Season’s Greeting

Wandering home,
Along Westland Row,
My fingers firmly pocketed,
Hood up over my
Festively red cheeks,
Puffing away like
The old steam train
From Hollyhead to Kingstown,

Each breath hung
Deathly still
In the air ahead of me
Before being cleft in two
By my nose and the
Rest of my face.

And suddenly,
It began to snow
And I cast my eyes skyward
As the drunks began singing
Some old Christmas song.

Poem Favoured – 25/12/08

little tree
e.e. cummings

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don’t be afraid

look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i’ll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won’t a single place dark or unhappy

then when you’re quite dressed
you’ll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they’ll stare!
oh but you’ll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we’ll dance and sing
“Noel Noel”

Merry Christmas, I suppose

All caught up in
the talk of the times
with each step crunching
and ever so.
Today, out the window
the world moved like every other day
but the television shone
white and brilliant.

The streets in town
glow effervescent
with red stickers in every window
and red cheeks on every man,
woman and child.
They clutch their parcels
with eager hands:
gifts begetting gifts,
giving begetting receiving.

Faith isn’t bearded or red:
It is thrifty and rightly so.
It sits in a wooden chair, impoverished,
and waits for the love you should show it
every day.

But screw it,
whatever makes you happy,
I suppose.