Monday, December 25, 2006

'Twill not be Christmas

What will it be? I need to know.
The day lies abandoned in the hall.
‘Twill not be Christmas, unless we make it so.

We sip our happiness, take it slow –
we hardly feel the sting at all.
What will it be? I need to know.

New wishes melt in our hands like snow,
the blessings escape us, the years fall.
‘Twill not be Christmas, unless we make it so.

Ice-cubes, like prophecies, gleam and glow,
new stars dissolving in a whiskied pall.
What will it be? I need to know.

The wind stops by to say hello,
the stars are gift wrapped, night comes to call.
Yet ‘tis not Christmas. Unless we make it so.

Celebrations come, celebrations go,
hope is large and memory small.
What will it be? I need to know.
‘Twill not be Christmas, unless we make it so.


Season's Greetings all.

Whether or not you choose to celebrate Christmas is your own affair. Here's hoping you manage to get drunk making the decision.

P.S. I have this persistent vision of Santa coming into work one Christmas Eve, taking one long look at what the night has in store for him, and deciding to chuck it all and go get loaded instead. After all, those ruddy cheeks of his have to come from somewhere.

This poem started off as a conversation between a hung over Santa and one of his elves, though at some point it developed a mind of its own.


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3 comments:

km said...

And to you too, Falstaff.

Heading out for the Mummers' Parade, are you?

Anonymous said...

seasons greetings from me too

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