How long should we keep our decorations up Once Yule is done ? Should we pick the morning after Boxing Day To start the shun ? Or maybe on the drawn-out New Year’s Eve, When we must kick-around Just waiting for the final hours – We’ve plenty time to take them down.
The baubles and the strings of lights, We bid you au revoir – Along with snowflakes, swirls, and sprites, And finally, the star.
Or hang on till the Fifth of January, And the party’s gone – When we’ve likely all gone back to work already, Needing to move on. Or simply when the tree has lost its green, And tinsel lost its cheer – Then time to pack the season in the attic For another year.
The cards from off the bookshelves, And the wreath from off the door. It’s time that we regain ourselves – Normality once more.
We’ve sung these songs before, These Silent Nights, these Gaudetes – We’ll sing these songs for evermore, I’m sure, All Christmas Days – Pious in their message, Dressed in angels at the manger – And how familiar they are, And not a one a stranger.
But in a thousand years from now, Shall these songs still be heard ? You have my word…
But other songs exist, Like Deck The Halls, like Jingle Bells, That long were added to our list, Persisting each Nowell. Joyful in their scoring, While ignoring Mary’s son – And how familiar they are, When sung by ev’ryone.
But in a thousand years from now, Shall these still stop the show ? I think we know…
And ev’ry year come songs, These All I Wants, these Fairytales – But will they still be sung-along so strong, Or will they fail ? Hopeful in their jingle, Mingling underneath the tree – But how familiar they are, We’ll have to wait and see.
So in a thousand years from now, Shall we remember still ? I think we will…
The angel said to Mary, You must bear the Son of the Lord – And you shall name him Joshua, Before you cut the cord.
But why, she thought, such a common name ? For a most uncommon child ? Who shall remember what he does When he’s quite so blandly styled ?
For Nazareth was full of Joshes, And Judahs, and Jacobs, and Josephs, and Johns – She wanted a son who shone like marble Amongst the lumpen bronze.
Why can’t he be an Emmanuel ? Or a second Moses ? Or David ? Or Job ? But those were far too sacred, she guessed, Or seeking to conquer the globe.
No, it seems that the Lord wants his son to blend, And to not-stand-out from the crowd – She’s disappointed, but understands – Best not to proclaim too loud !
Yet, if he makes it, then one day perhaps, His average name shall ring ! And the other parents will all then avoid This moniker of a king !
Just as long as he wouldn’t end-up as a curse, To be spat in disgust – She’d hate his name to be taken in vain, Or exclaimed in moments of lust…
But anyway, it was out of her hands – She’ll love him, whatever his name. And if God wants Josh, then Josh he must be – For the world has a prior claim.
Who’s that in our garden, hey To sing on Christmas Day ? A chirpy robin redbreast Who has come to lead the way.
Who’s that in our garden, hey To sing on Christmas Day ? The cooing of a pigeon Who will counterpoint our lay, And a chirpy robin redbreast Who has come to lead the way.
Who’s that in our garden, hey To sing on Christmas Day ? The croaking of a crow To bring the bass beneath the fray, With the cooing of a pigeon Who will counterpoint our lay, And a chirpy robin redbreast Who has come to lead the way.
Who’s that in our garden, hey To sing on Christmas Day ? The drumming of a woodpecker Who’s beating on the bay, With the croaking of a crow To bring the bass beneath the fray, And the cooing of a pigeon Who will counterpoint our lay, And a chirpy robin redbreast Who has come to lead the way.
Who’s that in our garden, hey To sing on Christmas Day ? A choral flock of starlings Who arrive to dance and play, And the drumming of a woodpecker Who’s beating on the bay, And the croaking of a crow To bring the bass beneath the fray, And the cooing of a pigeon Who will counterpoint our lay, And a chirpy robin redbreast Who has come to lead the way.
Who’s that in our garden, hey To sing on Christmas Day ? A bright soprano blackbird With an awful lot to say, With a choral flock of starlings Who arrive to dance and play, And the drumming of a woodpecker Who’s beating on the bay, And the croaking of a crow To bring the bass beneath the fray, And the cooing of a pigeon Who will counterpoint our lay, And a chirpy robin redbreast Who has come to lead the way.
Who’s that in our garden, hey To sing on Christmas Day ? A special guest-star parakeet Who’s song is here to stay, With a bright soprano blackbird With an awful lot to say, And a choral flock of starlings Who arrive to dance and play, And the drumming of a woodpecker Who’s beating on the bay, And the croaking of a crow To bring the bass beneath the fray, And the cooing of a pigeon Who will counterpoint our lay, And a chirpy robin redbreast Who has come to lead the way.
Working abroad in the Eighties, Those were strange December days – When the office was open as usual, And the Sun beat down in a haze. But a few of us Johnny Foreigners Exchanged a card and a smile – With a token string of tinsel about our desks, For the extra mile. We offered round choc’lates to hesitant colleagues And kept stopping work for a chat. Someone must have produced a cracker, For they wore a paper hat. We would have shared a tot or two, As we briefly engaged in hugs – Though booze was out of the question, of course, So we chinked our coffee mugs. The world was becoming more American, More awareness year-by-year – And so each time, another trapping of the season Would appear. We’d phone our fam’lies later, not yet, As the locals were called to pray – But we hummed a carol in the long afternoon, As the town got on with its day.
I asked AI for impressionistic carollers, but they just look blotchy…
The Lantern Carol
There may have been snow, There were surely scarves, As they stood on the corner Beneath the stars. They may have had sheets, But they knew the words – And the harmonies That they sang in thirds. And we hurried on by, But we heard their songs – The old familiar Sing-it-alongs. In a pool of light, They played their role – Under the lantern Hung on a pole.
And their breath was hung With the notes they sung, As a frosty white, By the lantern’s swaying light.
There may have been snow, There were surely mitts, As they stood on the corner Singing the Ritz. They may have had sheets, But they knew the text, And no hesitation On which comes next. And we hurried on by, But we heard their cheer – The old familiar End-of-the-year. In a pool of light, Their heart and soul – Under the lantern Hung on a pole.
And their breath was warm With the notes they form, In the inky night By the lantern’s only light.
Here’s to a lively, theatric season, Where we all act nice and play along At ev’ry gathering we can squeeze-in – Any excuse for a drink and song…! We seem to arrive before we’re asked, With a crowd to help us deck the halls – We enter late, them we stay till last, In a round of endless curtain calls.
A gift is not just a gift, It’s an obligation – A debt that I must repay. Sometimes it’s such a lift, A celebration – But those are rare, I’d say.
More like, it’s a piece of tat, Or something that I own, Or something that’s not my style. But I’ll never admit to that, Won’t snark or groan – Just thank you and smile.
I wrack my brains for a list, And I put off buying, So’s to have empty shelves. And then half of you insist On cheekily trying To choose for yourselves.
My asks are given short shrift, When I eye up your label With the sparkly font – Behind it, I know there’s a gift That will try to cable What I ought to want.
The shops begin at Halloween, The orange swapped for red and green, The lights and tinsel far too keen, The cakes too full of plumbs. But I just shrug at so much cheese While leaves remain upon the trees, And don’t succumb to the disease Till the week that Christmas comes.
The radio will cast its spells With earworms full of tinkling bells – But I tune-out their jolly hells For heavy metal drums. My headphones shall see much employ To block all crooning for the Boy – At least, until I join the joy In the week that Christmas comes.
There’s not a spruce within my croft, The baubles still sit up the loft – And there they’ll stay till Autumn’s doffed, And robins scrap for crumbs. You’ll find no streamers round my walls, No mistletoe or choc’late balls – Until, that is, I deck the halls For the week that Christmas comes.
And when the shortest day is looming, So my bonhomie starts booming – Time to plan what to consume In a spread as good as Mum’s. But there’s only so much I can take, Before the shine begins to flake – I must delay, or else I’ll break By the week that Christmas comes.
Herry Christmas, AI, from some of the reddest redbreasts I’ve ever seen.
Never Three on a Card
Every Christmas, I get a warm glow From a handful of cards with the robins’ hello – They’re sometimes alone, and they’re sometimes a pair, But a third one is nowhere – cos as we all know A flock of the robins is strictly no-go. But what is this latest the postladies bear ? One robin, two robins, three robins…? Whoa…! But how can the senders so brazenly dare ?, Depicting the moment before the first blow – As the beak and the claw will leave no love to spare, As they battle to mate and to overthrow. But no ! They swear they’ve taken care To only show what’s really there. In Winter, it seems, the robins bestow A happier temper, content to share – For outside of breeding, they treat all fair, And frolic together in goodwill and snow.
Rhyming Couplets 