Gift Wrapping

There – done – ripped apart
then left on a slunked chair
or hung on the fat bannister –

then the glee-torn wrappings
are bagged – either ‘re’ –
or ‘not-re’ – ‘cyclable

I sit in my Christmas jumper
and hear the thankless mumbles
from others for their useless gifts –

We never know how to lie
on Christmas Day

And tomorrow there will be bags
of this year’s unwanted stuff
heading to the cancer shop

or to fill the unlocked industrial bins –
to become lumpen beds
for the badly-wrapped tenants

No Room

Through this sludge-week
before your lit Yuletide –
this path of slopped rain
sucks hard on my boots

as I traipse in my circles
of the dog-dug conditions –
through which I’m set fast
by your barked-out orders –

Only return home
with a well-cut one –
which will not then tip –
not ’til the twelfth day –

Such held superstitions –
erected by lost Popes –
were claims on short nights
over our pagan ways –

I’d rather keep cold gods
from the warm living room –
I hold no love
for your desiccated tree

Fucking Christmas

These yearly demands unto revelry
with tipped back long stem glasses of Italian blood and French piss
are now taken in our blinded stride
through this season
which we should claim back from baby fucking Jesus
to now take the true Yuletide home into the debauchery we once had
good and bad
more traditional than trees and yo-fucking-ho
resurrect
before Easter
the true solstice.

The Tree

I dropped the car’s roof
with a pull on the switch

to make a high space
for the felled decoration

and drove over six miles

to home with the tree

there propped in your space

and at sixty miles an hour
the top of that cut tree
sung every forest song
that she could recall
before her Xmas demise

Gifted


It’ll be another end
to another slowing year,
my tightening body
under pain’s besmear:

A letterbox drop,
cards on the hall floor,
there to remain,
as I can’t bend any more:

Christmas on pause,
a slight hint of freeze,
until the carer’s arrival,
to attend to me –

if she turns up,
if she’s the same one,
– my hour will lighten,
a bath will be run.

A text from my child,
now a mum on her own,
they’ll be here by three,
we are never alone.

One lesson I’ve learnt,
under disease’s deep rub,
is that life is still wonderful
when treated with love.


Featured in Parkinson’s Life


Angry Santa of Tunbridge


Today I met Santa Claus,
queued up for the 29,
off to Tunbridge Wells,
he was stood quietly in line.
I just had to stop and ask
how work is for him now,
he replied quite sternly:
They’ve removed the sense of wow..
..it’s a mad, mad world we live in,
child abuse… kids left to die:
I’ve stopped all home deliveries, 
in case I’m banged-up Christmas night.
I’ve now outsourced to Hermes, 
it’s as efficient as the sleigh:
And what’s it bloomin’ all about? 
More credit cards to repay!
I left him, stood there fuming,
grumbling, quite profane,
I’m glad I didn’t ask him
if I’d be getting socks again.