Friday, December 23, 2005
That Santa in the seedy suit,
shaking the Salvation Army cup,
leers at me through yellow teeth,
pulls out a flask. Tipples.
Songbooks mold in cold cellars,
while woulda-been carolers
hunt wide screen TVs and
Victoria's Secret push-up bras in hopes
that this eve they'll get lucky again.
ohhhhh night divine!
I force myself to forget days of...
yonder breaks a new and glorious morn
cookie dough still coating my mother's hands,
the scent of old Christmas trees, bent
with homemade soldiers and angels, waiting
for us in the front parlour.
Come, my sweet. Lead me from
graveyards littered with
fake floral remembrances to the
ones we have loved, who no longer
can rise to sing with us on this day.
Art: Herbert MacNair. The Sleeping Princess
From the ArtMagik site