Dreaded December

Lately I’ve had trouble writing. Usually ideas pester me for days {and nights!} until I write them down, capture those little suckers and turn them into poetry or stories, or both. For the last few weeks I’ve barely managed a good haiku or two. My mind has been full of birthdays and my cat’s arthritis and perfecting the art of housework avoidance. Now Dreaded December is only minutes away and I’m hanging on tightly to November.

 

“Don’t leave me oh beautiful November full of birthdays and sunshine and time!! “

The 1st of December laughs cruelly, “Mwah ha ha ha ha! Only three weeks till Christmas!! Please….step into my December Parlour where time flies as fast as the speed of light, the sun beats down relentlessly and the storms….Oh the storms…..destroy everything in their path. I am glorious December full of humidity and shopping and crowds and stodgy English meals and ……..visitors!! Mwah ha ha ha ha!!”

I sink to my knees and sob!

 

Today I bought a small plastic Christmas tree. Hopefully it will fit in the smaller gap next to the two-person sofa, which has replaced the one-person chair, with a larger gap. Tomorrow I shall put up this tree, bake the Christmas cake and begin on my Christmas letters and cards. For I know that these stories and poems, all my crazy ideas, are waiting for December to leave before they come out to play again. They do not thrive on stress, so the quicker I move through December, the faster they shall return.

 

If I had a Time Machine, or was good friends with an incarnation of The Doctor, then I could wake up tomorrow and it would be January the 1st of next year. I would have a brand new notebook and pen, my ideas would be back from their holiday and I wouldn’t be writing rubbish about sentient months and Christmas stress. Oh well, I suppose ideas do need a holiday every now and then to keep themselves fresh and I need to make contact with the outside world occasionally. If only December wasn’t so …………Dreadfully Decemberish!!

 

 

Copyright Dec 2014

Tourist Season

 

Swellings

Barriers move and stretch and sometimes snap

As more and more is stuffed in

Willy Nilly

Don’t be silly

They pays their money

 

Little metal boxes on wheels

Multiply under the summer sun

Heads nailed on tight

As Bing sings in air conditioned white

And the native species fight

For parking spaces

 

The whole world swells

A bulge, a press, a stress

Such a heat stroked mess

BUT they pays their money

 

Copyright November 2013