Poems about Winter and that sort of thing, Peter Goulding [readera ebook reader TXT] 📗

Poems about winter and that sort of thing


By

Peter Goulding

50 Cent de Wrapp’n’ Paper

When Christmas comes, both toffs and peasants
Knuckle down to wrap their presents,
For no-one really can escape
The battle with the sellotape,
Which sticks to everything around
Except the present to be bound.
It sticks to fingers, sleeves and thumbs,
Shaggy rugs and hair and gums.
You stick a corner to a shelf
And lo! It’s stuck unto itself.
And you would qualify for Mensa
If you sussed the tape dispenser.

Next year, I have a stratagem –
I’ll invite over Eminem,
And if I find this problem sapping,
He can help me do some wrapping


A Christmas Story

Santa Claus had no idea
He’d left his list behind him,
Poor Rudolph had gone on the beer
And Santa couldn’t find him.

Then Santa crashed into a door,
And all the toys got muddled,
And, when he ‘woke with head so sore,
His mind had been befuddled.

His sleigh was wrecked beyond repair,
And so he robbed a tandem,
And off he cycled everywhere,
Delivering gifts at random.

He didn’t know whose toys were whose,
He couldn’t quite remember.
Reindeer should stay off the booze
Especially in December.

He dashed around from house to house
As fast as he could scooter,
And so you got a clockwork mouse,
And not a new computer.


All is Quiet on Christmas Eve

At the airport the last plane had landed,
And taxied around to the gate.
Some Christmassy swearwords were bandied
Because it was one hour late.

The Christmas Eve rush was completed.
The airport was being closed down.
Incoming travellers were greeted
And shepherded off into town.

The airport’s air traffic controllers
Were finishing up for two days.
The seasonal greeting extollers
Were quite wearing out that old phrase.

They gathered their hats and their muffles,
Their bags and their overtime dockets,
Stuffed a handful of chocolate truffles
Into their overcoat pockets.

Somebody turned off the lighting,
And everyone trooped out the door,
Playfully jostling and fighting,
With homeward-bound thoughts to the fore.

In darkness the tinsel and banners
Hung limply from pillar to post.
Bright cards stood immobile on scanners,
The Christmas tree loomed like a ghost.

The mistletoe hung down morosely,
No portable fan heaters whirred,
But yet, if you listened quite closely,
A very faint blip could be heard.

The radar detected a presence,
A dot had encroached on the screen.
Was this a flock of wild pheasants,
Above in the darkness unseen?

The light source grew stronger and stronger,
Travelling at hair-raising speed.
The shape of the dot grew much longer,
It resembled an oval-shaped bead.

But no-one was there to discover
If the pilot knew which way to go,
As the reindeer broke through the cloud cover
To the slumbering city below.


April Fool

We got out the extension lead and ran it out the door
Wondering how come none of us had thought of this before.
We trailed it up the garden path until we reached the shed
“I think this should be far enough,” my darling daughter said.

Going back inside the house, my son, whose name is Peter,
Emerged a while later with the portable fan heater.
We plugged it in and pointed it beneath the garden shed
“I think this should be warm enough,” my darling daughter said.

I took the light from Peter’s bike, ignoring all the static,
And the torch we use when venturing into our pokey attic.
I brought them out and pointed them beneath the garden shed,
“I think that should be light enough,” my darling daughter said.

My wife then came out of the house with radio in hand,
And turned it on full blast when she discovered the right band,
And so the Beach Boys Happy Hour blared out beside the shed
“I think that should be loud enough,” my darling daughter said

And then we stopped and waited on that cold December day
Hoping that our machinations wouldn’t go astray.
At last, beneath the shed, a sleepy hedgehog poked his head,
“April Fool, you silly ass!” my darling daughter said.


Blowing in the Millennium

I put my fist up to my head in classic contemplation,
Trying hard to work out how to mark this celebration.
The end of one millennium, the starting of the next,
But, how to act historically did have me all perplexed.

I pondered it for months on end, from March until November,
A special feat that future generations would remember.
Eventually it came to me, a plan at last unfurled,
So brazen it would send reverberations round the world.

Forget your Abba tribute bands, your fireworks and your porter,
This plan of mine would blow all other schemes out of the water.
The echoes of it would be felt from Jordan to Jakarta,
And I’d gain immortality as “The Millennium-Spanning Farter.”

My notion was to summon up my inner-body forces,
I’d place my hands upon my knees and gather my resources,
And, as the final seconds chimed, I would let loose a blast
That ceased in one millennium, but started in the last.

I practiced nearly every night, the timing was essential
If I were to realize the daring plot’s potential.
I took a course in Farting at my local evening classes
And tested different foodstuffs for to maximize my gases.

My technique worked and I could soon produce a fart to last,
And easily could let fly with a seven-second blast.
And as the big day dawned, I almost shook with trepidation,
As I prepared to mark it with this act of flatulation.

The family had all arrived by quarter after eight,
[I had been somewhat nervous in case someone should be late]
The Guinness Records man was there to validate my claim,
In case some sneering cynics tried to rob me of my fame.

The Outside Broadcast Unit of the R.T.E. was there,
Competing with the man from Sky to get my fart on air.
The BBC strapped tiny microphones all round my bum,
Which Dad thought quite amusing but which horrified my Mum.

For me, the last few hours came and went without a worry
I scoffed a dozen boiled eggs and one hot, spicy curry,
Four tins of beans and seven cans of cheapo Tesco beer,
My confidence increasing as my destiny grew near.

And, as the countdown started, everybody gave me space.
To much applause, my father even started to say grace.
My hands upon my knees, I held on tightly to my load,
Feeling all the while as if my stomach would explode.

“SIX-FIVE-FOUR…” I heard them yell and tightened up my belly,
Which, up till then, had been cavorting like a toxic jelly.
But, as I clenched my buttocks tight, there came a mighty roar,
The like of which all history had never heard before.

It lasted for a full eleven seconds, even longer,
And took the wind out of my sails as it grew ever stronger.
And everybody turned and stared at dear old Auntie Gin,
Who was sitting on the sofa saying “Better out than in.”

The Guinness Records man announced there was no ambiguity-
The true millennia-spanning fart was there for perpetuity.
They hoisted Auntie Gin on high in cheering hero poses,
Then quickly put her down again and held on to their noses.

Auntie Gin’s a heroine, no-one has cause to doubt it.
She travelled all around the world and wrote a book about it.
She even sold the movie-rights and moved down to L.A.,
Where, though she’s just a blow-in, she still parties every day.

I know I should feel happy for my dear old Auntie Gin.
Her arse is down in hist’ry , I should take it on the chin.
But, often I relive that day, and cannot help but wonder
What might have been, if she had not stepped in and stole my thunder.


Christmas Presence of Mind

‘Twas Christmas Eve and all the kids
Awaited Santa’s coming,
Although the rain was bouncing down
Like fifty drummers drumming.
Mrs. Claus said to her husband,
Prefaced with a kiss,
“You wouldn’t send a reindeer out
Upon a night like this.

When you were packing Action Men,
I swore I heard you wheezing,
And, as you stacked the Lego, I
Distinctly heard you sneezing.”
She felt his brow and said,
[Together with another kiss]
“I think you’re coming down with flu,
You’d best give it a miss.”

Santa pushed his chair back and
He stood up with a frown,
“Oh, no!” he cried, “There’s no way I
Could let the children down!
Imagine in the morning,” he cried,
In a tone that shocked her,
“Instead of toys they only found
A sick note from my doctor.”

“Okay, okay,” his wife exclaimed,
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
But when you’re six feet underground,
I will not come to mourn you.
To go outside on such a night
Is frankly quite insane, dear.
So, take the Merc or Jag, but please
Don’t go out in the rain, dear.”


Entrenched

It’s an image that should be inspiring,
Restoring our faith in humanity,
When the cannon and guns ceased their firing
And goodwill overpowered the insanity.

When the mud-spattered fodder came crawling
O’er trenches so cold and decaying,
Sweet respite from murderous brawling,
Repose from the maiming and slaying.

When the Christmas Day truce stopped the slaughter
With its thoughts of a faraway manger,
And wine was dispensed as if water,
And no-one considered a stranger.

When a football was kicked about freely
Where the blood of lost comrades lay frozen,
Concentration so earnest and steely
On the brows of the players thus chosen.

And the smiles brought some warmth and some colour
To the endless expanse, brown and dreary,
And the flush, sweating faces seemed fuller,
Though the eyes remained ghostly and weary.

It’s an image that should be inspiring,
Restoring our faith in humanity,
But the next day the guns started firing
And the world sank once more to insanity.


For Children on Christmas Eve

Santa’s dead, he died last May,
I’m sorry, girls and boys.
What will you do on Christmas Day
Without your precious toys?

Apparently he had a stroke,
Whilst shouting at his elves,
I always said that those who smoke
Can only blame themselves.

They buried him beneath the ice
The service was quite tasteful.
A simple headstone did suffice
For fear of being wasteful.

The elves then gathered in the hall,
To organise a meeting.
They passed a motion first of all
To reignite the heating.

And then they had a tête-à-tête
To sort out as to whether
It would be better to forget
‘Bout Christmas altogether.

The upshot of the meeting was
They voted for strike action.
No sign of any money ‘cos
Of Santa’s gross inaction.

Tonight is the first Christmas Eve
When reindeer won’t be flying.
I know that it’s hard to believe,
But what’s the point in crying?

So hush, my darlings, close your eyes,
Forget about your sorrow
And please don’t look for a surprise
When you get up tomorrow.


Four Tree Two One

He tried a simple pass, but several twigs got in the way,
A header quickly gobbled up by Santa on his sleigh.
Tinsel strewn across the