Thursday, 26 December 2013

Christmas Poems - Day Three - Boxing Day

From Anna Maria Mickiewicz

Bells Ringing                                                                             

Creaking gently
Low breathing
Climbing spiral stairs
Pulling ropes
Cries peeling
Clangs and dings.
Pay attention,
Catching breath,
In the distance
Heavy thudding
Low voices
Hooves bashing
Whoosh and glee,
By the fireplace
Crunching, slurping
Laughter and rustling
Merry Christmas everyone.

(By Johanna Boal 6/12/13)

Susan Jane Sims


December dressed

at the Blue Angel Café

under scarves and jumpers

the long slow heartbeat

of winter

ghost-lips linger
on cappuccino cups

as gloved-fingers

come back to life

warmth, fairy lights, laughter
glitter-frost, a blue moon
and the promise of you.

Eileen Carney Hulme

Wednesday, 25 December 2013

Christmas Poems - Christmas Day - Day Two

Happy Christmas to everyone.

Copyright for all material on this page remains with the creators.


I’m not the only poor travelling woman
to birth her baby among animals
in a strange town.
I’m not the only mother to watch her son
confound his elders,
overstep the boundaries,
store up trouble for himself.
I’m not the only poor widow to watch her son
walk away with his friends
not knowing where his path would lead him,
trusting that he would return, one day.
I’m not the only mother to watch the son she loved above all things
dying before her, untimely.
In those precious moments holding my baby
everything was possible,
nothing was written,
the whole earth was filled with joy.

I hold that peace in my heart.

Jo Waterworth

Jo's moving collection My Father Speaks in Poetry too can be purchased from The PS online shop at

Graceful, standing like a ballerina

Torso captivating
Arms wide, reach out skilfully

Legs well-made
Foot arched and toes hard-pressed

Purposefully on the ground
The crown, a star, astounding drama

Trinkets and tinsel
A Christmas tree.

Johanna Boal 12/12/12

As it is my late Mum's birthday this feels appropriate as I will never stop being Irene's Daughter:

Being Irene’s daughter

My memory holds
the days
of being Irene’s daughter

the cosy winter coming home from school days
when I lit the fire while
mum cooked crispy breast of lamb
to eat with my fingers

the after the orthodontist treat days
when we came home
with half-coated
chocolate biscuits from Lewises

the brave radiotherapy sickness days
when I did the ironing
and mum, strong spirited as always
supervised my creases

the wedding preparation days
choosing my dress
and hers on a glorious
rain- drenched Saturday

and best of all

the exciting new mother days
when mum passed on
her wisdom and delighted
in cuddling each new born child

Susan Jane Sims

Monday, 23 December 2013

Christmas Poems - Day One - Christmas Eve

Yes it's time for the Christmas Blog again from Poetry Space - Happy Christmas!

 (Copyright - the poets)

A Christmas Fantasy

Mall-skating through flurries of cut-out penguins, Santas, reindeers,

we glide on past Merry–Xmas windows, air-conditioned polar bears,

glitter-frosted lights, frozen cash-machines, undressed models

flogging fashion and ski-rail our way out of Singapura’s

tinsel town to that sacred place where Fantasy Isle’s

lioness and stranded fish first met and then embraced.

Parasolled, I scan the bay’s busy contour lines – a trail

of morning sand-ants, surf beaching white, the bobbing wall

of shark-barrier buoys, fuzzy two-way shipping lanes  

and an ever-so slightly bowed equator, horizontally sunning

itself in zero degrees of latitude – and imagine I’m space-hubbling,

watching Watatsumi the mighty sea-dragon confine, restrain,

detain our unfathomable mass of curved ocean;

I imagine Gaia-free gravity washing the heavens

in deep-sea blue; I imagine crossing the saline skyline again

and again; I imagine passing uncharted archipelagos,

becoming the discoverer of Christmas-Island barbecues  

and, ready to celebrate with jingle bells, I surf-ride

in upon an unimaginably joyful, Aussie Yuletide.

Mike Lee
And here is Mike looking very relaxed in Singapore's Raffles hotel:

Mike is the very latest poet to have a short collection (Time-webs) published by Poetry Space. Mike  will be reading from his collection in a series of local house readings for friends and colleagues. He is also lined up as guest poet at Bristol's Can Opener even at Foyles Bookshop in Bristol on Friday April 4th 2014.

The Emerald Mistress

Excitement swiftly builds with the presence of the large green lady
The strongest member of the party heaves her from the car
Groping her curves through the entrance
Now more miniscule than ever
Violence unfolds
The provider of festive joy and ‘cosiness’
Who must be crowned
Bodily fluids secrete
Her jagged pines sear through your clothing
Sweat leaks from your temples
Slight panic seeps in
Where the fuck will she live?
The lounge? The hall?
Somewhere she’ll make the least bloody mess.
The children’s eyes widen. Euphoria
Saliva trickles from their lips
Soaking through their woollen jumpers
Dreaming of the mysterious delights that very soon
May be placed beneath her skirt
Xmas carols plonking along in the background
Dusty tinsel tickles your ankles
Sticking to your feet
Mince pies toasting in the oven
Alongside trays upon trays of sliced orange, sizzling on the grill
A sweet, familiar scent
Deal with the dinner
Leave the wife to decorate her green limbs
The kids dress her in gold and silver
Tarting her up
Just the way you like them
Her pines reek of smoke
A sour musk from the van driver
Stinking of other men
What a cheek
Coming here in your house smelling like that
Cheap slut
With your dirty seconds
Didn’t care where she came from
As long as you had her
The wife sprays her with a ‘pine tree’ air freshener
Now gleaming with sparkles and lights from head to toe
Crowned with a large white angel
She smirks
At your family
Winking at you
Only you
Her innocence is long gone
The kids take your hand and drag you closer
To admire her body
You can’t help liking her now, can you?
All dressed up and fancy
Eyes fixed on her deep green skin
Reminisce now
Dig through those buried childhood memories once again
Years go by and still you cling on to this one sick recollection
Tiny and innocent you sat by her trunk
About five or six years young
Peering up her skirt
Blinded by the flashing fairy lights but loving it all the same
Fallen pines pricked your toes as you sat cross-legged on the cold wooden floor
You squeezed. Two hands
Gripping tightly around the incisions
Pressure mounting
Toes swelling with heat
A cold red release soothed your mind
As you licked it up with your fragile tongue
The delicious pain
Only to be relived each year
Every December
Once the wife and kids are tucked up in their perfect little beds
And have fallen fast asleep
And your emerald mistress

Shay Crinkle December 2013


Carols chime

streets sprout festive trees

lights string over shops

crowds gather

shops bustle

it’s coming up to Christmas.

Where’s the child

not at home

he’s in the camp

waiting peace

no kings will come

or angels sing

they wait for you.

Carolyn O’Connell

December 2013

Keep them coming - more tomorrow

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