In dark December, sink
into the memory of childhood
like a bog man into the peat.
Drink too much & sing.
Gather all your small griefs,
your long-bearded regrets
& grotesque humiliations,
dress them in red & set
them to hammering. This is
the season of fresh starts
& the slaughter of innocents.
Remember to cut air holes
in the top crust & don’t stint
on butter. Wear sensible boots.
Go out into the long night
& learn the names of the stars.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
I love this, Dave. With extra lashings of butter, and stars, I might survive this one without too much hammering :P
Another good one, Dave! At least we have butter here. Evidently Norway is clean out.
oh, holy wow, Dave — this is fabulous. Powerful and rueful, just like this time of year. Nice work.
Beautiful.!
SO perfect!! Wonderful!
Wonderful! You cannot have a Christmas poem without butter, and you’ve used it perfectly.
Gosh, thanks, y’all! I’m trying to make a little video for this poem, too, in my abundant free time here.