#yuletide
Pale first winter snow
kisses the glass window sill —
Glimpsing the pansies.
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 1:59 AM UTC
The first snowfall of December had come quietly to the little village tucked beside the Norwegian fjord, smoothing the roofs and whitening the bare birches so they resembled candle branches. Inside one such cottage, a young girl named Inga lay awake, listening to the wind paw gently at her window as if it wanted to say something. She was seven—old enough to know better than to believe in fairy stories, but young enough to keep listening for magic anyway.
She shifted beneath her wool blanket and stared at the faint moonlight seeping across the floorboards. Everyone else in the house was asleep: her mother after a long day baking brown bread, her father snoring softly by the hearth, and even the dog curled in a warm circle of fur. Only Inga remained awake, half by accident and half because she liked imagining what might be wandering the snowy world outside.
A soft thump came from the kitchen.
Inga froze. It was not the kind of thump a house makes when it settles. No—this was deliberate, as if someone had stepped inside who did not belong there.
Another sound followed: a muffled grunt. And then something scraping.
Inga pushed aside her blanket, slid her bare feet to the cold floor, and tiptoed out of her tiny bedroom. She crept slowly, one hand brushing the wall, until she reached the edge of the kitchen doorway. The moonlight coming through the window revealed a shape—large, shaggy, and utterly wrong for a kitchen.
The creature was hunched over the pots on the table. A long nose poked out from beneath a tangled beard, and his clothes were patched with mismatched scraps of wool. His boots looked as though they had walked through centuries.
Inga’s breath caught.
She knew that nose.
She knew that beard.
She knew the stories.
“Stekkjastaur…?” she whispered.
The creature jolted as though struck by lightning. He spun around, eyes widening to the size of winter apples. “NO—no, no, no,” he stammered, waving his arms frantically. “You did not see me. I’m… a broom. Yes. A broom that fell over.”
“You’re the Sheep-Cote Clod,” Inga said, stepping into the kitchen with that fearless certainty only children possessed. “The first of the Yule Lads.”
“I am a broom,” he insisted, backing up until he hit the stove. “A perfectly normal broom that is definitely not a magical Christmas troll.”
Inga crossed her arms. “Brooms don’t wear boots.”
Stekkjastaur looked down at his boots, cursed under his breath, and tried to stand like a broom. It was as convincing as a goat pretending to be a teacup.
“If you yell,” he whispered, panic creeping up his long face, “everyone will wake up. And then the whole season is ruined. Mother will say I am incompetent again. I’ll be the disgrace of the Yule Lads. Do you know how long it took to get this assignment back?”
Inga considered this. “So don’t give me a reason to yell.”
He blinked. “What do you want?”
“To help,” she said simply.
Stekkjastaur gaped. “Help? With my… sheep bothering?”
She nodded eagerly. “I know where Old Torvald keeps his wool. And the new lambs came early this year. If you want mischief, I know lots.”
He rubbed his beard. “This is highly irregular. Humans aren’t supposed to help. Humans are supposed to scream, run, or faint. Or all three.”
“I won’t do any of that,” she said. “But I will yell if you say no.”
Stekkjastaur slumped. “Fine. But only for tonight. And only because I cannot be caught again. The others would never let me forget it.”
The next night, Inga stayed awake intentionally. She knew the second Yule Lad arrived on December 13th: Giljagaur, the Gully Gawk. She sat by the window with a blanket around her shoulders, watching the moonlight spread over the snow like spilled milk.
A shadow detached itself from the barn and shuffled toward the cottage. Inga slipped down the stairs and waited by the kitchen door.
Giljagaur stepped inside, stooping so his long limbs didn’t knock over the pots hanging above him. He muttered something about skyr and hiding places and then nearly tripped over Stekkjastaur, who was already rifling through the flour barrel.
“You’re late,” Stekkjastaur said.
“And you smell like you bathed in a sheep,” Giljagaur replied. Then he noticed Inga. He froze. “Why is there a child here? Children are dangerous. They leak secrets.”
Stekkjastaur drew himself up. “She has… leverage.”
Giljagaur stared. “Leverage?”
“If I didn’t let her help,” Stekkjastaur said miserably, “she was going to yell.”
Inga smiled at him, sweet but with a spark of mischief.
Giljagaur rubbed his temples. “This is the worst possible night for this. I came to sneak skyr. Sneaking skyr is delicate work. You cannot do it with an audience.”
“I can help,” Inga said.
“No,” he groaned. “This is not how the Yule Lads are meant to operate. This is chaos.”
Stekkjastaur leaned over. “She knows where the good hiding spots are.”
Giljagaur paused. “Does she?”
Inga nodded. “And I know which pots creak. And which stairs don’t squeak. And where Mother keeps the special winter skyr.”
Giljagaur’s eyes lit up. “The special winter skyr…?”
Stekkjastaur whispered, “She’s very useful.”
Giljagaur sighed in defeat. “Fine. But only tonight. And only because winter skyr is very hard to come by. And because if you yell, child, Mother Gryla will come down from the mountains and chew me out.”
Over the next nights, more of the Yule Lads arrived—each one encountering Inga, each one stopping cold when they saw her, and each one hearing the same explanation from Stekkjastaur and Giljagaur.
Stúfur, tiny and bold, declared it was nonsense—until Inga showed him exactly where the frying pans were polished smooth enough to see your reflection.
Þvörusleikir, the Spoon-Licker, gave a long speech about protocol—until Inga pointed out where the wooden spoons lay drying.
Pottaskefill, the Pot-Scraper, accepted her immediately. “Finally,” he said, “someone who leaves food in the bottom of the ***
Askasleikir, the Bowl-Licker, sighed but agreed. Hurðaskellir, the Door-Slammer, loved her enthusiasm. Skyrgámur, the Skyr-Gobber, considered her a genius.
By the time Bjúgnakrækir, the Sausage-Swiper, arrived, the others had already briefed him. “Don’t worry,” Stekkjastaur said. “She’s on our side.”
“I don’t have a side,” Bjúgnakrækir said. “I just have sausages.”
Still, he let her help.
Gluggagægir, the Window-Peeper, nearly fainted when she tapped him on the shoulder. Gáttaþefur, Doorway-Sniffer, said her scent was “small human mixed with pine needles,” which Inga took as a compliment. Ketkrókur, the Meat ****** recruited her immediately. Kertasníkir, Candle-Stealer, said she was an ideal accomplice.
Through all twelve nights, Inga played with mischief—not harmful mischief, but curious and gentle pranks. A rearranged cupboard here, a mysteriously vanished sausage there, boots turned backward, yarn braided into the shape of dragons.
The villagers muttered that the Yule Lads were especially active this year. Things went missing, lids clattered, shadows moved at the edges of lantern-light. No one suspected a small girl was helping orchestrate it.
The Yule Lads, for their part, were astonished. “A human child,” they whispered. “A partner. A little accomplice.”
And Inga adored every second.
But on the last night—when Kertasníkir slipped his candle into his sack and the brothers began their trek back toward the mountains—Inga felt a tightness in her chest she could not explain.
Kertasníkir paused by her door. “You cannot tell anyone,” he said softly.
“I know.”
“Because they will not believe you. And disbelief is a kind of un-magic.”
She nodded, throat tight.
Stekkjastaur patted her awkwardly on the head. “You were… surprisingly competent.”
“That’s the closest thing he has to affection,” Giljagaur muttered.
Inga smiled.
One by one, they trudged into the night, their shapes blending with the snow and shadows, their laughter echoing faintly against the mountains.
When the last of them disappeared, the cottage felt unbearably ordinary.
Inga closed the door gently and whispered to the darkness, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
And she never did—not because she feared they’d get in trouble, but because she knew the truth:
No one would believe that on twelve snowy nights, she had run wild with mischief alongside the Yule Lads themselves.
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 5:48 PM UTC
yuletide, who’s mine?
isolating under starlight
flickering nights turn into sunrise
yuletide, painted smile
attempting to reconnect
to respect my juvenile
Dec 25, 2024
Dec 25, 2024 at 6:08 AM UTC
If you’re looking for yuletide cynicism here,
you’re shopping in the wrong place.
This is New York City’s time of year.
It’s stood the test of time and it fairly sparkles,
proving that the ordinary can be extraordinary.
With the right lighting.
Lisa’s (parent’s) apartment glitters like our promised heaven on high.
When we left at Thanksgiving, Michael (Lisa’s dad) had the concierge
service stressed, toting boxes of decorations up from their storage area.
When I waved my goodbyes, he appeared to be wrestling an octopus of
cool-white fairy lights into submission. Now everything glitters pyrite bright.
Our holiday time is limited—and this is our chance to unwind—so we’re
selective about what we decide to embrace. For instance, there was a sale
at Michael Kors where, no big deal, I got a pair of brogue, black
leather wingtips that’ll be straight fire with a little black dress.
The bargains were so good that I decided the store must be a drug front.
Not that I’m complaining. Do I ever complain? Nope, I’m stoic.
Like Eric Adams, the mayor of New York, Lisa and I’ve
been “testing the product” of Manhattan's club scene.
We’re searching diligently for the new and unfamiliar.
When it comes to picking which clubs we want to visit,
Charles, our driver and escort (a retired NYPD cop),
has gone as far as to suggest, we’re “out of our depth,”
and refused to let us even try one or two DJ’d, pop-up clubs
in Queens that were getting a lot of heat and likes.
“Roosevelt Avenue is the new 42nd Street,” he’d said.
What does that even mean??
Indignant silence
Anyway,
I hope Christmas finds you all merry and bright and that your holidays—whichever you celebrate— are carnivals of food, music, friendship and love—for those are the luxuries that count the most.
Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Merry Kwanzaa, Happy Festivus!
.
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Songs for this:
Absolutely Everybody by Vanessa Amorosi
Rock With You by Traincha
.
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A Christmas Playlist—because there's 4 days til Christmas
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_28.mp3
Dec 21, 2024
Dec 21, 2024 at 8:11 AM UTC
Tranquil Sunday Morn!
On this tranquil Sunday morn, let me share,
A poem to uplift and inspire, with care.
When the sun's gentle rays kiss your face,
Embrace the day with boundless grace.
Let go of worries, troubles of the past,
For today is a chance, a new die cast.
With each rising breath, feel your spirit soar,
Know that within you, endless strength pours.
Dream big, for dreams have no boundaries,
Reach for the stars, with unwavering certainties.
Believe in yourself, your heart's inner fire,
Ignite your passions, let them take you higher.
In the depths of your soul lies a hidden power,
Unleash it, let it bloom like a wildflower.
Embrace the challenges that come your way,
For they mold you, shape you, day by day.
Find joy in the simplest of moments, my friend,
For life's true treasures, often they transcend.
Be kind, spread love, like sunshine's gentle ray,
Illuminate the path for others, show them the way.
Today is a gift, a chance to start anew,
To pursue dreams, to make them come true.
So seize this Sunday with courage and might,
Embrace its essence, bask in its radiant light.
May this poem inspire you to shine,
To embrace each Sunday, oh, so divine.
For within your heart, the power resides,
To make Sundays and every day a joyful ride.
Nov 19, 2023
Nov 19, 2023 at 12:45 PM UTC
The sun appears
bright in the sky,
illuminating the
surroundings with
its warm and vibrant
rays.
A clear blue sky
with no clouds in sight.
It's a wonderful day to
enjoy outdoor activities
or simply bask in the sun's
warmth.
Loving it! Cloudnine
feelings. 😊
Nov 19, 2023
Nov 19, 2023 at 12:40 PM UTC
It's not Christmas without Santa
Or without the jingle bells
But, in the darkness there's another
Taking children down to hell
Yin and Yang, a balance
There is darkness and there's light
Santa on the left side
And Krampus on the right
Parents watch your children
If they're on the naughty list
Because Krampus is out hunting
And these children are not missed
A myth, or dark reality
A monster from below
Did Johnny just go missing?
Or was he taken down below?
Jingle Bells, both have them
One is joyous, one is not
Santa lives where it is colder
Krampus lives where it is not
Bad children do not fear him
But soon enough, he'll find them out
With dark hair, claws and cloven hooves
They'll learn what he's about
He doesn't have a favorite
He'll take girls as well as boys
He doesn't mind the screaming
In fact, non one hears the noise
So, if a child disappears
And no one seems to care
You'll know he was a bad one
And that Krampus, well, was there
Sep 7, 2023
Sep 7, 2023 at 1:22 PM UTC
No pressure to be up today,
blessed or cursed, hold on
the hands in yours may be tiny,
of passion, steady, familiar,
frail or memorial
they touch the same
and need you here x
Dec 25, 2021
Dec 25, 2021 at 5:14 AM UTC
Christmas past
is always framed
with melancholic gilt
though its broad strokes show
no love held is ever truly lost
Christmas present
as the Polaroid is shook
takes time to reveal itself
best when pressed in the pages
of the whole story
Christmas future’s binary
seems pixel cold, clinical,
bed-ridden fears looming
but, my dears, don’t fret:
we’ll get what we deserve
Dec 24, 2021
Dec 24, 2021 at 5:48 AM UTC
Just resting my eyes
as the lights in the tree dance
and some well trodden narrative
of Christmas redemption plays
in gloss on TV
the grey pull of January
is at bay for now
held off by cellophane wrappers
and the smells of a decadent kitchen
though not a Christian
I’ll be thankful anyway,
aware of the drop either side
I’ll let my usual pissy niggles rest
til next year
Dec 22, 2021
Dec 22, 2021 at 12:51 PM UTC
Yearning for frost sharp, gaudy lights
in November seems apposite in a year consistently blighted with dull, pedestrian horror
The itch to raise a tree and string lights
to no and every god
could be scratched this time
We can pack our proud sneers
in the loft or attic in exchange for
electric hope and cellophane cheer
As nights draw in
we’ll bluff metaphors of closeness
until a wellspring comes to right us
Nov 14, 2020
Nov 14, 2020 at 6:54 AM UTC
Talk to me, talk to me of Old St. Nick
Talk to me of Sinterclaus
Of Mikulas, Pere Noel, or Babbo Natale
Talk to me of candles, christingle and a silent night
Talk to me of crackers, carols and calamities
Talk to me of snow, sleighs, and stars
Talk to me of Christmas cards, wrapping paper
Talk to me of gold, old spice and mice
Talk to me of icing, icicles
igloos, ivy
Holly
Oh sweet Hollie
Tots of Drambuie
Marmalade and toast
Talk to me of Philip Scholfield
Carols From Kings
Mary Poppins
Scrooge
Festive films
Radio Times
And things that are too pretty
Lights, nights
Hark, Dark
barking dogs
tinsel
Tinsel Town
Wolves at the door
Salvation Army playing once more
Talk to me
Talk to me
Cream Crackers, cheese
Frosty mornings, old knees
Talk to me of snow covered alpine forests
Gateaux
Cherries
walnuts and berries
Festive fun,
A seasonal run
Of All Gold telly
With a full belly
Farts, sprouts
Turkey that tastes just like chicken
Oh talk to me of
Terry Wogan
Rosh Jogan
Grogan Josh
Last minute deals
Black Friday
White Friday
And all the Cyber Mondays
Talk to me of
Happy Mondays
Dancing Bez
In a Festive Fez
Talk to me
Talk to me
Of Festive time
Late nights
Early mornings
Beer
Cheer
All in entertainment
Oh talk, TALK to me
Of hangovers,
sleep overs
gloves
mittens
and cute kittens
Oh talk to me of
fake Chanel
Faux Fur and underwear
Celvin Klein
Talk to me , Talk to me of
Jonah Lewie
Bony M
The Pogues
and all those rogues
Fairy tale of New York
Stop the Cavalry
Mary's Boy Child
And the
Spaceman who came riding by
Oh talk, Talk , Talk to me
of places, and spaces We all know
Christmas markets
Tesco, Aldi and John Lewis Adverts showing
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Chris
Oh talk to me
Oh talk to me of old St. Nick
Talk to me
Talk to me
Eggnog
Talk to me
Talk to me
Bah humbug
Talk to me
Talk to me
Happy Christmas
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
I heard an old old Christmas song
sung by grandma on Christmas eve.
It wasn't in good stanzas long,
but it did the joyous times retrieve.
It gladdened my heart which did grieve
over all I thought I'd done wrong,
and could not annually achieve.
It did convey emotions strong
of joyous moments to relive:
Modest gifts, traditional meals
and the sweet scent of warmth that heals.
Contented in want we all shared
whilst our affections showed we cared.
All on our humble home converged,
in living rooms hardly enlarged.
To drink and eat cheap wine and food,
in unrivaled ecstasy and mood.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 5:40 AM UTC
Gray Owl hearkens
the dappled daybreak knell
echoing through
the wildwood forest stand;
rock doves and frosty stones abide,
where a marooned heart doth dwell,
disrobed by the longest night's frigid touch
Timber stand grips tight
red clay and bedrock of ages,
postured tall and strong
as eagle's spirit throne
Pine cones hide
in the low drifting clouds,
ripe acorns tumble down alone
unto a windblown
shallow earthen grave,
hillocked beneath
the sky-high canopy
Bones of branches,
furrowed bark from burled oak,
wood-grains of pith,
natural gnarled achings
peeled by the shivering
wind's breath
Paling autumn memories
grow dim as the receding sunlight,
recollections of ebbing Jasmine's
mellowing fragrant balm
waft aloft in a favorite fading fantasy,
the edge of winter metamorphosis
bears down with a prodigious weight
of a different kind of retreating light;
brindled Queen Anne's lace
hold sway across
the tawny frostbitten meadow
imbuing the poignantly
whetting breeze
The blink of an eye winks,
to catch sight of
an intimate glimpse,
an unspoken
solitude holds forth,
the mesmerizing coo of rock doves,
reverently mirroring
the sanctity of the forest wildwood
lingering amongst the frosty
ferns and stones
The harmony of tranquil silence wanders;
only the bowing resistance of the boughs
manifest the shapeless wind’s
whispered breathe
swirling above the labyrinth threshold;
therein lies an unfractured fault line
rooted deeply beneath
the earth’s crust
like the sonorous heart
of a sanctuary hearthstone
Hence there is symmetry
felt in silence that only whispers
in the deep toned consonant
of our own harbored sighs
a holy human blood link
born of heritage wilderness heartwood
beats keenly alive
written by: harlon rivers ... December 2017
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
you don't dare
unwrap the real gift
hidden under layers of hype
too hard to discover it
beneath mounds of plastic
under the glare of neon
falsities projected
aimlessly scrolling away your soul
Godless Yuletide
Christless Noel
sterile feigned joy
useless worthless feelgood frenzy
sentimental superficiality
televised consumer fables
cute trendy on the screen
market-driven fakeries of fake snow
Mammon's medicated stress-fest
passive-aggressive goodwill
American commercialism
angelic Antichrist malls of lost souls
waiting for the next explosion
trying hard to feel the warmth
in the winter chill
of hearts hardened
against the Christ
of Christmas
unwrap the past
to find the present
in your sold-out future
Christ is Lord
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
#As concerning therefore the eating of those things that are offered in sacrifice unto idols, we know that an idol is nothing in the world, and that there is none other God but one. For though there be that are called gods, whether in heaven or in earth, (as there be gods many, and lords many,) But to us there is but one God, the Father, of whom are all things, and we in him; and one Lord Jesus Christ, by whom are all things, and we by him.
I Corinthians 8 [KJV]
Roll a Yule log on the fire
and let the mystery-cult inspire.
What Persians, Gauls, and Romans knew
could teach us all a thing or two
about midwinter celebrations
warming frigid Northern nations.
The Phrygian cap he used to wear,
holly entwined with evergreens
still linger in our current year
recalling dim pre-Christian scenes.
Some strange vestigial rites remain:
The specter of the Lydian Bishop.
No bull—but reindeer pull his train
spreading love, inspiring worship
mixed with Nordic pageantry,
barbaric sensuality,
and glimmers of Medieval night;
His season beckons, burning bright.
In England's prim polyphony
voices call across the centuries
no remnant of tauroctony
resurrecting pagan memories.
Drunks and rebels hum the tunes -
they lift the cup, they cast the runes
participating unawares
in Eleusinian affairs
like office parties, trees in houses:
timeless ritual that rouses
peace and love, goodwill to men.
(is it so diabolic then?)
Ghosts of Roman soldiers laugh:
the sun-god wears a funny hat.
His bull was just a golden calf
that grew up sacrificially fat.
Who cares when Christ was born, or where—
the point is: God appeared on earth
to set the record straight, lay bare
unwelcome truth: the second birth.
A new religion superseded
what had been before. It needed
rituals to syncretize
(no drastic sin, in heaven's eyes).
Why rail against it? What is wrong
with festive fare and holy song?
You think you can set back the clock?
destroy the sun or banish God?
Why agitate the Shepherd's flock;
in vain you would restrain His rod...
Since Christ is all in all why bother
searching out old gods to smother?
Who denies He rules the ages
mocks your idols, stumps the sages?
And so you are without excuse
for finding reasons to be mad -
committing holy child-abuse
and making mother Mary sad.
Why fight the vibe, why square the wheel?
No point in Scrooging up the deal.
Just kiss beneath God's mistletoe
and let the blessed season flow.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
A season to cherish the stars in the skies.
As the cool breeze blows, and lights glimmer in your eyes.
The season to share some milk tea with ice.
But for you, I'll give a nice surprise.
I can't afford fancy bouquets.
Or the fancy clothes and bags on display.
I just really hope and pray.
That even without those, you'll be here to stay.
All of your gifts, just set aside.
Even the mistletoe, to the ceiling where it's tied.
Because my only wish this season of yuletide,
Is just be happy by your side.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC