I used to love to get it out and show it off to everyone who came to our house and home.
I used to do the whole caboodle – my adornments hanging freely out for all to view and gasp.
But then it started getting harder; people didn’t want to see it, so much so they wouldn’t come,
Started coming much less often, seen it better and more entertaining they would coldly rasp.
It isn’t funny any more when vegan-friendliness interprets all your ways as naff or sad
Teens and twenties dump your music just to listen to the throbbing of the headache sounds of crackheads
Older relatives won’t travel: much too feeble; much too frail; Virgin Rail? Are you mad?
And those who’ve “made it” – those with “readies” get the total modern, epic courtesy of Harrods
So my baubles not as shiny, so they hang a little lower on my artificial branches,
And my angels tinkle vaguely and there’s house-dust on the fairy, verdigris on my gold rings,
So the tinsel suffers from a case of alopecia, and the sign hung in the window broadcasts Hapn Cri tmas
Still I think my old things score as they have something more to offer – more than mere glitter brings
This old toilet tissue cardboard with the cotton wool around it and the floppy fuzzy-felt hat.
That’s the snowman that our small girl made us when she was at juniors, stuffed with joy.
The reindeer bells that jangle coarsely hanging on the outer door, gladdened as I crossed the mat.
I like to think, if Jesus entered, in his civvies, he would say – “You done good, boy!”
Filling a book of futures with planned desires
Hopes are mounted like empty photographs
Whose pictures we supply,
Each image, when it’s due, removed
And pasted in the book of me on the page of now
Painted with reality,
Time passes and each life moves on with its own pulse
Marking moments as the turn of chapters,
Marking moments as the flicking of pages
That fill the heart with recollections
Of joys and pains and the mind’s reflections.
And hope’s pictures unachieved gently rest as feathers in the book of fallen dreams.