The old man sits in a coat,
shivering cold,
overhearing stories about Christ being told.
He goes to sleep while the bongs and beeps,
the moon is flying across the creeps.
While he sleeps,
people give him gifts,
so this Christmas give a homeless person
a special gift
that the homeless person will lift and love.
May is the month when I celebrate,
while fishermen are fishing
with their fish-foody bait.
I celebrate happily with balloons in the air,
while l party on,
my mother takes care.
The party turns out with bubbles and food,
everyone’s happy,
no one’s in a mood.
May, I love the month of May
when I dance and hop and skip and play.
The party ends with friends going home,
I open a Coke full of frothy foam.
I bang my head on the hard, hard wall,
my eyes stream out wet, salty drool.
I go to bed with the tunes of birds in my ears,
they wash away my tears and fears.
There He lay
Surrounded
By shepherds
And animals
Who kneeled
Before him
Each longing for a glimpse
Awed by his presence
Each offering gifts
Expensive, bought with gold
To the new born King
Yet no one noticed
The bed he slept on
Had no pillow
Moved by the sight
A selfless stork
Pulled out the feathers
Of his own skin
And made the most comfortable pillow
Any baby could ask for
This act
Outlived the stork
By a few centuries
And more
And we still remember him
And the joy of giving gifts
Not from money
But from the heart
The wood is burning in their fire,
Whilst the snowflakes fall outside,
I always thought Christmas was a liar,
Summer is an easier ride.
The streets are cold and damp,
The air is ever so thin,
But my heart always seems to have a cramp,
No matter what situation I’m in.
My teeth chatter,
My mind is bare,
I might win over a few pennies,
Though that is very rare.
Steam climbs out of chimneys,
And the sky is full of stars,
Everyone fortunate celebrates,
But they never think about those who aren’t.
Silent dusk,
a tear sizzles down his cheek –
solitary;
the solider wishes for Santa.
Gleaming lights of the city,
makes him long for
home;
his eyes set on the sky.
Trailing between December clouds,
a sparkle of reindeer dust –
his longing fingers
a new sunrise in his eyes.
And yet, his vulnerable fingers…
he steps back, teary-eyed
reindeer dust or another gun shot?
Merry Christmas, Soldier!