We should not ask How the fairy lights Have grown so tangled In their box. We should not reach For blaming fairies, Inbetween Their stealing socks. It is not magic, Cosmic karma, Nor some plot Or hand of Fate – It’s just mundane And simple physics, Where small movements Escalate. Someone, someday, Someone else, Will write a thesis On the thing – And we shall chuckle As we calmly Counterwind The errant string. Watch some telly, Play the wireless, Call our fam’lies, While it’s done – But do not worry Why the job exists, That’s just how Quantums spun.
Inbetween the nights out and the office drinks, I need a night at home – To veg in front a Christmas movie, Snuggled-up beneath the duvet, Catching back my bonhomie Before I conquer Rome. I need a night to stop and think, Not revved-up at a pleasure-dome.
So best leave all the dancing To the fairy lights tonight, Just put the kettle on And grab a bite.
But most of all, I need a night to send My endless Christmas cards. To veg in front a pile of twee And snow-filled scenes we’ll never see, And stuff them in and set them free To streets and boulevards. I’ve had a few arrive from friends already – Caught me off my guard.
So curl up with the cat tonight, No need to talk or laugh – Just turn the heating on And run a bath.
Photo by Boys in Bristol Photography on Pexels.com
Jingle-Worms
I know all year we’ve been skipping them, skipping them, Whenever they shuffled into play – But now it’s December, and the whole world’s sipping them, And we’ve no chance to slip away. I guess it’s time to be shipping them, tripping them, Their timing is no longer quite so wrong – For now it’s December, and the whole world’s gripping them So best to simply shrug and sing their song. Let the tunes be ripping And the sentiment be dripping As we flipping-well must belt another verse. We’ve spent all year so chippy With the luxury of nipping them, But now we must embrace their joyful curse. Altogether now ! Sing a song of sleighbells, Tinkle tinkle, In the snow – When the choirboys sing high Then the baritones sing low. But we’ll meet-up in the middle. Where the fast shall meet the slow – And we’ll sing it all again, All the month – it’s all we know. Ho ho ho.
The tinsel has been strung all week, The holly wreathed around the door, The cards bedeck the mantlepiece, The tree is lit-up like a store. But if we came inside to peek On where to kiss – no go, it seems… The mistletoe has yet to lease It’s tenure on the ceiling beams.
The trouble is, our hostess speaks, It dries out quickly in the warm – And pleasures in the kiss decrease, She finds, when beauties don’t conform. For who can peck on rosy cheeks Beneath such yellow-wilted leaves ? And so, the gooser of the geese Won’t dangle down till Christmas Eve.
“It isn’t really quaint and meek, You know, but a toxic parasite.” So says my clued-up, teenage niece – “Infact, just like this kissing blight: Demanding favours, beak-to-beak, And women feeling bound to please. From Pagan Briton, Ancient Greece – Let’s leave tradition on the trees.”
But we don’t need to be so bleak, My love, with New Year looming big ! Let’s open up our Winter fleece And warm our lips beneath the sprig. But if we came inside to seek A spot to kiss, we’re out of luck – The mistletoe, by cruel caprice, Has not a berry left to pluck…
A selection of heavyweight horizontals from Darcy Clothing
Shaggy Legs
One stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four, All hanging on the chimney-breast, drying from the hoar In the last of the embers of the evening’s sycamore – While their would-be wearers are upstairs a-snore.
One stripy, one chequey, one polka-dot, And one of them chunky with a Celtic knot. Here and there are patches, where the wool is shot, To keep their feet safe from the Winter as they trot.
One mini, two midi, one bigger skin, Though all of them kiddie-sized, toe-tip to shin. Yet looking rather empty here with no legs within, Are four half-pairs – but where are their kin ?
One two three and a fourth is the score, Though I wonder why they hung-up the footwear they wore ? Placed by the fire where no-one can ignore Are one stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four.
I know it’s a pretty dream, Virginia, That an adult might be true, But they’re lying through their teeth, my dear, And laughing back at you. They pat your pretty head, Virginia, And feed you a fairy tale, Then chide you when you fib, my dear, Their hypocrisy’s off-the-scale. The lesson to remember, kid, When asking for the gist, Is to never trust the printed word Of any journalist. For ev’rything the adults tell, Each lesson, tale, or fact, Is just a product that they sell, A vast and secret pact. Virginia, you need to know The rule they all live by – To keep hold of the status quo They’ll lie and lie and lie. I know it’s a crying shame, Virginia, That they won’t tell you straight That Santa Claus is a con, my dear – For goodness sake – you’re eight !
We spruce our spruces thoroughly, Bedecking ev’ry inch of tree With tinsel boas, bauble bling, And fairy-lights by endless string. And then we push it, fruits and all, Abruptly up against the wall – A lonely corner evergreen Where half the dressings can’t be seen. The lights at least from round the back, Like glow-works pilfering a snack, Can still be glimpsed-on now-and-then From deep within their needle den. But other trinkets pine away, Unnoticed all the holiday, Till hands come questing for the gains Of the few remaining candy canes.
December moths are loyal to their name, Defying Autumn’s dying – Hugged in furs, as charcoal as the nights, These moths keep flying – And yet, they earn so little fame, From folklores, who ignore them – However much they circle fairy lights With soft decorum.
They’re on the wing for Halloween, Yet bats have all the glory, And then they’re just too dark to stake a claim For the robin’s story. These spinners of the Winter slip between, Ours fears and holy writ, But touch on neither, failing at the game – They just don’t seem to fit.
All the Summer, lappets gorge on oaks, Unnoticed then as well – Pupating into eggars with the acorns, Till a colder spell. They hatch as the dead are donning cloaks, As if by frost released – Then die at the time of the manger-born, From fasting through the feast.
Turkeys – Flightless birds that secretly fly, Strutting, snooding, cocks of the walk Far too trusting, never shy, They land on our tables with barely a squawk. Despite a mislocated name, From Henry the Eighth to Norfolk farms, Across the Atlantic, on they came, With a boost from Scrooge to their pilgrim charms.
Turkeys – Flops and bombs and guano stinkers, Showy quills, but soon forgot Once back to work with Winter blinkers, Far from the rounds of the turkey trot. But still, they are a feast well-spent – And even cold, they set us free… With a pardon from the President, Or a gobble to bid bon appétit.
Rhyming Couplets 