To essay or not essay this Christmas Day,
that is not a question for another time
as the clock ticks down towards submission deadline.
To write or not write this Christmas Night,
paragraph upon paragraph of plight
long into the dying of the light;
oh, the fear of candlelit stage freight.
Tired hair,
warm snow falling
on green lawns still growing;
tired hair,
tired awnings
keeps patio portions dry;
tired hair,
tired bushes
fruitless endeavours on repeat;
tired hair,
warm snow falling
— outside the tired sleep
Seeking nurture and navigation
in a fast fading food chain,
I pin myself at the top of the feed
crave a cry for comestibles
but silence the only sustenance
as the larder was left empty,
the farmer’s pig still in its blanket,
and the fast food facility
provides no needed nourishment
for this lost and hungry soul.
There’s irony hidden inside boxes
wrapped in red and silver and blue
shining paper of single use
under green plastic trees
sprayed with scents
reminiscent of the world
outside their walls.
There are boxes
whispering of situational irony,
labels shouting tragedy, tragedy
of irony through soliloquies.
There’s irony without metallurgy;
love without shiny paper;
tragedies arising from empty bottles;
but only the world outside these walls
can ever bring me comfort,
or hope.
There’s no Santa Close
nearby the stocking
in the plastic bag
in the box
in a box
in a box
somewhere in an attic
not far away from an airfield
reserved for reindeers
this time of year.
There’s no Santa Clause
stipulating sizes on boxes
in boxes
in boxes
with plastic bags and stockings;
why not?
There’s no Santa Claus nearby.
There’s no Santa in my life anymore
than there was a hundred years ago
when boxes were wrapped,
under living trees with baubles
reflecting the happy dreams
of youth.
Sudden Death Syndrome
a Kamikaze Cataclysm,
the Divine Wind
sings the Songs of Victory,
Lights out and —
all cheerful banter fades
beHind
buShes,
beFore
tiMe comes to a hal—
Love me, like you loved before
time became a chain, rust and
raspberries in a field of dreams
in a neighbourhood of old woes,
strained eyeshadow and lipgloss
and the bottles
stashed under broken benches
and the sweet smoke lingered
between their grey towers.
Love me like you loved them;
I am different
-ly shaped, but love is love
and love is
(they say)
a meaning, purpose, and answer
to questions I’ve yet to ask.
Love me,
and all will be alright
(they say)
in days and nights of passions
bought with credit
card, cards, stacks of borrowed
love
dropped in a desolate field
— of dreams.
Creative spirits never die,
their embers merely slumber
with every waning moon above,
only to reawaken
at the slightest sign of sparks:
a word hidden amongst other words;
a tired thought of spite;
or the musings over memories
returning out of place;
all tickling the spirit’s soul
like venom to a snake;
passions, the essence of fire
for any creative soul,
burns to fuel the flames
of all innate artistry;
spirits walk and roam,
runs towards the silent rooms
to find another’s burning desire
— waiting to reignite.
My publishing project started in 2018, and perhaps aptly set out as a poem… Bumblebee will be published in 2023, but after that who knows where this journey will take me.
My achievements so far:
Ghosts – poems in black and white
