Typed Music

Poems.

I suppose these are just little pieces of me, wrapped up in words.

The forgotten melodies of my mind.

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22. Thank you, Christmas

Thank you, Christmas, for the cross-eyed, singing penguin
Stuffed out of sight under the bed,
And for the sheets of icy rain,
And white buds of hail scattering the grass,
For the short, restless night – late night, early morning,
And for the disappointment of wrapped-up
Rulers and gel pens.
Thank you, Christmas, for the empty hollow
That presents can’t fill,
And for my grandparents’ flu,
And the sickly, unfulfilled promises
Of the stores and the radio.
Thank you, Christmas, for the corny jokes,
And for the alcohol down my parents’ throats,
For the heated stress of the kitchen,
For the mangled remains of a bird
On the sideboard beside my veggie sausages,
For the candle wax on the table cloth
And the happiness that came in fits
And bursts like the blue flame dancing
Atop the Christmas pudding; beautiful and short-lived.
Thank you, Christmas, for pledging me an unforgettable day
Of superficial festive cheer and overstatements
And for shattering my hyperbolic hopes
With your usual let-down job – make sure I still live reality
Thank you Christmas for your things, objects, gifts
I begged for them and then discarded them.
They weren’t worth the optimistic naivety
That I spent on them.

Thank you, Christmas, for the ornamental
Swells and troughs of choral music
 In the dim, candlelit church,
And for the peace of the night beneath the cloud caps,
For the warm thrum of the last chord
Of the choir anthem of angles,
For the realisation of deliverance
From the toxic waste of lights and cash.
Thank you, Christmas, for the sweaty, backstage air at the panto,
With excitement so thick it could be held
Between fingers.
And for the way the crocodile wore a blue wig,
For a pirate in a crop-top, Peter Pan in an elf hat,
In a fit of rambunctious high-spirits –
Professionals shedding adulthood; playing like kids.
Thank you, Christmas, for the watery sun
Reflecting off the puddles as it broke
Between grey mass,
And for the orange tongues, thirsty
For wood, that drank the dankness
From my clothes,
For the crystals beaded on the bare arms of my tree,
And for fog breath burning my nose
Thank you, Christmas, for the faces
Of grateful smiles that lit them from illness,
And for the cold toes on the carpet downstairs,
And the burned out fire and the little packages
Wrapped with care;
So much anticipation and thought, in those first
Moments after waking.
Thank you, Christmas, for your moments, feelings, life;
Nothing as shallow as the trappings in shop window,
They were worth far more than the notes
Handed over the counter.

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