Anne Armstrong

You better not cry

Santa Claus is busy
his boots don’t make a noise
big fat and red he’s coming soon
for little girls and boys.

White rabbit peelings trim his coat
his beard hides a surprise
he laughs ho ho like a maniac
he’s somebody in disguise.

He’ll stuff you in his hairy sack
and tie you in a bow,
he’ll toss you to his helpers
– In the dark their noses glow –
and you’ll hear the slay bell ringing
as o’er the hills you go.

© Anne Armstrong

Farewell, goodbye, adieu. Another year,
Another Year!! Aye right enough, wheech and another one slips past
They’re never as long as they used to be, not nearly so much cheer
The more I age the faster time seems to fly. Is this an illusion?

Decade into decade, flares into denims, into tweeds and slippers
Evenings in now more preferable than nights out on the town
Fading youth replaced with faded looks, jowls and scowls
At what once was and what is to come in the twilight years.

But now the dark days begin to lighten along with my heart.
Not long ‘til spring now, not long, as I wish my life away.
Ach! what does it matter anyway, life goes on regardless
So cheer up, raise a glass and toast the coming year!

The Best Is yet To Come!

© John Copland

Santa Claus was busy sorting out just what it was
That really got right up his big, red humph.
Hot steam was fizzing out his ears non-stop and all because
Of laser-printed, glossy-papered bumph.

Yes, 'Quality Assurance' was the curse of every year
Since he had taken on the work he loved.
The 'independent' auditors – lads wet behind the ear
Had told him, yet again, what they had 'proved'.

'Too seasonal' they argued for the twenty thousandth time
'Too vulnerable to changes of taste.'
'Diversify' they counselled 'While you are still in your prime.
Don't let your best resources go to waste.'

'Outsource the toys and gifts', they said, 'To far away Yangdong.
And letters can be dealt with in Mumbai.'
Ten elves, it seemed, could produce, if they worked hard all year long
Just what one machine could make in a day.

'Sell up' they wrote, 'Sell locks and stocks and fittings to the Japs
Or Russkis, sleek in furs from all that gas.
Give back the stupid reindeer to their feral friends, the Lapps
And launch a timeshare of smart Nordic spas.

To Ryanair award a prime exclusive airport deal
To fly the punters here and home again,
Then Santa, just sit back, dear chap. Learn to enjoy the feel
Of money, women and respect of men.'

Santa looked out across the land. He viewed a different scene
He saw the elves, embittered, starved and poor,
Heard children crying in despair for what once would have been
A tree with presents 'neath it on the floor.

The reindeer, Santa's wise old eyes saw hacked to chunks of gore
Their bones buried or, worse, stripped, boiled and ground,
And his own hands, made tough by work, so red and chapped and sore
He saw turned fat and pink and soft and round.

'We'll not have that, nor this glossy Times Roman trash.' he spluttered.
Then Comic Santa all the elves did summon.
To each he gave a page or three. 'Merry Christmas,' he muttered
'They're just the thing to wipe your elfin bum on.'

© Don Dougall

Goodbye, farewell, adieu. Another year
Consumed, exhausted nears its terminus
On time. Clapped-out it limps in lowest gear
Into the tinselled junction where, for us
Failure transforms into absolution
And we, passengers, our worn seats resign
Recharge our faith and hope of salvation
Then transfer onwards on a different line.

First go the young. As quick as fleas they move.
No baggage theirs. Just weightless words they hoard
Like flowers plucked, collected, sniffed, approved,
Forgotten. They'll find fresher ones on board.
Next follow parents. They, slow, burdened, bear
Artefacts from their history and toil
Ideas, aims, beliefs, coal-heavy care,
Harvests hard-won from Living's grudging soil
To use en route or guard till Time declares
Them ripe enough to pass on to their heirs.

Behind they leave discarded remnants. Lopped
Fragments of plans which badly fit new schemes
Are quietly but purposefully dropped
For failing to accord with present dreams.
Abandoned, these must, mute, untroubling lie
Dormant in cold, forgotten destiny.
But Time, the shortest line between two points
And jealous of what seems to mark or stain
Its history of passing, these anoints
Secretly and later will them regain
Refurbish, polish, package and return
To those who must reclaim what they would spurn.

Now, finally, the old, or plain unsound
Transfer their presences unheard, unseen
Their baggage, empty almost, worn out, ground,
Wasted by usage. What might once have been
Of worth to them or others now mere lumps
They could give up. Yet memories of souls
Who got out early bid them guard their stumps
Reluctant to concede that He who bowls
Time's overs is assured of victory.
For, if this game were done, what then for tea?

© Dave 12354

Farewell, goodbye, adieu. Another year,
The time is fairly passing as the hair grows out my ears,
As yuletide looms the trees are bare
I remember the locks that once were there
Upon my head there were no spaces
Now there are plenty empty places
But now my ageing heart is bleeding
The time it now gets done for speeding
the sun will rise and shine again
We used to....... remember when


© Ina Fankle

Farewell, goodbye, adieu. Another year
Consigned
Tidied
In labelled albums, files and diaries
To be recycled in my mind.

An artificial point on a continuous
Thread
Superimposed
By Order’s pencil. It can change
‘Last second’ to ‘last year’ instead.

Yet man-made festival fills the streets as
Hogmanay
Celebrates
In its faithful orbit round the world
New beginnings. New Year. New Day.

When I was young, it used to make me think
Back
Forward
Time aware. Resolutions
Marshalled, to keep my life on track.

But now I see it as a compass point in
Time
To guide
The celebration of Life’s richness now and
For the sake of Auld Lang Syne.

Farewell, goodbye, adieu. Another year
Of life
Wrapped lovingly
Round gifts to new arrivals, kin,
Friendships and memories left behind.

In time-defying space where love is all there is
Suspended
Before The Bells
I raise my glass, poised for what’s to come
And grateful for the year that’s ended.

© Joanne Grant

A car sat-nav for Daddy
A new outfit for Mum
CDs for Auntie Betty
Laptop for Uncle Tom.

Santa swigged his brandy
And wiped his white beard clean
Depressed beyond all measure
By the worsening human scene.

'Ah mind lang syne', he muttered
'An' a tell ye A'm no' jokin'
Jist the kids got a paircel each
An' a tanner in their stockin'.

'Ah'm sick o' a' this wrappin'
An' readin' lists an' lists
Ah'm gonnae go on strike this year
Pit ma feet up an' get pissed!'

©Charity Hope

Farewell, goodbye, adieu, another year -
Just another year?
Farewell, goodbye – a year like all the others?
So it may appear?

On the surface things seemed much the same,
Successes, failures, things lost, some gained,
Domestic inequalities as pensions & students’grants,
The nonsense of politics, religious rants.

But overall a feeling of monumental force,
Th’uneasiness of nature’s features changing course,
No longer imagined differences but actual signs
Of seasonal imbalance where things are, “out of line”.

Simple changes, like butterflies “out of step”
Song thrushes singing in winter’s grip.
Fungi and flowers flourish in December’s earth
With birds and insects inexorably heading north.

But far beyond our local reach and ken
Scientists and explorers monitor the warming trend
In icebergs much reduced and glaciers gone,
A real climatic change and threat is on!

Can future generations bear this global change?
Will they survive, but how?
Farewell, goodbye, adieu – another world ?
The time to act is NOW!

©Jimmy Maxwell

© June Ritchie

Santa Claus was busy
Combing out his beard.
The twigs and knots and gunge
Were worse than he had feared.

For weeks he had been active
Packing up his sleighs.
He hadn’t combed his whiskers
Through many hectic days.

There were bits of chewy bacon,
Marmalade on toast,
Boiled potatoes, mashed potatoes
And flakes of Sunday roast.
.
There were mince pies, apple pies,
Clootie dumpling, cake,
Kippers, haddock, sole
And the bones of a hake.

Marshmallows, chocolate,
Half a soda scone,
Shortbread crumbs, honey
And chicken on the bone

There was mutton chop, pork pie,
Roasted turkey ham.
He could still smell the mint sauce
He’s sprinkled on the lamb.

There was red wine, white wine,
Brandy and liqueur,
Light ale, heavy beer
Whisky and cough cure.

He brushed and washed and shampooed
Till his whiskers were all white
Then he set off on his sleigh
Now his beard would shine a light.

© Edith Ryan

Santa Claus was busy Christmas Eve was drawing near
And he didn’t notice Erchie wander by
Erchie was an Elf Santa’s helper he was classed
But to say that Erchie helped was just a lie
For he bumbled and he stumbled and usually caused a stir
When his services were offered to Big Red
For that’s what Erchie called the man the other elves called Sir
Or The Gaffer or The Boss man or The Head

Now Santa had been checking a Reindeer harness line
So he hadn’t noticed erchi wander by
Despite the fact Bartholomew was giving him a sign
And Trevor he had tried to catch his eye
Just what Erchie had in mind to this day nobody knows
As he sauntered to the door of the Reindeer shed
Perhaps he he thought “ I’ll help Big Red “ that’s it we all suppose
But as usual Erchie hindered him instead

He hauled the shed door open and made his way inside
To the place where lots of Reindeer stuff was kept
Harnesses and halters and shoes to make them glide
And the stalls where at night the reindeer slept
Now Santa has a place he keeps the dust to make them fly
A place where Elves are not supposed to go
And the last time we saw Erchie he was soaring in the sky
And where’s poor Erchie now – Well we don’t know

So let this be a warning to all those who misbehave
We hope this story makes you want to wince
Be good and get from Santa the presents that you crave
Not like Erchie who nobody has seen since.

© Billy Stewart

August is dying
running out of breath
September and darkness closing in
leaving only dreams of
next year and renewal

While in the mirrored Speigeltenten
the upward spirals of classical music
are momentarily interrupted
by the sound of crinkling cellophane
as the woman at the next table
frees her little square Christmas cards
and flicks through
pictures of penguins posing

© Ian Hunter

Santa Time

With each week it gets closer the excitement is growing
The kids are all waiting for Santa Time
They will make out a list of the toys they would wish
We give gifts at this special time...
 
As the day draws nearer the advent in sight
The birth of Jesus always amazes each child
From shepherds and wise men to oxen and sheep
The nativity scene is set and complete...
 
At last its the morning they have all waited for
When parcels and paper can be seen by the score
Now it's all over till this time next year
When the kids will be waiting for SANTA TIME... 

© Maureen King

Letter to Santa
 
Another year, when Ertha called you Santa Baby
Remember how she purred ?
Pampering you like that, surely enhanced her kit.
 
Santa Baby, or should I say Santa maybe,
Would I know you in sivies ?
Your pantomime suit is a real give away,
Santa in red, an old smoothie who
Leaves us all firmly in it.
 
That dosser lying under stairs in Pitt Street,
Do you seek him out, stuff his pockets,
Wake him in the night shouting
Yo Ho Ho, let's get merry?
 
Don't really think so
You would be clattered
Faster than you could say "Lucky Buckie"
By that old dossing Bucky Baby
Who's' head is churning out broken
Christmas Carols (in a roll out the barrel way)
Could say, "Awe it's you Santa"
 
This year Santa, would you do me a real turn
And let your reindeer linger in my vegetable garden,
The potato patch needs that Va-Va-Voom
To put the capital P in the Maris Pipers
And get the Arran Pilot back in the driving seat.
Fine we ken a good old load of dung  with a touch
Of magic could do just that.

© Alex Laird

Santa Claus was busy. He was on a mission from God. And as he placed the three oranges in a hessian sack he reflected on the mysterious nature of that mission. There was more to it than met the eye.
The situation was this. There lived in his village of Patara a poor man, a widower, who had three daughters. The daughters were of marriageable age but the father had no dowries with which to attract prospective husbands. And with no prospect of marriage the widower’s daughters were destined to be sold into slavery, as was the custom in those parts, born of economic necessity.
Santa swung the sack over his shoulder and left his house. He hooked an arm through the rungs of the ladder he had left leaning by the door and began to trudge up the street towards the widower’s house. It was a cold clear night and the sky was full of sharp glittering stars. The crescent moon was hanging slightly askew, and beyond the cliffs to the south its reflection sparkled in a million tiny fragments on the shimmering surface of Akdeniz, the great white sea. The village was clothed in silence and the only sounds that Santa could hear were the regular rasp of his own breathing and the rhythmic creak of the sacking where it pulled down on his shoulder.
“Need a hand there, Father?”
The voice, coming from the shadows of an alleyway between two houses, made Santa start and stumble under the awkward weight of the ladder he was half-carrying, half-dragging through the dust. He stopped, resting his burden on the ground, and peered into the darkness.
“No, I’m fine there…” His reply trailed off, inviting the owner of the voice to identify himself.
“It’s just… you seem to be toiling a bit.” A figure stepped into the starlight. “And it’s not right that a man like yourself – a priest and all – should be having to hump a ladder through the streets in the middle of the night.”
Santa had to thrust his face to within a hand’s breadth of the other’s before he could make out who it was in the dim light. The man’s breath was warm and moist and rancid with the stench of stale wine.
“Oh, it’s you Simon! I couldn’t make you out there… No, I’m fine. Just not as fit as I used to be.”
Simon looked at him sceptically. “Well… if you’re sure, Father.”
Santa patted him on the arm. “I’ll be fine, Simon. I’ve not much further to go.” He slapped his considerable paunch. “And the exercise will do me good!”
“Well, goodnight then, Father. And… take care!”
“Goodnight, Simon.” Santa put a hand on his shoulder. Simon started. “What’s the matter, son?” Santa asked.
“It’s nothing, Father. It’s just your hand… It feels so light… and it makes me feel light… like the wing of a bird.”
Santa shrugged, squared the sack across his back, took the weight of the ladder on his arm and resumed his steady trudge up the hill.
The widower’s hovel was in darkness when Santa arrived at its door. It was a small sagging construction of mudbrick walls with a single hessian-blocked window and a shallow-pitched red-tiled roof. Santa leant his ladder against the wall and struggled to quieten his breathing while he listened for any sound of activity from inside.
The silence of the night was seamless and complete. Santa straightened the ladder and began to climb, wincing at every creak and crack of the wood as he ascended. Reaching the top, he swung the sack from his shoulders and laid it on the crumbling roof-tiles before heaving himself with some effort over the eaves.
He stayed still for a few moments on his hands and knees, panting to catch his breath. On the far side of the roof a cat stared at him in astonishment. “Old age doesn’t come itself,” he whispered and the cat took off. “But… onward and upward,” he sighed, grasping the neck of the sack. “As the Good Book says: no rest for the wicked.”
He crept carefully on all fours towards the chimney at the top of the roof’s incline, dragging his sack behind him. The tiles were loose and splintered. One or two came away in his hands as he pulled himself along, which he hastily wedged back into place. His heart was in his mouth at the thought of the noise he was making, the scrape and rumble of which would surely be heard amplified in the room below. He hoped that the occupants were asleep and that they were sound sleepers.
After what seemed like an age he reached the chimney, which was little more than a hole let into the roof to allow the smoke from the cooking-fire to escape. As he clung to its lip, looking out across the moonlit sea, he toyed with the idea of lowering himself down through the hole to do the job properly, but only for a second. It would be just like the thing for his girth to wedge in the aperture, and how would he explain that to the villagers?
He pulled the sack to him, took out the three oranges and dropped them one by one down the chimney.
The following morning, Santa woke to a commotion in the street in front of his house. The whole village, it seemed, had gathered outside his door. He rose from his sleeping-mat, tugged down his shift to cover the cuts and bruises on his knees, and lumbered out into the morning. The hubbub subsided momentarily at his appearance and then redoubled its jabber, directing it at him. In the heart of the crowd the widower was beside himself with joy.
“It’s a miracle, Father!” he cried. “A fu-flaming miracle!”
Santa flapped his arms impatiently, signalling for quiet.
“What are you saying?” he grumbled, still half-asleep and made bleary-eyed by the sharp morning sunlight. “What miracle?”
“Last night,” the widower explained. “We turned-in as usual, me and the girls. We’d been down on the shore all day, scavenging, and our shoes were wet. So we left them by the embers to dry out. And when we got up this morning there was a bag of gold in each girl’s shoe. A miracle!”
“A wonder indeed,” Santa frowned thoughtfully. “And was there anything else?”
“Else?” the widower exclaimed, wrinkling his nose and looking at Santa as if he were simple. He spread his arms wide. “What else could there be that would top that? Apart from a smell of burnt orange peel stinking out the house, there was only the miracle. Isn’t that enough?”
“The two things might not be unconnected,” Santa mused, stroking his beard. “Miracles are often accompanied by just such auras...” He looked up and saw Simon in the middle of the crowd, smirking. “Anyway,” said Santa, recollecting himself and clapping a grazed-knuckle hand on the widower’s shoulder. “There’s the girls’ dowries for you… And if there’s anything left over,” he added sternly, “you might see about getting your roof fixed.”

© Andrew McCallum