Here is a selection of my poetry for DECEMBER
HERE IS A VIDEO OF ME READING TWO OF THE POEMS YOU WILL FIND BELOW - NATIVITY AND THE CHRISTMAS ESCAPE CLAUSE...
A WEEK OF FROST
A night jewelled with stars,
bright white moonlight on cold air :
a hard frost glinting.
Before dawn, hoar frost
etched glass with icy flowers :
window light obscured.
Cattle’s steaming breath,
white against a leaden sky,
the only movement.
Ghostly trees hold firm
to frozen berries. Birds starve
and huddled, shiver.
A sharp wind knifes through
bleak hedgerows, past hanging trees,
Iced spears of gleaming
sedge and rush hold frosted webs —
nets to catch the wind.
Below windowed ice
fish, like orange logs, lie deep
sleeping : dream of Spring.
The month arrived wrapped in hard frost —
we woke each morning to iced trees,
their naked branches silhouettes
against an orange, rising sun…
Could there be snow this Christmas time?
Frost flowers formed on window panes
while, in white fields the cattle stood,
their steaming breath below stark trees —
crab apple baubles caught sun's rays.
Next came the deafness of thick fog,
grey blanket obscured sights and sounds :
ghost traffic crept the quiet roads
and courting pigeons ceased their calls.
Then rain came for the Solstice Day,
to drip from neighbours' festive lights —
each raindrop coloured like a jewel.
But secretly we longed for change —
Could there be snow for Christmas Day?
The brightness shone down from the sky,
a shepherd saw the sign –
a new star hung above the town –
“This marks a special time.”
A driver resting in his truck
was woken by the light :
“In all my years out on the road
I’ve not seen such a sight.”
Revellers paused on their way home
and saw a star that gleamed :
“It’s just like being down the club,
it’s like a laser beam.”
Two policemen out on night patrol
called ‘EMERGENCY CONNECT’ :
“Request all services to town –
a UFO we suspect.”
Along the eastern motorway
a limo sped to town,
three smart, dark men sat in the back –
each held a golden crown.
Into a gloomy neighbourhood
the shepherd’s quad-bike sped,
an artic truck, an ambulance
and an engine painted red.
All followed police car’s flashing lights
along the rundown streets,
the limo and the golden crowns
with satnav had them beat.
Unerringly it found its way
along a cobbled lane
to an old and broken building
that glistened in light rain.
And through the cracked and sagging doors
there shone a golden light,
above it all the star looked down
creating day from night.
Poor immigrants without a home
sheltering from the cold –
their child’s birth was very real
enacting something old.
And all around new flowers bloomed
as bird song filled the air,
inside a mother held her babe
And stroked his golden hair.
Like Scrooge’s knocker on his door,
a lion mask surveys the scene
from high upon the Inn’s front wall.
Here, in the ancient heart of town,
a crowd fills up the Market Square
to stand beneath the Christmas lights
and mark the dressing of the tree.
Dads, late from work, meet family groups
to watch as baubles, made in schools,
are raised by a triumphant Mayor.
Cameras flash and choirs sing
as trimmings soon are hauled aloft –
raised safely by hard-hatted men
who cherry-pick each bauble’s spot
where they will gleam and gently swing.
United, whilst their youngest child
had led the choir, sung out her heart,
this family starts their war again.
While others queue for hot mince pies,
by diverse routes they leave the square :
father, sad kids, mother elsewhere –
by Christmas they will live apart…
And, from the tip of this year’s tree,
a sad-eyed moon sees everything :
Waxing to wane, waxing to wane.
Travelling home for Christmas,
crossing our great divide,
to the places we remember
and a loss we can’t deny.
All the miles we have travelled:
over distant high blue hills,
through the wind and snow-banked highways,
down lanes flanking icy fields.
Passed the woods where we once lingered
in the light of a thousand stars,
travelling home at Christmas –
still keeping the flame alive.
Off motorway on local roads
the countryside’s a sheet of white.
A broken hedge, an upturned car,
wheel tracks soon lost in failing light.
the countryside’s a sheet of white;
bright presents scattered on the ground —
ribbons and tinsel for the night.
In the car a mobile’s ringing —
silence is broken by the sound;
ribbons and tinsel for the night,
bright presents littering the ground.
A dark stain spreads out from the car,
somewhere close a child is crying —
silence is broken by the sound —
mobile in the car starts ringing.
A dark stain spreads out from the car —
wheel tracks are lost in failing light;
somewhere close a child is crying,
This Christmas, knackered, flying home –
The big sack empty, hard job done
And time you’d think to have a rest –
The mobile rings, it’s my Head Elf.
He says the phones are going mad
The Claus Call Centre’s had no break –
Abusive youngsters with complaints :
Their i-pods have the wrong downloads,
New mobiles play an old ring tone
Or worse – that most exclusive gift
Is now half price in high street Smith’s.
Demands for next year come by text
And e-mails by the bucket load –
I never see a “thank you” note
Or old style letter tinged with smoke…
Of course, we had to modernise
And Santa’s Jolly Workshop’s gone –
Back in the old days I could boast
“Our Christmas gifts are made by elves” –
Now they’re all trained for telesales
As we outsource from coast to coast.
Mind you, the missus wasn’t pleased
And grumbled I was never home
Because of all the deals I’d done
For goods from China and Taiwan.
I never minded extra trips –
Transporting goods is what I do –
But freezing storage was a pain.
The move from Lapland hit the wife,
And giving up traditional ways –
She nearly flipped when she found out
She couldn’t wander Milton Keynes
Dressed in full festive Christmas kit
Like she had done in Santaland.
Besides, she got quite sour faced
When other changes came her way,
Our biggest falling out occurred
Discussing future franchise plans…
But now’s the time to jack it in,
To sell the reindeer, ditch the bag
And make a fortune with my blog.
I’m working on my image rights :
My costume, beard and trademark laugh,
I’m going to use celebrity
To get on chat shows, kid’s T.V.
And guarantee a golden start
Unveiling Xmas PLC.
ALL POEMS ON THIS WEBSITE ARE SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT