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C Mahood Dec 2018
Listen kids I’ve got something to say,
Before he met Mrs clause, Santa was gay.

I suppose that makes him. Bisexual
He was also an intellectual.

He studied at the college of legends and myth
That’s where he met his love, Mr. Smith.

They met while studying invincibility
In the library, a place of true tranquility.

Before he had grown the big white beard,
He had acne and pox marks that people found weird

Not Mr Smith, he thought he was quite handsome
He said the moment they met his heart was held ransom.

They met every lunchtime and ate in the park
They discussed a love of Christmas and knew there was a spark.

Santa had wanted this since the moment he was born.
Someone to love, someone with the horn.

Two. To be precise on either side of his head.
It lead to lots of excitement and surprises in bed.

When both of them had graduated, diplomas in hand,
Santa went into the family business, Krampus joined a band

Like his father before him Santa was a toy maker
Whereas Krampus had become a notorious law breaker

When Santa was out testing toys in the rain,
Krampus was getting drunk and snorting *******.

But despite the distance they always made time
To meet at least once a month for cheese and wine.

One time. However, 5 years after they met,
They snuggled up together, enjoying every second they could get.

Krampus hugged him so tight, if only he’d known,
That Santa had to break some awful news of his own.

You see, to take over from his dad there were rules to follow,
This news was almost the hardest thing Krampus had to swallow.

The rules were quite clear, Krampus had to get the boot,
Santa had to marry a Mrs cause before he dawned the red suit.

Krampus couldn’t believe it, can’t the estate move with the times?
Were these really the rules or was Santa sick of his crimes?

Santa swore blindly that these were the things he had to do.
But he swore to Krampus “I’ll always really love you! “

Despite this heartfelt confession Krampus was pretty ******
He tried to push himself to his feet, but drunkenly he missed.

He slipped head first towards Santa who stood in his place.
His horns were sharp and pointed, stabbing Santa in the face.
“oh ****!”  he screamed “are you OK?” but Santa screamed in pain.
Both his eyes were bleeding red, fearing he would. Never see again.

Krampus rang his buddy from the ER that he knew,
Panicking he cried down the phone not knowing what to do.

He explained the situation not knowing what to say,
He had to rush Santa there quite fast, he had to use the sleigh.

There were no magic reindeer to pull the sleigh that night
So Krampus used a pack of wolves, and held on quick and tight.

They made it to the hospital hoping, No one saw them fly
Krampus tried to stay real strong, he didn’t want to cry.

But when Santa went to surgery to see what could be done.
Krampus balled his eyes out, he just wanted to run.

He stated all night in the waiting room with all his fingers crossed
He swore he would make it to to him, no matter what the cost.

Finally the tooth fairy gave him A happy nod.
Santa would Be fine for now. Krampus thanked his God.

He didn’t really believe in God, there isn’t one, he knew,
But in that situation it just felt the right thing to do.

When he went into visit and to say his apologies,
He found the door was locked, and Santa’s father held the keys.

“be gone you **** Demon, I think you’ve done enough!
Mrs clause has gone to Santa’s flat to empty all your stuff! “

Krampus tried to speak but Santa senior cut him off.
“you are not to see my son again, you honey smelly goth!

He has a big bright future, a loving faithful life ahead,
And I swear, over my dead body will you be back inside his bed!

Now get the hell out of here, don’t show your face again,
Go crawl back to the tree stump hole, that sinfully minging den! “

Krampus really had messed up, and took all the comments thick,
Santa had said his dad was old fashioned, but not that he was a total ****!

In anger Krampus left and swore to never love again.
He felt embarrassed and ashamed, that he was into men.

For years he lived a quiet life but never found his calling
Until one Christmas eve he saw a flying sleigh that started falling.

He ran as fast as his houves could to catch the falling fatty
His clothes were old and smelly, ripped and frayed and all round tatty.

Luckily he managed just in time to save the man from dying
But he was not prepared to see his long lost love, and started crying.

Both of them just stood and hugged, thier love was truly magic
They both hated the fact that the outcome would always be quite tragic.

“you saved my life, my Mr. Smith, I knew you were not bad.
Maybe now I can put in a word and big you up to dad? “
So that’s what he did, he called him up, then put the story in writing.
Santa senior said “the only time you should see Krampus is when you two are fighting!

Don’t you see son, you are good, and he is bad to the bone,
The devil wants him to destroy Christmas and sit on an evil throne.”

Kramus was destroyed again, depressed and quite distraught,
But Santa cheered him up again with a wonderful devious thought.

“ if I am the good Christmas spirit and you and the spirit of bad,
I’m supposed to make the children happy... Then you should make them sad!

That way every Christmas eve when you try to steal their things
I will he forced to fight you, from the obligation it brings!”

So from that day on they both played their parts,
They kept up the charade till they were both old farts.

Even to this day people speak about the war
Between the good St. Nick and the Krampus *****.

Every now and then children swear that they hear,
The fighting raging louder as Christmas eve draws near.

But trust me when I tell you That when the winter air is biting.
The grunts and moans you think you hear, is surely not them fighting.

Like Romeo and Juliet their love is tragically mental.
But not as bad as the morning after their Christmas motel rental.

Because both of them will play the role but grin from ear to ear,
When they think of the night of passion they have, in December every year.

Christopher Mahood
A little bit of fun for the Winter solstice festival! "Yule" hopefully enjoy this silly story rhyme!
973 · Jun 2018
Jealous of the Sea
C Mahood Jun 2018
Jealous of the sea.

He was always jealous of the ocean,
How could he write songs like the waves?
The timpani drums on the breaking tide,
Crescendos written on corral staves.
Harmonizing whistles from a shoreline quartet,
And the gentle reeds blow a soft minor key.
How could he ever write songs like the ocean,
How could he ever compose like the sea.
C Mahood Jun 2018
As the ivy meets the water on the ancient crumbled wall,
So the water laps and kisses through the beauty of it all.
On the Rhine by the bridges where the flags drape from the lips.
And we float down the river with the water to our hips.

Couples watch as we pass, deep in awe and lost in love,
As the ducks pass in the water and the swans fly above.
Then the sun sets in Basel on a warming Swiss eve,
And I weep for the morning, for tomorrow we must leave.
I wrote this tonight as my wife and I enjoyed our final. Evening in Switzerland. We leave for Germany tomorrow and are driving and exploring through the black forest and North. We decided to stay an extra day in Basel, Switzerland. It was worth it. A beautiful, relaxed, love-filled city. Bursting with an extreme complementary mix of medieval history and a hopefull, youthful and modern outlook.

This was written as I sat with my feel in the river with the sounds of water, laughter, clinking wineglass & world Cup football from every tiny bar along the waters edge.
613 · Jun 2018
Read with a Lisp
C Mahood Jun 2018
I theese the beeeths
With yellow kneeees.
I theese them squeze,
Between the trees.

I Theese the beeeths,
Some honey please?
I theese them tease,
I theese the beeeths.

I Thuck my tongue,
Into the hive.
Thats when the hive,
It came alive.

I theese the beeeth’s
*** do a jig,
Now that is why,
My tongues tho big!
another favorite of my pupils. silly ridiculous and childish fun. Best read aloud with a Lisp (Lithp)
585 · Jun 2018
The little folk of Ireland
C Mahood Jun 2018
Faries live in the hawthorn,
Gnomes live under rocks,
Trolls stay under bridges,
And nessie’s stay in the Loughs.

Pookas come close to farmers,
Changlings come to babes,
Spirits in the mirrors,
Kelpies in the waves.

The little folk are trouble,
In the heat they bring the cold,
They trick the weary traveler,
With pots of magic gold.

They whisper on the breeze,
While hidden in the mist,
Without them doing anything,
Remind you they exist.

They write about themselves,
So we don’t think they’re real,
They carved the lines in oghm,
magic words in ancient ghael.

Yet still we leave them gifts,
Bits of whisky & pooka’s share,
We have never ever seen one,
Yet we know that they are there.
531 · Jun 2018
An airship for me to share.
C Mahood Jun 2018
An airship for me to share.

I wish I had an airship,
And flew up into the sky.
I’d wave to all the people,
They’d wave back as I flew by.

I wish a had my airship,
Nestled high up  in the clouds,
Away from pointing fingers,
Nasty jokes, and lots of crowds.

I would take my airship,
Over mountains to the sea,
Find a quiet place above the waves
With only room for me.

I wish I had an airship
That made my problems go away
Maybe someday I’ll be free,
But maybe not today.

I wish I had an airship,
To help me make a friend.
But only one who really cares,
Not one that will pretend.

If I had myself an airship,
What would everybody say?
Would they want to get to know me,
Or miss me when I’m away?

I will have the greatest airship,
With a massive big balloon.
I will save up all my pennies,
I’m sure I could Buy one soon.

When I buy my airship
I will fly it past my school.
When the kids look out window,
They will finally think im cool.

I just really want and airship,
To see how freedom feels.
And not to always be stuck inside
My Annoying chair with wheels.

I wish I had an airship
So everyone could see
I’m not just a boy in a wheelchair,
There is so much more to me.

Until I get my airship,
I will keep it in my head.
At least in there I’m Always free,
To dream and look ahead.

I wish I had an airship
So everybody knew,
I’m not that different after all,
I’m just the same as you.
527 · Jun 2018
My Bridget
C Mahood Jun 2018
She belonged to him, no other man,
So he said to her each day she left.
To sell the eggs and the dress she made,
To pull them from the line of the poor.

On the way to town each day she passed,
The rings of County Tipperary.
The ancient rings that live the wee folk,
Who dance in moonlight and trick us all.

That day she waited to see her kin,
But she left no gift to please the old.
So home she came with arms still heavy,
and a chest that weighed a cough so foul.  

“My Bridget” as he knelt by her bed,
Holding her hand as it shook with cold.
In the crack of the flame voices he heard
To hang him from his grief with despair.

The news he heard was of his father
Whom died the evening he felt alone.
Mr Cleary swore and slammed his fist.
“Midnight tonight or Bridget is lost!”

The men in village knew the tale,
Of the wee folk who cursed Bridget.
The woman in the Cleary home bed,
Was an echo of the wife he loved.

They held her down and asked her, her name,
She screamed and growled but did not reply,
Three times they asked and still she refused.
So tight the grips they beat her to sleep.

The morning arrived, Bridget awoke,
To her husband who looked upon her.
His eyes full of loss and fear as-well,
“my Bridget?” he asked “are they gone now?”

She smiled and agreed, she was alone,
So the priest came to deliver mass.
Mr Cleary agreed and drank from the cup
But he knew that his wife was not home.

He asked her again, three more times; “Speak,
Your name to me now, are you my wife?”
Each time she replied “It is I, Yes.”
Michael still knew his wife was away.

That evening men from the town arrived  
And took Bridget deep into the bog,
Where they bound her and lay her down flat,
As she screamed for her husband to help.

“It is I, It is me, Your sweet wife,
Believe me my husband I am here,
No faerie has seized my soul from me,
No witch has uttered a devil curse.”

Her mouth was covered and bound so tight
Her screams were made only with her eyes.
In front of the men, Michael asked her.
“Are you my wife? My Bridget Cleary?”

No voice or reply came from the girl.
Her body lay still in the bog land.
So onto a bed of wood she was placed,
And burned in the cold evening moon light.

The story was told through the village,
That Bridget had fled with another,
A man who bought all her eggs each week,
But not everyone believed this tale.

The priest of the village found Michael,
Praying blood, sweat and tears in the church.
He told him the fairies had taken,
The changeling they had placed there before.    

The priest told the men of the Garda
That ****** was rife in this village.
That men had taken a sick women
And burned her to death in the bog land.

Michael was guilty of Manslaughter
No conviction of ****** was passed
For the people believed his story,
The woman who burned was not his wife  

To this day the rings of Tipperary
Still grow foxglove and weeds in the cracks,
The Faerie mounds are feared like darkness
And steered clear of, by those who live near.

Even now it is heard in the school,
By the children who skip on the rope.
“Are you a witch, or are you a fairy,
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?”
485 · Jun 2018
Mammy Said
C Mahood Jun 2018
Time for school,
Get out of bed,
Come on now lazy,
I know your not dead.

Stop pretending,
don’t make a fuss,
You need to get dressed,
Or you miss the bus!

No time for a shower,
Get washed in the sink.
Remember your ears,
And you pits or you'll stink!

Get some toast and your shoes,
Then strait out the door,
No you cant pull a sickie,
So Get up off the floor!

You’ve eaten your breakfast,
Now your belly is full,
Now get out of my sight,
Tee typical words of a Mother from Ulster.
393 · Nov 2018
Sometimes I, But then.
C Mahood Nov 2018
Sometimes i
Feel great
Then create
A fate
I hate.
Sometimes I
Just debate
And fixate
On Being overweight.
But then I
And reinstate
A positive state
Of feeling great!
A simple, yet fun exercise in word play. Using the last word to create the rhyme and follow through a single statement using a rhythmic meter that works best spoken aloud
359 · Dec 2018
The Starling
C Mahood Dec 2018
The Starling landed on the sand,
A twitching head it tilted,
Towards old bill,
Wrinkled and weathered.
His old black hat
Ripped, stitched & feathered.
The Starling rested in his hand
Through time's fingers sand now wilted.
Passing the same bench I pass each week. On the beach near my home, I see an old man sitting alone staring to the see. Today I saw him looking at a bird that landed on the other side of the bench. On my return trip back from. The far end of the beach the same man slept, his hand open, holding bread he was feeding the birds. A small Bird ventured towards his palm as this poem fluttered to my mind. How life can be so fast and busy and death can be so sweet and gentle.
342 · Jun 2018
The Wooflepoofle
C Mahood Jun 2018
After the moon was through with night,
But the sun had not brought morning light.
The other scouts slept in their tents
After an evening full of merriment.

I sat alone and watched the leaves
Blow softly as the forest breathes.
I fell from my Stump in pure surprise,
At the creature that landed before my eyes.

It had a head of a bird and a beak of an owl,
But the body was surely. Not that of a fowl .
Four legs were spread wide like those of a bear
But it didn’t have paws under its charcoal hair.

The talons it owed were gripping a tree,
A felled one directly in front of me.
Its tail Was so long I could not see the end
The length of a python couldn’t contend.

It stared hard at me, and I back at it,
It studied the fire that no longer was lit.
Then without a sound it tilted its head,
Right there and then I was sure I was dead.

I followed its eyes to see what it saw,
While not moving my gaze from. It’s scary big Claw.
I knew one wrong move would. Not be to clever
But I had no idea what it wanted, none whatsoever.
There was nothing else for it, I just had to know
“excuse me! “ I asked “are you friend or foe?”
It ruffled its feathers and shook all its fur,
It whipped back its tail so fast its a blur.

It poked its head forward into my tent
I knew there and then, just what that meant
He wanted some food, bit all I had was crisps,
Maybe a few jelly babies, and ready salted wisps.

I reached in and got them handed him the rest
I had saved all the red ones, coz I liked them best.
From the look in his eyes and the smell of his breath
I best hand them over as matter of life over death.

He gobbled them up with a crunch, slide and burp,
Not the noise I expected from a bird, not a chirp.
I can’t quite explain how you smile with a beak
But the giant bird gleamed with a certain mystique.

That’s when it decided it had to repay,
It did so in the most peculiar way.
It turned on its talons, and aimed up its ***
I thought to myself, I know what’s to come

But to my surprise came a large crystal. Egg
Popped out and rolled over and stopped by my leg
I was startled, relieved and knew not what to do,
I was really just glad I wasn’t covered in poo.

As I lifted the egg it flew into the air
It blew over the tents that were all pegged in there
The rest of my troop now awake from the noise
Rolled out of their tents, all angry young boys.

“hey fella! “ they screamed “ what’s the big deal?”
Still speechless I didn’t know what I should feel
I just pointed up and we watched the thing soar,
They we weren’t shouting or screaming at me any more.

I buried the egg before my scout leader saw
I don’t think that was Stealing, its not against the law.
I week later I went back to dig up my prize,
With dreams of endless wealth and hope in my eyes.

But when I arrived the monster had followed
With a massive big belly, maybe cow it had swallowed
The creature was full that was clear to see,
Reassuring and fine, there was no room for me.

I went to the tree and dug up the prize,
I don’t know how in a week it had doubled in size,
I handed it over, right back to its mother,
It nuzzled it back to me like I was it’s brother.

Each week we came back and the egg still was growing,
Rocking side to side, what moves it was throwing.
One week I arrive just in time to catch,
the egg start to rattle and crack and then hatch.

Out climbed a baby, all scruffy and bald,
As ugly as sin and as equally appalled.
It gave a big yawn and tiny we ****,
Then readied itself to get a head start.

The mother kawed and baby kawed in return
Imparting wisdom in kaws, and things it should learn.
That’s when the baby looked over to me,
It tilted its head wondering what I could be.

A snack, or dinner, or an aperitif
Someone invading its nest, it thought I was a thief!
I bolted and ran strait towards me I swear,
I ducked just in time as it flew through the air.

The mother had knocked the baby beast back,
It landed and moaned and gave out a quack.
Another loud Kaw came out of its beak,
It knew it was wrong, apologizing with a squeek.

From that moment on we became the best of friends,
I brought them both jelly babies, and built up their dens.
I was invited to join the wooflepoofle clan,
Wish I could say this was all part of my master plan.

I was honored to be part of the family
But I could never understand why the wooflepoople choose me?
Maybe he heart of my soul, or something thereabouts,
But I know it would never have happened if I wasn’t in the scouts.
I love story poems, and this is my love-letter to Lewis Carol's "Jabberwocky"
294 · Jun 2018
A Rural Haunting
C Mahood Jun 2018
The sound of the dead,
Make no more a chill,
Than the gentle breeze,
Of a morning draft,
Whispering through,
Ivy covered windows,
of an empty,Thatched roof cottage.
With words,
Sticking like ice,
From the dead lips of the departed owner.
Through hinges that creek their request,
Remember I, Remember.
Written on reflection of my wife's grandmother's "House in the country."
An overgrown remnant of more rural times, miles outside Omagh, N.Ireland.
The air was full of memory and past lives, empty yet warm, haunting not with fear or cold, but a house begging not to be forgotten as the weeds and thistles continue to over run the road and the courtyard.
C Mahood Jun 2018
bought a second book to write between the pages.

Sometimes I make corrections
On words that are only wrong to me
Sometimes I try to write the wrongs
That no one else can see.

Sometimes I tear the pages out
And scatter them in the fire
I rewrite those words over again
Late at night untill I tire.

Sometimes my dust cover slips away,
And my hardback seen beneath.
With brused wet edges torn away,
Like a wolf that shows its teeth.

I do not want the world to see
scribbles, drawn in many stages
So I bought myself a second book.
To write between the pages.
288 · Jun 2018
Death of a missionary.
C Mahood Jun 2018
Oh God, my God, I wish you were there,
I wish I could leave here, without a care.
Oh God, My God, we used to be friends,
Your voice stopped calling,
And I kept on falling,
Oh God, I dreaded the day our love ends.

Oh God My God, I want to touch Base,
To feel once again, the warmth of your face.
Oh God, My God, We fell out of touch,
I became self-reliant,
When your voice fell silent,
Oh God, Why stop giving? Did I ask for too much?

Oh God, my god, You left me alone,
Alone to speak of a cold empty throne.
Oh God, my god, like a ship lost at sea,
I long for the war,
I don’t fight any more,
Oh god, hands over my eyes, but now I can see.

Oh god, my god, I know you arnt there,
I gave you my all, like longs needing air.
Oh god, my god, books back on the shelf.
I’ve been granted reprieve,
I no longer believe,
Oh god, there’s no god, so I speak to myself.
246 · Jun 2018
Attack of the moon rabbits
C Mahood Jun 2018
They're back, They’re back, Were under attack,
The lunar rabbits are out for a snack!
Alert the army, the navy and scrabble the jets,
The rabbits on the moon are down here with nets.
They come armed with cannons with weird purple goo,
They fire brown bullets like moon rabbit poo.
We have to fight back, with our own ***** bombs,
So, Fire the grannies in pink frilly thongs!
If that doesn't scare the big moon bunnies back,
Send in the school teachers, send them in in a pack!
Armed with rulers and dusters and big books of maths,
Throwing questions and fractions and patronizing laughs.

Alert all the animals from around the whole globe,
From the great Megladon to the smallest microbe,
Get the Austrian emu with the horns on its feet,
And the machine gun bees to assemble their fleet.
Call the ninja koalas and the samuari fox,
And rats in the prisons with socks full of rocks.
Ring the axe weilding pugs from Norway’s fjords,
And the peacocks from turkey with tails made from swords
Then maybe we can ride into battle on the back of a beast,
The mysterious king ***** that migrate from the east.
Well almost be ready to hold back the attack then,
I fell for that story once, I will not fall for the same trick again.
When i wrote "Rabbits on the moon" i would read it to my many pupils who loved it and always wanted more. So this is the sequel i suppose? Silly, Ridiculous nonsense!
237 · Jun 2018
Rabbits on the moon
C Mahood Jun 2018
Rabbits on the moon

So much of the universe I didn’t know,
Like the Antarctic dolphins that live in the snow.
Or the ostrich of Scotland that wears a pink kilt,
And the Icelandic sunflowers that never shall wilt.
There’s kittens than swim in the cold baltic sea,
Or the cobras of Poland with raspberry ***.
There are turtles with shells made of musical twine,
And bulldogs in France that crush grapes into wine.
The are sloths up In Finland that wear woolly hats,
Made from the hair of some ginger Swiss cats.
There are budgies that swim in the seas deepest cracks,
And hamsters in Egypt with humps on their backs.
But nothing compares to my favourite ****** toon,
Did you know there are wild rabbits that live on the moon?
They are scary and angry and take people from tours.
They pull at their legs, just like I’m pulling yours.
C Mahood Jun 2018
I bought a second book to write between the pages.

Sometimes I make corrections
On words that are only wrong to me
Sometimes I try to write the wrongs
That nobody else can see.

Sometimes I tear the pages out
And scatter them in the fire
Sometimes I try to rewrite those words
Late at night untill I tire.

Sometimes my dust cover slips away
And my hardback seen beneath.
With brused wet edges torn away
Like a wolf that shows its teeth.

I do not want the world to see
scribbles, drawn in many stages
So I bought myself a second book.
To write between the pages.
C Mahood Jun 2018
Hereditary misery
Lonely delivery.
Throughout her history,
Of questioning mystery.
Her family’s be-witchery,
Is so contradictory,
To Freedom and liberty,
Through painful victory,
Of Salem’s treachery,
She will burn.
She will hang.
From her family tree.
C Mahood Oct 2018
A  sound to everything, from everything a sound,
A voice, a cry, a laugh, a whisper.
From the highest octaves of the smallest songbird,
To the lowest growls of an angry hound.
The silent rolls of the ocean, crescendo with the ground.
A sound to everything, from everything a sound.
118 · Oct 2018
Big Lad
C Mahood Oct 2018
An adjective in Belfast accent slang,
Used as a term of endearment by some,
And as an opposite tool by others.
Like weighted chains around the eagle’s feet,
Adorned with rubies and diamonds and pearls.
They say they coated the bird with love,
Yet knowingly stopped the creature flying.
I ask myself if I will be the bird,
That stares into the sky with burdened tears,
And makes excuses as to why I fail.
Or will I take those jewels strapped to my feet,
To buy a perch that’s higher than the stars.
Reclaim the name that they had given me.
The “Big Lad” that stands out and owns the sky.

— The End —