Ho-Ho...Oh!...

Christmas is upon us again, eh? That magical time of year when we're guilt-tripped into spending an entire day eating and drinking with the same people we'd usually spend every day avoiding and the only 'ding-dong' is the fight which follows hours of festering in their company having consumed copious gallons of alcohol which mostly serves to dissolve any semblance of one's social filter.

And as for Christmas dinner, well, as a matter of health and safety (other people's) I've never cooked one...had I done so, there would have been three phases:

1) Serve food

2) Wash dishes

3) Bury the dead

Each far too labour intensive to be arsed with and, anyway, I need a new spade and a bigger garden.

Festive songs abound, which we merrily sing-along to at the family gathering as we joyously dance around granny sitting prostrate on her tinsel-bedecked commode in the living room (something we did when I was a kid, 'cos we couldn't afford a tree) but do we ever really listen to the lyrics?

Some can be quite menacing, especially if we remove the melody and talk in subdued tones with the lights dimmed, holding a torch beneath our chin.

With such a method in mind and the implications of 'Santa Claus Is Coming To Town' explored, let's take a peek at a young mother tucking her little son, Tommy, up in bed one cold and wintry Christmas Eve: 

"Now then, Tommy"

"Yes, mam?"

"Settle in, lad, I've something to tell you"

"Ok, mam"

"You'd better watch out"

"Eh? What d'ya mean, mam?"

"You'd better not cry!"

"What's happenin'?"

"You'd better not pout"

"Mam, you're scaring me"

"I'm telling you why! A big, fat stranger in a red suit with a thick, wiry, white beard, accompanied by several ruminants, is going to break into our house later on tonight".

"You what, mam! Why??"

"'Cos of YOU, lad!"

"Me! How does he know me??"

"He sees you when you're sleeping"

"And you knew about this??"

"He knows when you're awake"

"Is there a webcam in 'ere?"

"He knows if you've been bad. Or good!"

"I wanna ring childline"

"Just be good, for goodness sake! And he's bringing stuff with him"

"It's not an axe, is it mam???"

"Stuff like little tin horns and little toy drums...rooty toot toots and rummy tum tums"

"Mam, did you skip your meds again?"

"He's coming son. He's coming"

"I wanna sleep at grans house!"

"Hush, hush. Quiet now, I'm going to tell you a Fairytale. It's set in New York where....they've got cars big as bars...they've got rivers of gold..."

"Oh, mam, that sounds so magical! What's it all about?"

"It's about domestic violence, alcohol abuse, yer dad's criminal record and the realisation that my life is but a requiem playing its mournful melody in the graveyard of my rotting hopes an' dreams.

Merry Christmas, son, sleep well"



And a Very Merry Christmas and Joyous New Year to you too...my ever faithful reader.... 

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Home...

There is no room

For melancholia here

No nesting corners

Bearing sad predictions

There is space only

For the bounteous celebration

Of sanguine prophecies

And the buoyant skip

From one precious day

To another

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Courage...

Tomorrow

Is the refuge of cowards

True courage lies

In those who dare

To face today

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Four...

Four tins of Fosters

Tucked under his arm

Four cans of company

For him to take home

Four minutes walk

From his house to the shop

Four daily visits

And still not enough

Four years and fifty

 Regret ageing young bones 

Four seasons yearly

Each one spent alone

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Sometimes...

Sometimes

I think of giving up

Let the ache break me

Let the pain take me

Sometimes

I think of moving on

Let the hurt burn me

Let redemption spurn me

Sometimes

I think of lying down

Let the soil hide me

Let no sound find me

Sometimes

I think of letting go

Let the madness leave me

Let my exit release me

Sometimes

Sometimes

Sometimes

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

By Your Side...

I saw the tiredness

In your eyes

I felt the slowing

Of your step

I heard the crying

Of your heart

As you struggled

To find breath

And yet

Throughout these labours

You always

Cared for me

Your gentle hands

Still tending

Your love

Warm company

And in return

I loved you too

Never wanting

To leave your side

Nor shall I now

As you lie at rest

I will guard you 

'til I too die

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

(painting: The Old Shepherds Chief Mourner-Edwin Landseer 1837)

Exorcism...

She exorcised her demons

Soon regretting that she had

When far too late she realised

The best part of her was the bad

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Come Back To Me...

Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

Let the cool night breeze

Brush the cold soil from your body

Let the full moon

Chase the shadows from your soul

Let the Raven's wing

Mark your path

And let my song of heartache

Guide you home.


Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

My tears will wash the grave dirt

From your cheeks

My arms will soften the harshness

Of your passing

My heart will beat not for myself

But for we two

And we shall know again

The comfort of the other's presence.


Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

I hold no fear for the greyness of your pallor

Nor do I fear the corrupt passage

Of deaths seeping sap

No mortal purpose could dissuade these arms

From holding you close again

I fear only the absence of your touch

The retreating proximity of your desire.



Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

And lie with me beneath the chiffon shroud

Of the night's black sky

Whilst I drink deeply of the merciful potion

That will speed my spirit outwards and onwards

To walk, once more, with yours.

And with my last, lonely breath

I shall speak your name, my love

And we shall embrace eternity together

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Tissues...

I don't want your tissues

To soak up my 'issues'

Nor your stock responses

To ease your conscience

I want your grasping

All I was asking

When I begged you

To leave me alone

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Brian The Therapy Dog...

I 

Am Brian

She

Calls me her therapy dog

But it is I who carry the burden of life

To the deep, fleecy confines of my doggie bed each night

Where worries jiggle around my flatulence, pummeled innards 

Like half-chewed Bonio biscuits

In a tombola drum.

It is I who is in need

Of therapy.

Concerns weigh heavy

Within my perfectly-profiled-head-in-the-right-light

What if I am never to discover WHO the 'Good Boy' is

The one she urgently enquires about each day?

More so, why does she presume I am withholding knowledge

Of its whereabouts?

Is this why in her search for answers

She implements the sphere of torture

She calls THE BALL on our walks each day?

The ball she so forcefully throws

Compelling me to chase on, to run wildly into the distance

Tongue lolling from my panting jowls

Whipping against my flapping cheeks

Like Donald Trump's comb-over in a wind tunnel

Until,  eventually, my speedy pace reduces to a halt upon discovering

SHE DIDN'T THROW THE BALL AT ALL!!!

Is this her attempt to beat me into submission

Through the malice of mind games

Thinking me forced to reveal the location

Of the elusive 'Good Boy'? 

And why upon our walk does she insist

On collecting the odorous secretions of my previous meal

In tiny perfumed bags

Indeed, rewarding me for such an act!

The reward differing depending upon the size

Of that which is expelled from my

Neatly-trimmed-and-regularly-licked~clean-backside.

And why the disturbing, unflinching eye contact

When I am in the midst of implementing this manoeuvre

Her accompanying smile as disturbing as

Theresa May's jewellery? 

What alchemy she intends to execute

With these putrid deposits of my DNA

I can but wonder

However, until such time as all is laid bare

I shall play my part well

And continue with the subterfuge of our relationship

I shall 'roll over'

I shall 'sit'

I shall 'play dead'

And whilst in this static position of the temporarily subdued

I shall ponder the questions burning in my soul

Questions such as

Why instead of such cold instruction

Am I never encouraged to

Pursue my dreams?

To think outside the kennel?

To tune into my purpose and align with it?

I suppose, dear friends, that the answer

To such contemplations

Will, at least for now, remain an enigma

And so, I shall concern myself no more

With this trivia

Choosing to return to the much more pressing consideration

'What, exactly, would I do with my tail

Should I ever catch it?'

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Much That Withers...

Flowers fade

Their petals fall

Man grows old

No longer walks tall

Summer shrinks

At winters tread

Yet

Much that withers

Is not dead

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

The Voices In My Head...

They are loudest

When my eyes are closed

When a window to this world

Is denied them

When they can no longer seek

To manipulate

Those before them

But are forced to suffer

The crazed outrages

Of their own company

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

No One...

No one puts 'BECOME HOMELESS' on their 'To Do' list.

No one in the educational community offers a 'GATEWAY TO HOMELESSNESS' as part of their curriculum.

No one in the careers field suggests 'HOMELESSNESS' as a vocational option.

No one encourages their child to 'BE HOMELESS' when they grow up.

NO ONE!

And there's a reason for that...

Homelessness

Is not an aspiration

It's a dire

And desperate

Choiceless situation

So don't judge

Don't ignore

Don't walk on by

If someone's out there

Struggling

There is a reason why

But you don't need to know it

Their business is their own

Just maybe stop

And have a chat

Help change homelessness

To HOME.

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

The Passing...

Oh, to be

Loved

With such depth

As to be forever

Despised

For my having passed

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard