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Well, I've been having an eventful time of it lately. Submitted one poem to a magazine (but won't know if it's been accepted until some time next year - I won't hold my breath) got an old poem posted onto the hundred days website (http://www.hundreddays.net/), might have an article with a few poems being published in a local poetry mag based in Cardiff. Fun fun fun. I thought I should do a festive poem as it's nearing Christmas. I'm woefully underprepared for it this year - just been so busy with work and the house! I also wanted to have a crack at Sapphic Stanza, I think I'll revisit this poem in a while and redraft, but here it is (yesterday's poem - today's will follow later): A Minced Pie
When the moon is high over this poor village.
He will come up riding. His dark and evil
beasts will pull his sled up to rooves of clay and
dustings of snowfall. Heavy brown and leather feet will crash through snow.
Coming to the chimney he sighs, and clambers in.
Magic then with sparkles of dreams and hopes for
a better year hence. Children sleep with toys within their reach, do not
stir for he has formed a trance to make them stay.
First he drinks the port. Now is the high point in
his trip -- a minced pie. He picks the pie with fat and greasy fingers.
Puts it into his crummy mouth and chews it.
Bits of pastry fall over beard of off white,
with spittle gleaming. Gifts are never given though, he knows the kids
are all naughty never nice, and so adults
will give mince pie to the brute, so that Santa
will not eat their children. |
