"The Night Before Christmas", J-Style!

My uncle Hifumi emailed me the following poem. I'd like to thank him for it and also for being one of the inspirations in my life. He was a U.S. interpreter during WWII, has children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. A man well over 80 years old, he has had a busier life than most dream of, and still lives life to the fullest, taking long distance road trips and going dancing regularly. I always love hearing about his life, especially about his time in Japan.

"KURISUMASU NO YESTERDAY NIGHT"

'Twas the night before Kurisumasu and all through the uchi

Not a creature was stirring, not even a poochie.

The tabi were hung by the hibachi with care,

In hopes that Santa Kurosu soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their futon,

While danced through their heads, dreams of mochi and udon.

And Mama in her yukata and I in my fundoshi,

Had just settled down to sleep for a sukoshi.

When the passage of something across the roof shingles

Raised such a noise that I knew must be Kris Kringle's.

Hayaku!--I raced to open the shouji,

Tore open the mado, looked out and...Oh Gee!

The tsuki on the breast of the new fallen yuki,

Gave the luster of midday and made things look spooky.

When what, from the neon-lit smog should come scooting,

But a miniature ricksha and eight coolies pulling.

With a little old driver, so lively and jouzu,

I knew in a moment it must be Santa Kurosu.

More hayaku than kogata, his coolies, they ran

With takusan presento and St. Nick, the toy man.

"Now Speedy-san! Now Odori-ko! Now Pakka-pakka and Inari!

On Comet-to! On Cupid-ko! On Kaminari and Inabikari!

To the top of the genkan! To the top of the tiles!

Now, dash away! Dash away!--We've many more miles."

As momiji that before the wild typhoon fly

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the rooftop the wee ricksha flits

With takusan new toys, upon which Santa Kurosu sits.

And then--Bikkuri!--I heard on the top story

The scraping and sliding of each little zori.

As I drew my head and hitched up my drawers,

Down the ofuro pipe came old Santa Kurosu.

All of good fur was made his monpe,

And his clothes were all tarnished and ashy and grey.

A furoshiki of toys hung over his arm,

And he looked like a peddler from Mart Ginzakan.

His eyes--how they twinkled! His dimples--how kawaii!

His beard, it wiggled like a grass skirt from Hawaii.

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a mikan,

His mouth wore a smile like Okamisan.

The stub of a shinsei was tight in his fist,

And the smoke, it encircled him like Kyoto mist.

He had a broad face, and well rounded bloomers,

That rolled when he laughed like bouncing darumas.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old tengu.

And I laughed when I saw him--that's all I could do.

A twist of his head and a wink of his eye,

Soon gave me to know that I had no shinpai.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to shigoto

And filled all our tabi, then was ready to go.

And holding his hana with a fur-covered mitt,

And giving a "Saah," up the stovepipe he flit.

He sprang to his ricksha, clutched the reins to his bosom,

And away they all wafted like a bloomed cherry blossom.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove off much farther,

"Merry Kurisumasu, All! Minasan, Sayounara!"

Today on www.thebugbrothers.blogspot.com: Tentoumushi