My Christmas Tree’s Still Up

My tree has been up since November and it’s still up. I don’t even notice it anymore, even though I look at it every day! I just can’t muster the motivation to take it down and put it away! So it inspired me to write this simple poem…

My Christmas tree’s still up
Sitting forlorn in the corner
Like some eccentric, gaudy gatecrasher
And some days, that’s how I feel
That’s how I feel.

The star on the top
The tinsel on the tree
The lights which no longer twinkle
And that’s a metaphor for me,
A metaphor for me.

It’s pretty when it’s appropriate
When the carol singers sing their joyous songs
And the champers flows and the nights are long
Yet most of the time it’s out of place
Like me, it’s just wrong
Just wrong

A broken branch
A light that has an erratic connection
An angel fallen from her spot on top
A ‘not quite right’ like me
And it doesn’t stop
It doesn’t stop

An apathetic parent
A mother who just can’t be arsed
To put the tree back in its box
My motivation sparse
It’s bloody sparse.

Maybe one day
I’ll shine in all the right places
I’ll get the acts of the play of life
In all the right, ordered spaces
And I’ll put away the tree
Put away the tree.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Happy Birthday Jesus

Happy birthday Jesus
Lying in your simple manger
Lowly, meek, humble,
commercialism a stranger
bet ya didn’t know that years to come
your beloved day of birth
would become a multitrillion franchise
that gifts of gold and myrrh and frankincense
by men proclaiming themselves wise
would morph into a creed of greed whilst children plead to be good indeed
for the wise men don’t bring gifts anymore
it’s a fat bloke in a red suit, black boots
white hair and beard, rosy cheeks belying his white privileged roots
and you’d better be good, didn’t you know he could
leave you a sack of broken dreams, fuck you coal
leave you a psychological smear on your childhood.

Happy birthday Jesus
Bet you didn’t know
That whilst your parents struggled in their desperation
Not aware of the glory and jubilation
Piss poor with not a roof to call their place
The masses would be gorging on a turkey feast
With food to feed a capitalist appetite
with trolleys loaded like culinary weapons fueling the consumerist beast
that the arm of the machine of Commercialism has been greased
that simplicity and modesty and want not are deceased
And why not have a bite out of the Christmas cake
And choke on the excesses in which our society partakes
A mouthful of craziness and a sentiment that’s fake.

Happy birthday Jesus
Bet your simple manger
Didn’t look like the Las Vegas strip
With the star of Bethlehem glowing modestly
With promises of greatness and goodness
And wisdom and benevolent leadership.
Whilst the glare of commercialism is blinding
With its 1000,000 watt show of excess and falsity
Showing how Jesus has become a commercial commodity
How the denial of humility has become a societal monstrosity
What’s wrong with a single star and a birth of mediocrity.
What’s wrong with our world?
What is this pretense that there is no inequality?
What is this illusion, this fucked up dishonesty.

So Happy Birthday Jesus
I know it wasn’t your dream
To see the world bedecked in its outrageous festive theme
I know if you came back today
Your mind would be devastated, your heart would scream
But Happy birthday
Happy birthday
Welcome to this world’s fucked up consumer dream.

©2019 Sarah Drury

I Remember a Time

I remember a time
Back when our innocence was Christmas
And love was Christmas
And peace was Christmas
And Joy was Christmas

Today I cancelled a haircut
I cancelled a haircut because I’m living on the bones of my arse
And I don’t want my child to wake up to no presents
I don’t want his pile of pleasure to be meagre and sparse
And the sense of pride I felt walking out of the toy shop
With 2 bags of toys and hair looking like crap
When I’m caught in the commercialism of our days
Caught in the have, have, have, not need, trap.
Like a vulture lurking over a dying breed
Like a human possessed by consumer greed.

Today I went to the cashpoint
And took out my last fifty pounds
Hoping my child tax credit will stop me making the cash convertors rounds
And being a mother, I always come last
And being a widow, I wear a happy mask
And where are the presents for me?
But I am so used to being the invisible recipient
I only get the gifts that come free
The ones you cannot see.
And that is ok
By me.

Today I put up the tree
A bargain from the pop up Christmas shop
Looks like shit but once the gaudy baubles hide
Its anorexic branches, once the lights are twinkling
Then the cheap as shit look will stop.
And it stands there proudly
As proud as any rich bitch tree
A symbol of years of austerity
But I don’t care
My tree says I have tried
I have really tried

Money is nice, it buys things
It buys things
But I remember when simplicity was Christmas
I remember when gratefulness was Christmas
I remember when asking for nothing was Christmas

And I wonder where did it all go horribly wrong
When did the world start singing this god awful consumerist song?

©2019 Sarah Drury

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa
I know I haven’t always been a good girl
But please give me a bleedin’ break
I don’t ask for much, but every woman has her desires
For goodness sake.
I run myself ragged, day in, day out
Autism mum first and foremost
Harassed bitchface, mardy cow
There are days when I don’t even know how
The women in Syria even survive
When I can’t even deal with a meltdown
When the depression dances and the anxiety thrives.
But I have been good most of the time
Even if I have overdone the chocolate treats.
My ass would plead to be freed from the deed
Of ride a cock horse and demolish your steed
And my belly which rhymes with jelly and looks like
A sugar laden simile.
I know I am not the smallest
But Santa, let’s be having none of that bloody
Weight loss guilt trip stuff on the telly.

And don’t be bringing me
Sex toys
Toy boys
Boy toys
Vibrators made of metal alloys.
Or tinsel nipple tassles
As the latter will be more like toenail ticklers
And it’s not even worth the hassle.
And let’s leave the pretentious cook books out of the picture
The only things getting cooked around here
Are microwave chips, ready meals from Iceland
And pie in the sky dreams of winning the lotto and getting richer.
Mary Berry’s probably a nice lady
But baking Tirimasu isn’t part of my criteria
So she can piss right off and peddle her fancy treats in fucking Siberia.
Maybe the polar bears have a penchant for pavlova
And maybe the Great British Bake Off’s just a load of middle class hysteria.

Santa, I don’t get much time to myself
So if you have a supernanny in your sack
Not your sack in a nanny
Then please release my lack of peace
And grant me the odd night with my fabulosa friends
To feast, to go ‘on the piste’
To be a woman on a mission with a glass full of brandy
And a nice plate of veggie curry would come in handy
And a bit of pissed up karaoke would be fine and dandy.
I like a bit of mic
I like to hog the limelight.

And I don’t want to be a selfish bitch, Santa
But I don’t suppose you have a spare MacBook or iPhone?
I know I shouldn’t ask
But when you’re a single mum and on your own
And you spend the nights surfing the web
Drinking in the likes on Facebook
Like a hungry dog licks on a bone.
Nights dripping in poetry, weaving wise words,
Reaching out to the world yet feeling fucking alone
You like to fiddle and twiddle and let your fingers skadiddle
You like to build with your words a metaphoric home

So, Santa,
I’ll leave it up to decide if I’ve made your good girl list.
But
Leave out the mistletoe or you’ll be kissed with my fist!

©2019 Sarah Drury

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas 2019

‘Twas the night before Christmas
And all round the house
The children were freezing
The gas had run out
They’re huddled in blankets
And second hand coats
With bad chest infections
And painful, sore throats.
There is no electric
They’ve run out of money
They’re scared and they’re frightened
They’re crying for mummy.
But mummy is down
to her last tearful nerve
Universal credit’s been
A steep learning curve.
And the children are hungry
And the cupboards are bare
They’re living off foodbanks
A bloody nightmare.
And it’s Christmas tomorrow
And what will they do?
They’re living off tatties
And vegetable stew.
No turkey bedecking
their rickety table
a fine Christmas dinner’s
a middle class fable.
No fat Christmas pudding
To feast, feast, feast, feast
For that sort of thing
Is a wealthy assed beast.
Santa is taking
a break for the night
for they can’t afford presents
their purse is too tight,
and the children will cry
and their hearts will be broken
they’ll think they’ve been bad
and no words that are spoken
will sooth their sad hearts
will bring back the magic
for poverty is sin
and their little lives tragic.
And benefits are sanctioned
And the poor they go hungry
And the wealthy don’t care
And the tories are angry
And people get poorer
And children get sadder
And the system gets fucked up
The money gets tighter.
The homeless get shit on
The sick are a burden
The mothers are chastised
Their futures uncertain.
How did our poor country
Get in this crap mess?
How did our ‘fine’ leaders
Be heartless, care less?
How did our poor children
Become casualties?
Hungry, tired, sorrowful
Tory fatalities.
‘Twas the night before Christmas
And some lives were shit
We need things to change
Put an end to it.

©2019 Sarah Drury