"mince" poems
The Kingdom of Morocco has a rugged mountain interior which reminds me of the British meal of mince and potatoes. But hold that thought, and examine our seemingly superior Western legislation. Just like the pickle, the dynasty of death is a brazen festival percussionist who is celebratory in her bitter and gustatory inevitability. Jizyah is that taxation which is imposed upon those who fail to conform to those expected societal norms. Although we have the status quo, one cannot help but wonder what happened to the rectitudes of individuality and paradoxical equality? So, where do we go, oh navigator of the great and mighty West? Marrakech or Rabat? I have no concrete awareness of where solace is to be found. I am lost! Therefore, I can only offer the following direction: Contemplate the ever-changing intricacy of the dunes in anthropological amazement and acknowledge the sky at night. Allow the celestial pole of the North Star to speak to your deep uncertainty. Our purpose is openly displayed if we simply open our heart in the midst of our Bedouin oasis. That, my friend, is the essence of being psychosocial.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
There is nothing more unsettling
than a teenage Christmas.
The coming of age
when adults find their inner child again
and you have to try and get rid of yours.
11 is fine.
Part of you still believes Santa put the presents under tree.
12 is also okay,
just a little less pixie dust stirs in the stomach on Christmas Eve.
13, 14 and 15 are tricky.
You don't want to look babyish by getting too excited,
so you shrug it off and ask 'Santa' for a mobile phone,
a laptop,
a TV,
until by 15
you ask for the most 'grown up' present of all.
"I just want money."
The words burn your lips and tongue like acid,
a yearning for the sensation of a gift you can unwrap
tugging in your rib cage.
You can't buy that.
16, 17 and 18 are Christmases tinged with nostalgia.
Little ghosts of the younger you run down the stairs on Christmas morning,
feet clad in slippers and Power Rangers pjyamas askew,
whilst you follow in procession,
almost a funeral.
It's not that you don't like Christmas.
It's not that you don't love your family.
It's not that you don't feel a fire light in your belly when you bite into a mince pie,
it's not that the battered Christmas videos your family replay each year don't still make you smile,
it's not even that you've gotten too old for it all.
Have you?
Slippers and tiny fists batter against advent calender doors,
begging you to open them.
When you're 19 you do.
You let them out and let them rush to rip open their presents under the tree.
You let them eat their selection box first before dinner.
You let them cry when the Snowman melts
and you let them laugh and not mock heave when your father chases your mother with mistletoe.
You let the ghosts become holograms you can play in your mind like a projector and slides,
no longer a need to leave holly by their graves
but a chance to remember and smile.
You let them be happy.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
My unrequited golden dove,
you are a merchant banker
them bloomin' groovy bars
are sad tonight
but given the chance I wouldda gotten
cash & carried
& spent me porridge knife
loving your mince pies
had I not known
you'd treat me golden dove thus
& yes, been your trouble & strife
with all me Horse & cart.......
I know, not smart
I know, not smart
Translation:
( In English tis not a very impressive poem... it's just amusing how you can make cockney rhyming slang into a poem, so I've been experimenting.... I really want to send this to the guy I'm unrequitedly in love with actually... & leave him (hopefully)confused & in the dark as to what I wrote....mostly I just really want to call him a ' merchant banker' e.g ' wanker' & get away with it!! xD ' Wanker' is a particularly offensive term to use when referring to a man!)
* My unrequited love
you are a ******
them ****** stars
are sad tonight
but given the chance I would have gotten
married
& spent my life
loving your eyes
had I not known
you would treat my love thus
& yes, been your wife
with all my heart
I know, not smart
I know, not smart*
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
One day the skies opened up with snow
And one lost elf did not know where to go
He kept going in circles, around and around
But the skies kept putting more snow on the ground
He found himself in a Winter forest, dark and deep
He thought he heard the dead trees start to creep
He imaged eyes gazing like a terrifying light
Or was it the reflection where everything was white
The poor little elf was starting to get very cold
He wish he had stayed home, like he had been told
As more snow fell he began to shiver and shake
So scared that snow monsters might come awake
Suddenly a sound made the poor elf start to yell
He had heard a ringing, a sound of a bell
Then he saw a jolly fat man dressed in white and red
With reindeers that pulled him sitting on a sled
He offered the elf to come and sit by his side
Then they shot up into the sky, it was a special ride
The jolly fat man took the elf home to his mother
He was so happy when he shared the story with his brother
So every year he leaves mince pies and a drop of red wine
Something special for the jolly fat man to dine
He now stays in when it snows, whenever he can
And the once lost elf always remembers that jolly fat man
copyright Chris Smith 22nd December 2009
Merry Christmas to all on Hello Poetry
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 9:17 AM UTC
Watching her cook was like watching
a duck in water. Making use of the old
utensils and cookware of the hotel kitchen
she made a meal with an eclectic mix
of elements she had pondered over breakfast.
Sauté, mince, sear, season:
these words flowed from her lips
like a second language in time with the
steady chops on the cutting board
and I was mesmerized when she
moved in perfect rhythm from stirring
the mushrooms to flipping the
sweet potato hash into the air;
tasting and adding more olive oil
to marry the idea on her palate to the
reality on the stovetop.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely ***** O ***** my love,
What a beautiful ***** you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful ***** you are!'
II
***** said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?'Said the Piggy,'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
4k
Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
It spirals upwards, dancing
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Fight the fog.
The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.
‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 2:29 PM UTC
ohhhhh..... santa be good to me this year
ohhhhh..... santa i love your fluffy beard
ohhhhh..... santa i sent you my big list
ohhhhh..... santa i sealed it with a kiss
on Christmas eve the big man knew he had a job to do
he'd worked all year to fill his sacks and bring some Christmas cheer
his elfs and freinds had wrapped and wrapped until it was all done
now santa's night is nearly here its time to have some fun
ohhhhh..... santa be good to me this year
ohhhhh..... santa i love your fluffy beard
ohhhhh..... santa i sent you my big list
ohhhhh..... santa i sealed it with a kiss
Now children listen did you do good and be a star shine bright
Now children listen did you do good so santa comes tonight
he knows you know the ones that show a love and care for him
its santa's secret so he says ....rudolph lets begin
ohhhhh..... santa be good to me this year
ohhhhh..... santa i love your fluffy beard
ohhhhh..... santa i sent you my big list
ohhhhh..... santa i sealed it with a kiss
** ** ** a mince pie please as santa leaves his sack
and dont forget the reindeers food or we wont be back
a tipple of sherry and a note ...saying thanks a lot
see ya next year santa says chimney up i pop
ohhhhh..... santa be good to me this year
ohhhhh..... santa dear i look
ohhhhh..... santa yes yes yes yes yes.. pressies all around
ohhhhh..... santa love ya lots and lots ..kissy kiss kiss kiss
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 1:14 AM UTC
Thoughts are running through my mind,
Trying to make me look behind,
Why are these thoughts intent on hurting me?
I've become distant from friends and family.
"Why is this?" My thoughts scream in disgrace.
But the smile is still stapled to my face.
Until my thoughts mince the words that I had feared.
I know this now, my thoughts are geared.
They're geared on causing me so much pain.
I can not take much else again.
But as all this is happening in my head.
I smile like I didn't hear what my mind had said...
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 4:54 PM UTC
We can make this edible
without utensils
In a strange, menuless kitchen
Well, can you not make a salad?
Take a cucumber of memory
Slice it so thin that none of the recollections hurt anymore.
Mince some olives so fine
Their oil leaks onto the cucumber like OK.
Add the pulsing flesh of bright red tomatoes
But don’t slice them
Just squeeze them with your hand
Until they explode like wet epiphanies
And dare to dice a garlic clove
Without turning your nose away
As invisible olfactory reality
Assaults you with truth so pungent
That ECT would pale in comparison
To that very assault on your boundaries of understanding
And then toss the whole thing
Watching how it changes color and texture
And just when you both start to get hungry
And you both want to cry
The 50 minutes are over.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 11:08 AM UTC
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a ***
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
3k
Hřejivé paprsky zimního slunce
házely do sněhu stříbrné mince.
U sněhu se třpytí zelená tráva,
je jako pobřeží,
jak nějaká mapa.
Prorůstá tím sluncem úplně tiše.
Tak v lednu může růst zelená tráva.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 6:14 AM UTC
I met this geezer down the frog
Who said mate you gotta have a butchers
So we went into the rub a dub
And I couldn't Adam and Eve it
There before me mince pies
Stood a treacle all sugar and spice
She was a bleeding treat
For this London boy with sore plates
For I had been walking for quite a while
But now I was beginning to smile
Watching her with a pigs ear in me mitts
Boy I was chuffed to bits
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
*did i tell you about that orca (killer whale)
that killed a killer white (shark)?
yeah, flipped him on the stomach
inducing a conscious sleeping position
of the shark, belly up... the ****** orca
drowned the shark.*
dear daffodils counting to only sixteen
springs, why blossom why bloom so soon?
lemmy was part of something better
than his solo project... no one really talks
'bout his solo crazy train antics,
so why talk lemmy why talk ozzy os' burn
and simply dismiss hawkwind & black sabbath?
oh -
*na kraju nocy i u progu dnia
kogut na dachu pieje
w głowie sie kręci
da na da na da
gorączka znów szaleje.*
given all that, imagine a seal on a drift of ice,
a stowaway of a berg,
then imagine why, it's seeking a monastery,
there are four orcas beneath the mirror surface
of the water, in formation, like horses
to the gallop of a wind's flute eolides,
and they're moving in, dipping with tail
fin exertion of some reflex spasm -
and the mini tsunami created suddenly
tilts the seal's monastery and the seal plops
into the depths... where it's only an old
cloth rag soon to be mince.
p.s. i denounce the polish diacritical mark
over o to make u (ó) as not diacritical at all...
it's an aesthetic mark, and yes, it does look pretty.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 5:47 AM UTC
oh.have.the.heart.to.welcome.a.stranded.soul
1.
If you’re given the jolly gift of a green ribbon
Would you use it as a link to answers
Or to hang your pretty neck?
2.
If a tree has been yearning to the sky for more than sixty years
Would you now stub out your ciggie in its folds
Or embrace its giving energy?
3.
If such books have been written many millennia ago – saying a multitude
Would you shut your ears to debate and follow blindly
Or respectfully ask bold questions?
4.
If a man kneels repentant in the dust to wipe your shoes
Would you offer a hand up
Or trample on his fingers and spit on his bent head?
5.
If the insipid cashier annoys your sensibilities
Do you leave it unattended
And later sickeningly vent and shout at the wrong one at home?
6.
If a once-beautiful cat lies dead in the road
Would you let your rapid wheels contribute to its messy mince
Or do the ***** job of humanely scooping away its remains?
7.
If a powerful dream comes mayhap to honour you
Would you ignore its seemingly-confusing message
Or follow its signals (in a maze) to certain life-enhancing enrichment?
8.
If constant calamity touches your being on stretched resources
Would you keep popping those three sublinguals with alarming ease
Or try to surrender and accept the pain under arborescent canopies?
9.
If an old woman suffers a stroke in the heart of festivity
Would you refrain from visits while sending easy bouquets and fruit-baskets
Or take the time to help her struggling steps to the toilet?
10.
If the moon shines tonight on your wretched suffering
Would you hurl silent abuse and curse its half-light
Or glance up to catch perchance the echo of your deepest wishes in the air around ...?
*you.can’t.honestly.say.that.it.matters.not
for.it.touches.you.too*
S T, 16 July 2013
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
All us children of the Millennial
awaiting an omen,
seeking out the last augury,
weaving among the boomers
who present us with a forgery.
Stay strong, my children!
We are the last missionaries,
the last lost lovers,
are the rarest breed indeed,
above us a genuine gospel hovers.
Stay authentic, my friends!
Set out with unmatched veracity,
imperfection glistens these days but,
we see through the deceiving fog with rectitude,
we refuse to be mislead.
Steer the course, my children!
These maps made for us yield no
sensible shape or design when traced,
we forge our own compass.
Forgetting north south east west,
undulating inwards with a steady pace.
"We are the lovers, we are the last of our kind, so hold my hand and keep your chin up and I swear we'll be just fine."
We desire no recompense, only truth.
On sour soiled presidential soliloquies we muster strength again and again to chew, repeatedly breaking a tooth.
With roots above and branches below,
we capture our affections in nature's photo booth
but,
furrow our brows in a sordid mirror reflection.
Stay clean, my sweet princes!
Dart ahead to meet me and my words I will not mince.
Hold steadfast to the healing hope hovering above our masts,
steer this ship with steady hands,
fear not the undertow.
A voyage which is long and treacherous,
but this is no ship of floating fools.
Be proud, my children!
We have sailed successfully into the millennium,
leaving in our wake the outdated value systems of the past.
We are the strong
We are the brave
We are the lovers
The last of our kind
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
I'm a vampire girl and you're my meal,
you know that you are.
I'm ******* on your neck,
like it's happy hour at the bar.
Wait, that doesn't make sense,
who drinks alcohol through a straw?
To each their own, just as long
as your quick on the draw.
Gunslinger,
shooting down clouds like *****
popping pills,
turning fake nerds into mince-meat.
Shepard's pie,
with extra cheese,
thank you very much,
did I forget to say please?
Where are my manners?
You know I adore you,
I'll do that thing with tongue
and you know I'll show you.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
i'm making up powerful lies
my woman has x-ray eyes
staring past my pen
at my subtle suggestion
fictitious facts start to climb
new lows for the same old rhyme
no limit no
hesitating inflection
i know i can not convince
my self to deny existence
but some day all these words i mince
will from my soul a truth evince
*in time
these kinds
of crimes
change lives*
there's a quiet theft now between you and me
as i spend your time through our privity
i've been measuring my self in this light
squint at how bright
i'm looking up and down for the sky
pride holds me down
below the storm
blood on my crown
can i shift form?
just be reborn?
yes i've been making up powerful lies
and i'm still hiding from her x-ray eyes
but my shoes have worn thin
chasing door to door grin
i know my mind is a sin
but watch me mask my chagrin
*in time
these kinds
of crimes
change lives*
there's a quiet theft now between you and me
as you steel my mind through our privity
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
If a tale need be tattled,
the snawky Snawk would arise.
With its snickley tongue of arsenic blue,
and loathsome gamboge eyes.
To the King of the stickley Snicklers,
the Snawk would spill his talk.
But scuttlebutt was all t'was,
for he was but a snawky Snawk.
Might you ask
who am I be?
I am a jawky Jawk
who talks incessantly
of the snawky Snawk,
with his snickley tongue,
and his breath of kyarn,
and Beelzebub dung.
You see I knows of him all too well
and well he knows of me.
Invidious brothers, one of the other,
same Mother both have we.
Now the snawky Snawk spins yarns
so dark and thick and odious.
One might find his fatuous canards
to be though flatulent, commodious.
But If ye be a gawky Gawk
of the snawky Snawk beware,
For his loathsome camboge eyes
can squinny a ribald stare.
To your knees his gaze will bring you,
you'll tell all the tales you know.
Then he'll tattle them to the Snickler King
and off to the headsman you will go.
That is, unless, you know the ballad
the Snawk is most offended by.
'bout the frowzy blowzy stable boy
with only just one eye.
He lost his eye in a snickering match
twixt The Snickley King and he.
But got the best of the old nabob,
for he could cachinnate you see.
He did cachinnate and aggravate,
till the old King did concede.
The stable boy was the better of the two,
his tongue cut like a snickersnee.
For the frowzy blowzy stable boy
was not able to tell a lie,
nor could he mince his words with honey,
of the truth he could not hide.
And if one day you find yourself
in the land of the quidnunc kith.
Shun the snickley Snicklers,
and their sniggering King forthwith.
But if ye meet up with the stable boy
though untidy he may be.
Dare not tattle of a soul,
he'll let fly his snickersnee.
And remember well, the ballad he sings,
of the King he did do down.
Drink in its waspy strain and keep it nigh,
lest the snawky Snawk cometh 'round.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
Lights flicker
Blood drips
Brilliant mind
At my finger tips
Don't look now
Gotta think quick
What have I done?
Oh! I know a trick
Slice it up thin
Tiny little bits
So much mess
Hmm, maybe a mince
Red and juicy
Smells so devine
Mouth watering
Just like last time
So heavenly
It should be a crime
Down to the bone
I carve a rhyme
My name etched like stone
A deadly shrine
No where left to go
But back into my mind
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Until next time....
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
He could not see
What was under his nose
So he plated the thorns
On the Phrygian rose
And there she sat
Barbs glittered - not gilded
Impaled on her spit
Of aureate anvils.
And the pissy-beds
In their plain yellow trappings
Fathometer blips
On a bed of green wrapping
Their ******** halos
Trudged underfoot
As he ground them to mince
In the threads of his boots.
He could only love
What he couldn’t have
What lay free at his feet
Was too common a salve.
But it’s hard to love
What is hard to hold
Thorns will draw blood
Even if covered in gold.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
On Christmas eve the big man knew he had a job to do
He'd worked all year to fill his sacks and bring some Christmas cheer
His elf's and friends had wrapped and wrapped until it was all done
Now Santa's night is nearly here its time to have some fun
Ohhhhh..... Santa be good to me this year
Ohhhhh..... Santa I love your fluffy beard
Ohhhhh..... Santa I sent you my big list
Ohhhhh..... Santa I sealed it with a kiss
Now children listen did you do good and be a star shine bright
Now children listen did you do good so Santa comes tonight
He knows you know the ones that show a love and care for him
It's Santa's secret so he says ....Rudolph lets begin
Ohhhhh..... Santa be good to me this year
Ohhhhh..... Santa I love your fluffy beard
Ohhhhh..... Santa I sent you my big list
Ohhhhh..... Santa I sealed it with a kiss
** ** ** a mince pie please as Santa leaves his sack
And don't forget the reindeer's food or we wont be back
A tipple of sherry and a note ...saying thanks a lot
See ya next year Santa says chimney up i pop
Ohhhhh..... Santa be good to me this year
Ohhhhh..... Santa dear i look
Ohhhhh..... Santa yes yes yes yes yes.. pressies all around
Ohhhhh..... Santa love ya lots and lots ..kissy kiss kiss kiss
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
Alors pourquoi juste maintenant?
C’était une nuit sur Bagneux
Nous étions mercredi soir à la station Montparnasse-Bienvenüe
Je portais ces mêmes vêtements noirs et ma veste grise achetée en Italie
Il ne faisait pas trop froid
Je rentrais chez moi, vingt heures
Mon regard croisa celui d'une jeune femme d'à peu près mon âge
Jolie, mince et calme, le visage d'opale et les deux pieds bien posés au sol
Avec insistance je la regardais
Elle me faisait tellement penser à celle que je n’arrive pas à être
Fixant le quai d'en face
Le métro était censé arriver dans une minute
Quand soudain
La tête me tourna
Je ne contrôlais plus aucun de mes mouvements
Je me suis approchée du mur, m’y suis appuyée tant bien que mal juste pour ne pas tomber
Et là, je ne sais pas très bien pourquoi
Mais la jeune femme que je ne cessais de regarder sauta sous la rame.
L’insupportable bruit
L’électricité
Le corps en mille morceaux
Les gens qui hurlent
Le métro qui s'arrête juste devant cet embrasement
Pourtant moi
Moi
Je ne disais rien
Je m'accrochais tant que je pouvais au mur
J'avais si peur de glisser à mon tour
Pourquoi elle
Elle était si jolie, si fine et si calme
Aucune rature sur son visage d'opale
Rien
Tandis que moi...
Ce n’était qu’une autre nuit sur Bagneux.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 5:43 AM UTC
At work Tinsel on the PC and lights scattered on the tree
Time off to spend with the family
Decorations throughout the house
Christmas Tree too big, needles dropping on the floor
Frantic last minute shopping for stocking gifts from the late night store
Wrapping presents, writing cards ready to send
Mince Pies and Mulled Wine drunk with friends
Laughter from the GrandChildren excited for the day
Elvis Christmas songs on in the car, set on loop to play
Presents opened in pjyjamas sitting on the floor
Lazy breakfast with the Kids, Grandchildren and more
Late meal on the day
Turkey, Pigs in Blanket, Roast Potatoes and veg, all the trimmings
Christmas Pud and Brandy Sauce
Turkey Stew and dumplings on Boxing Day
Meals shared with the family, everyone helping with the food, sharing the load and spreading the love as everyone should
Walks with the neighbours next door and anyone who wants to join in
Popping into the Pub for a welcome beer
Christmas Carols ringing out cheer
Board games out and playing begins, rules changing, shouting, laughing out loud, a bit of playful cheating can be heard
Wrapping up warmly with scarves, hats and gloves
snuggling up to the one that you love.
I love this time of the year - don't you?
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC