The hardest thing I did this year,
was to stand up at your memorial service
and read one of your poems about nature.
I mean I’m a city boy, made of streets and brick,
reading a poem about the wisdom of trees.
Trees, my only concern with them
is when they drop their leaves
on my lawn.
But now I read your poem,
a poem whose words grew and blossomed
from the earth that nourished them.
Words to me that feel like
pebbles in my mouth.
Afterwards when I get home,
I take the paper with your words and
bury them under the tree,
at the bottom of my garden.
I thought you might appreciate it.
Last Christmas I gave you my heart.
Then the very next day….
A mob of angry villagers
under the misapprehension I was some sort of grave robber
appeared at my castle
armed with pitchforks and torches.
They then proceeded to burn down my ancestral home
destroy my science project
and threaten me with legal action.
So this year to save me from tears
i think I’ll just give you… Next vouchers.
I’m the work spreadsheet that won’t balance,
The disembodied electronic voice in the lift.
The email that invites you to an all day meeting,
The feeling you’re not alone on the night shift.
I’m the missed call on your mobile phone,
The last five percent on your battery.
The text message from someone you don’t know,
The unknown person photobombing your selfie.
I’m the treacherous black ice on the pavement,
The hard rain that drives and stings.
The wind that smashes grit into your eyes,
The unexpected crack of thunder and lightning.
I’m the decaying pigeon corpse on the footpath,
The brick wall that blocks the end of the street
The steaming vomit at the bus stop,
The cracked paving slab that twists your feet.
I’m the traffic accident blocking the motorway,
I’m the stabbing outside Marks and Spencers.
I’m the person throwing themselves in front of the train,
I’m the demon that owns the soul of this city, your urban tormentor.
I focus on….
The dough not the nut,
The beer not the gut,
The joy not the division,
The tunnel not the vision,
The Doctor not the who,
The crazy not the glue,
The under not the exposure,
The game not the over,
The world not the war,
The eye not the sore,
The banana not the split,
The bull not the shit.
Festive tradition says that it’s bad luck
to refuse a kiss under the mistletoe.
I mean what harm can it bring to
lock lips under bright green foliage
and berries as rich and white
as the soft touch of snow.
Could you resist a seasonal dare
and the accompanying giggles that
But don’t forget in your excitement that
mistletoe and its plump white berries also
bring extra Christmas gifts.
They love to give you blurred vision,
soaring blood pressure but best of all
they will kill you.
Mind you they do say a kiss will do
exactly the same thing.