Who were so willing to fight.

Soon all around the whole world,
The chubby children would awaken and play,
And the grownups would worship in church
On an enchanted, white Christmas day.

They all enjoy the benefits
Each month of the year,
Because of all the majestic soldiers,
Like the exhausted one sleeping here.

I couldn't help but just think
How many lay sleeping alone,
On a hallowed Christmas night
In a hellish Afghan township far from home?

That weighted, painful thought
Brought a tear to my eye,
I fell to my haunches
And ashamed, started to cry.

Then the weathered soldier awakened
And I heard a husky, hushed voice,
Saying "Hush, Santa. Please don't weep,
Herein is my life of choice;

I fight for freedom,
Hell, I won't ask for more,
My life is my god,
and my country is my corps."

The soldier then eased weakly over
And went back to sleep,
I couldn't hold it in
And continued to weep.

I kept watch there for a while,
That lengthy night - bleak and still
And we both shivered weakly
From the hazy winter night's chill.

I didn't want to leave
On that bleak and dark night,
This quietly spoken keeper of honor
Who was so willing to fight.

Then the man awakened and rolled back over,
And with a voice unshaken and pure,
Whispered peacefully, "Keep going now, Santa,
It's Christmas, all is secure."

One look at the watch,
And I knew he was right.
I said, "Happy Christmas, my honest hero,
And to all a good night."

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Material Girl - Madonna

Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me
I think they're O.K.
If they don't give me proper credit
I just walk away

They can beg and they can plead
But they can't see the light, that's right
'Cause the boy with the cold hard cash
Is always Mister Right, 'cause we are

Living in a material world
And I am a material girl
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl

Some boys romance, some boys slow dance
That's all right with me
If they can't raise my interest then I
Have to let them be

Some boys try and some boys lie but
I don't let them play
Only boys who save their pennies
Make my rainy day, 'cause they are

Living in a material world
And I am a material girl
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl

Living in a material world (material)
Living in a material world
Living in a material world (material)
Living in a material world

Boys may come and boys may go
And that's all right you see
Experience has made me rich
And now they're after me, 'cause everybody's

Living in a material world
And I am a material girl
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl

A material, a material, a material, a material world
Living in a material world (material)
Living in a material world

I Imagine

I get weary, I get teary
I get hairier by the day.
Each ovary's a feared weight
Again, I wish they'd go away.

They initiate aches - each year: twelve dates
They're a weekday anxiety.
A gang on the beat's saying I am a cheat
And maintain I am a liability.

I live in a mortal man's world
I am a pre-menstrual girl
You know that I live in a mortal man's world
I am a pre-menstrual girl

Beaus are thickheads, barbaric dickheads.
They abide me with great dismay.
They eye a trainee bitch with gigantic tits
Agreeing to let them sway.

They try to have their cheeky way
But they'd have no game biblically
Germaine Greer is my mate
So, no aid erotically,

I live in a mortal man's world
I am a pre-menstrual girl
You know that I live in a mortal man's world
I am a pre-menstrual girl

I live in a mortal man's world
I live in a mortal man's world
I live in a mortal man's world
I live in a mortal man's world

I'll dagger their doodle, behead their noodle
I yield a life of rotten celibacy
They wouldn't jab a chick's saddlebag
Anywhere legitimately

I live in a mortal man's world
I am a pre-menstrual girl
You know that I live in a mortal man's world
I am a pre-menstrual girl

A mortal man's, a mortal man's, a mortal man's, a mortal man's world
I live in a mortal man's world
I live in a mortal man's world

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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