Hallelujah

Fire and Ice

This was last year’s attempt at a Christmas poem, and it didn’t exactly come out very jinglebellsy – although it does use the word “Christmas”! With this in mind, I’m keeping it well away from Christmas and posting it in May. Enjoy!

Hallelujah

The angel stood on the patio,

his feathers buttered and heavy.

He was not the angel we’d had in mind.

He was winter with a blown halo.

 

He was the sum of our moods – hot and popping,

spitting in fire like pigskin.

He was white ash and burnt marshmallow,

crick-cracking. His smile was an ice-flow.

 

He turned once. He kept turning.

He was a Christmas fairground.

We threw roasting-nuts. We won nothing –

just the sizzle-spin of his eyebrow.

 

Round and round, wings greasy,

muscles strained, steaming and sallow,

he yelled like a Mexican wrestler

until the hail came. Hallelujah. 

 

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

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Dark December

It’s the time of year where everything is supposed to be bright and shiny… but it’s dark, we’re tired, there’s too much going on, and sometimes it just gets a bit much…

Dark December

This is the time of year,
When the ice slides in and cracks my veneer,
And the drear of the grey sodden skies leads my eyes,
To where sanctuary lies…
In the dark.

This is the time of year,
When the howling nights punch a path to my fear,
And the mere thought of company speeds my retreat,
Craving solitude sweet…
In the dark.

This is the time of year,
Which has made its name out of merciless cheer,
And the sheer expectations that blare in my mind,
Cause my thoughts to unwind…
In the dark.

This is the time of year,
When I long for the clamour to just disappear,
But the tears crowd my eyes as the chaos crowds me,
It will not let me be, not even…
in the dark.

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Photo by Eric Gilkes on Unsplash

If I open the Matchmakers, that will be it

Well, here we are, coming towards that end of that magical / terrible time between Christmas and New Year. Nearly time to contemplate the dull, saintly times that lie ahead and wave farewell to guilt-free scoffing. But just about time to open one last box of choccies… I mean it can’t do any harm…

If I open the Matchmakers, that will be it

Well then, my friends, it’s the end of December,
I’ve eaten more goodies than I can remember,
And left in the cupboard, one last chocolate hit,

If I open the Matchmakers, that will be it.

I’ve eaten the Roses, the After Eight Mints,
The Pringles, the Wine Gums, the Lindor by Lindt,
The time will soon come to (ugh) cut down a bit,

If I open the Matchmakers, that will be it.

I’ve eaten Fruit Pastilles, and hummus and brie,
And portions of pud that are too big for me,
My jeans are quite tight, but – yay – PJs still fit,

If I open the Matchmakers, that will be it.

So sod off, New Year, and the cry to “get fit”,
Cos naughty food’s yummy and healthy food’s shit.
But my stomach IS sticking out more that my tits…

I’ll open the Matchmakers. That will be it.

Honest.

©️ Nina Parmenter 2017

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Remember, remember, it still is November

Right, a couple of things I need to make clear before we launch into this one.

Firstly, I’m not against Christmas decorations per se. I just think a couple of weeks of them is PLENTY (yes, and that applies to your Christmas jumpers too, peak-too-sooners).

Secondly, this poem has NOTHING to do with the fact that I have a mid-December birthday and think everything leading up to, and including, my birthday should be ALL ABOUT ME. So, now that’s all clear, without further ado…

 

Remember, remember, it still is November

Remember, remember, it still is November,
Although the frost’s starting to bite,
For while those last leaves still cling to the trees,

STEP AWAY FROM THE ICICLE LIGHTS!

Resist your fake snow, your flashing “HO HO”,
Treat inflatable Santa with caution,
For he surely will burst by December the first,

If you’re blowing him up in the autumn.

By December the twelfth, the elf on the shelf
will hide in the pub with a half,
And before Christmas Eve, all the reindeer will leave,

Because Lapland is more of a laugh.

Your nativity scene will be mouldy and green,
There’ll be actual lichen on Mary,
Your chattering Santa will be out of banter,

Having bored the tits off the good fairy.

“Will we EVER get there?” wail the kids in despair,
As they gaze through the glass, looking bleak,
“With the house so festooned, Christmas MUST be SO SOON!”

“No it’s not, kids. It’s over six weeks.”

So – you want Christmas day to be happy and gay?
Dear readers, what have we discovered?
Remember, remember, until mid-December,

Keep Christmassy crap in the cupboard!

 

©️ Nina Parmenter 2017

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