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  • Writer's pictureKayleigh Willis


A handful for XMAS...have a good one.

Health and happiness to you in 2022 : )


'Scary Santa' by Kay Reeves

When Santa came to our house

When I was not quite three

He parked his sleigh upon our roof

And came to visit me.

He wriggled down the chimney

The fit was rather tight

With soot and beard and "Ho ho ho"

I had an awful fright.

I ran down to my mother

Screaming all the way

"There's a strange man in my bedroom

Please make him go away".

My dad said " I'll soon sort him"

He whacked him blue and black

Then tied him up with tinsel

And stuffed him in his sack.

The reindeer brought the sleigh down

And Daddy threw him in

Then Rudolf led them flying off

But left, beside the bin,

A pile of presents all wrapped up

To put beneath our tree

At breakfast time I opened them

And they were all for me.

'Christmas Wrapping' by Cathy Cade

While one hand holds the paper, t’other’s groping for the tape.

Her goodwill fades as sticky tape escapes her lurches.

She lets go the gift, and travels to the tape that caused the hassles

and the perfect wrap unravels.


Christmas present trapping while the other side’s unwrapping

and the tape is strapping fingers to the box,

is a skill she’s never mastered. Disaster! She’s plastered

the label to the table. Hubby mocks.

But he won’t wield the scissors to help her do the business.

And as weeks fly by to Christmas, pressures rise

to wrap every festive offering for her children and their offspring

—whether fake bling or the real thing—by yuletide.

When they’re stacked under the tree, looking higgledy-piggledy,

and the grandkids come to see and anticipate with glee;

tree-lights winter-twinkling.

They won’t go in Santa’s sack because corners come unwrapped,

but it’s worth her aching back when her grandchildren feedback:

Gran’s look… interesting.

'Cardboard Castles' by Nicola Hodge

If an Englishman’s home is his castle,

Does he not have the right to choose

A soft eiderdown to enfold him,

Instead of just yesterday’s news?

Our warm, cosy homes are inviting.

We’ve curtains to blindfold the panes,

While the cold winter wind is biting

And freezing the blood in his veins.

They’ve illuminated the High Street.

Carolers sing Christmas hymns.

Shoppers are loaded with presents,

While hungry men go through the bins.

Merry Christmas to everyone!

Except those who’ve run out of luck.

For some it’s a season of hardship,

In a world that does not give a damn.

'A Festive Spread' by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

Across the whole of Europe, Omicron

Feels smug this Yuletide. It is spreading fast,

Extending Covid's ultra-marathon

So long, it risks our Christmastide repast.

The image that the World Health Org concoct

Is not, but should be, green. Can they not see

Verruca-like, malevolently pocked

Excrescences betray the Grinch? 'Tis he! ...

Seuss made the Grinch succumb to Whoville—Who’s

Pronounced unlike the WHO—

Rejoicing even though their bugaboo’s

Endangered feasting ... That's the way to go

As spread of Omicron bodes Christmas dread—

Delivering a festive spread instead!

'Nativity in Mono' by Cardinal Cox

And lo, it came to pass, that an Angel of the LORD needed a bit of a breather. So they nipped into the bar of the very busy inn and there did find three poets.

“Hosanna, for a miracle has occurred in the stable,” the Angel sang, “come and see.”

“Well I don’t think much of your lyrics,” said the first poet, “let me look at your sheet and I’ll try and write you some better ones.”

“I’ve just got comfortable,” said the second, “if we get up we’ll lose this table.”

“I’ll come,” said the third poet. And when he came into the stable he did turn to the Angel and say, “it’s not very original, is it? Reminds me of the births of Krishna and Mithras. And from what you’ve told me of the Divine plan, well, isn’t that just several Attic Mystery Cults with the serial numbers filed off?”

And the Angel turned to the poet and said, “does it matter if this is original or not? In the beginning was the Word and what you’re witnessing is narrative thrust. The message is more important than the medium.” And with that the Angel let the poet feel a smiting to his rear from an Angelic foot.

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