Category Archives: Christmas

Christmas Eve 2017

A mellow fruitfulness.
A raucous ride.
A Victoria Line.
A Central Line
A Northern Line.
A 134 stuffed-full.
A mushroom wellington.
A glass of beer.
A vegan cream liquor.
A gift exchanged.
A slow spiral to –
A bed warm and ready.


Django

An encounter one winter long ago.

Django played in the tunnels beneath Bank Station.
He fashioned a twisted scale,
that drifted on the air.
And he made me think of Morocco,
and the sweet fragrant smell of Marrakech.

Django: all awkward and angular,
with a mop of thick blond hair.
Had large bony fingers,
that made  me think of Christ’s,
bending round the cross.

Django hummed as he played.
More moan than tune.
It sounded raw and real, and how he could feel the music.
And he made me think of the Mississippi delta,
and the wide expanse of river rolling along.

Django spoke silently to me,
and I to him.
We acknowledged each other,
as familiar strangers do.
With a nod of our heads.

One Christmas.
He wore a velvet hat Trimmed with ermine fur,
and an Arabian cloak to keep out the cold.
And I though of Gold, Incense, Frankincense and myrrh.
And things like joy and goodwill to all like Django.

Django was the name,
sent telepathically to me.
And I thought of Django Reinhart,
and his paralyzed fingers,
and of those who are not as fortunate as he.

Django busked during the winter of 1984,
while miners struck and the GLC crumbled.
And the memory of him, brings into focus,
this current hard winter,
and how warm it is underground.


I See

A Christmas poem from yesteryear

I see a homeless person
dressed in rags.
I see everyone walking by
and looking the other way.
I see people spending money
on things they don’t need.
I see the   filthy looks
and  the muttering.
They say:
Dirty Beggar
Alcoholic
They say:
You don’t matter
because you’re not like me.
I see someone who once lived in a house
and was proud of that house.
I see them travelling to work each day
on a packed commuter train.
I see their hopes and dreams,
their fanciful schemes.
I see them holding a child
minutes after it was born.
I see a great mass of people in motion.
and that person standing still.
Frozen like a statue,
hand outstretched.
I see green fields and the sea-side,
children building sandcastles
and others splashing in the waves.
I see –
A handshake.
A smile.
And a pat on the back.
I see a hospital bed,
and tubes going into an arm.
There’s a beep every second or so
that says , this person is alive.
I see skin as thin as parchment
and a choir singing Christmas carols –
to a hospital ward full of people.
I see someone who is too sick to work,
who can’t pay the bills.
I see a family argument and
brimming suitcases.
I see the hostel
where people shout at night.
The small room
with a wardrobe and sink.
I see sadness and tears
and hope slipping away.
I see me,
who do you see ?

S.J.Lavery 2013


A Willington Christmas

willington_xmas

For a limited period Willington Kindle Edition is available for 99p ($1.25). Merry Christmas !


A Christmas Poem

Its just about Christmas here in England, and I’,m thinking about my old friend Django again..

Django

Django played in the tunnels beneath Bank Station.
He fashioned a twisted scale,
that drifted on the air.
And he made me think of Morocco,
and the sweet fragrant smell of Marrakech.

Django: all awkward and angular,
with a mop of thick blond hair.
Had large bony fingers,
that made me think of Christ’s,
bending round the cross.

Django hummed as he played.
More moan than tune.
It sounded raw and real, and how he could feel the music.
And he made me think of the Mississippi delta,
and the wide expanse of river rolling along.

Django spoke silently to me,
and I to him.
We acknowledged each other,
as familiar strangers do.
With a nod of our heads.

One Christmas.
He wore a velvet hat Trimmed with ermine fur,
and an Arabian cloak to keep out the cold.
And I though of Gold, Incense, Frankincense and myrrh.
And things like joy and goodwill to all like Django.

Django was the name,
sent telepathically to me.
And I thought of Django Reinhart,
and his paralyzed fingers,
and of those who are not as fortunate as he.

Django busked during the winter of 1984,
while miners struck and the GLC crumbled.
And the memory of him, brings into focus,
this current hard winter,
and how warm it is underground.


Harry and Rose

The night before Christmas Eve,
Harry and Rose bed down for the night.
In an impromptu nest,
in a Portland Hospital doorway.

Their worn sleeping bags,
have seen better days.
And likewise their bodies,
all ragged and cold.

Revellers from a nearby pub,
make merry with booze:
for tis the season,
to be jolly.

None of them see Harry and Rose,
as they flag down cabs,
that take them home,
to warm feather beds.

In the morning they are moved along.
Because hospitals need doorways
and even posh people, with warm feather beds,
get sick on Christmas Eve.


Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas one and all.
I’ve managed to miss Bill Murray
in Scrooged,
and the Great Escape.
Donald Plesance, and the pin.
Steve McQueen as the Cooler King.
I’ve missed the significance of it all.
Buried in ritual, half contrived and
half invented.
So……
Merry Christmas one and all.
I truly hope its good for you.
Truly I do.