Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Twelfth Night

The empty yard on the way home
that three weeks ago sold Douglas Firs
is dark and closed,
scrubbed and hosed,
but there on the pavement is the faintest whiff of pine,
and the most Januaryish of confetti,
green matchsticks for a Christmas bride.
Twelfth Night tonight, but you would not know it,
with twinkling across thresholds and
trees still proud in windows and
lopsided late calls for Santa to stop here.
This flagrant disregard for superstition bothers me,
like cracked mirrors on their living room walls, or
ladders in their doorways.
The homeless man who sits on the bench says
"It's going to get worse you know" and I say
"You mean the weather?" and he laughs, a wild laugh,
and doesn't think to answer any other way.
I pass more unwanted decorations,
tired plastic snowmen waving me home,
driveways clogged with bags of rubbish,
bloated pink bellies threatening to
spew gold paper and ribbons upon the needles.
Twelfth Night tonight, bin collection tomorrow.

Monday, January 5, 2015

New Year's Resolutions

With a new year in bud, you think about things like
how much less time you'll spend writing fanfiction and
grow the balls to have your own ideas instead,
where you will write your own romantic destiny where
that love you crave can spring into life.
You will floss.
You will eat less bread,
those endless afternoons destroying a baguette and
an entire packet of soft cheese, stock still
in front of your computer.
You will do more crafts. Not just bulk-order aida cloth
and primary-colour thread,
and let them languish in the box marked Another Day.
You will watch more documentary films,
not programmes blaring garish titles such as
In School And Pregnant, or The Man With The Biggest Head.
You will go outside often, and take walks.
You will stop biting your nails.
You will not listen when your mother tells you that you're
never going to amount to anything.
You will have courage.
You will give yourself a break more, for the resolutions you can't keep.