Wednesday, 19 December 2012

Cut back Christmas and Death of America's Christmas

Cut Back Christmas

Cut Back Christmas is totally crap,
I’ve hardly got any gifts to wrap
I’m using newspaper string and scissors.
Christmas dinner is turkey twizzlers.
After, we might all share a mince pie
With some Vimto instead of fine wine.
I’ve got Pound Shop crackers that won’t crack,
No hats or toys, just jokes that fall flat.
It’s austerity round at my house
Cos I’m as poor as the old church mouse.
Our scraggly tree is a disgrace.
The fairy’s frayed and won’t be replaced.
Instead of stockings on the chimney breast
We’ve carrier bags - Netto’s finest!
The twelve days of Christmas are now ten.
Gone are the pipers and the French hens!
School nativities just aren’t the same.
The financial crisis is to blame.
Bethlehem’s all gloom and depression.
There’s room at the inn – blame the recession.
The three wise men travel from far and near
Bearing  Golden Virginia, frankfurters and beer
Poor Santa - is in a sorry state!
He’s so broke he’s not eaten of late.
Kids run away when he comes around
Since last week when his trousers fell down.
His “Ho Ho Ho” is cut back as well.
He still walks round town ringing his bell
He gets strange looks wherever he goes.
Cos of the cut backs he just shouts “Ho.”
He and his wife do the work themselves
Since they had to lay off all the elves.
Guess what has happened to the poor reindeer?
The venison pie was yum I hear!

So I’ll shut up now – I’ve had my moan
Some folk will spend Christmas all alone,
I’ll feast on love of family and friends.
It’s not what you’ve got or what you spend
But who you’re with that counts in the end.

© Joy France

Families spend £483 a week just to buy essentials

Shoppers touched by a bit of the Scrooge this Christmas

Joy writes poems and scripts and generally enjoys "mucking about with words". Although she has been published, she is mostly known for her presence on the performance scene in the North West area and for her work with young people.

Death of America's Christmas
A corridor of paintings, spattered
red; a teacher crams kids into cupboards,
tells them she loves them,
the way a mother would,
and silence will mean survival.

Children form a slow crocodile,  emerge
from the building. A brother watches
for his sister from the gate, doesn’t see her,
then finally he does, and the hug is the longest
and closest they’ve ever shared.

These are their presents this Christmas;
the lights  taken down, one by one, in a town
that is stunned into silence. Later will come
the questions, investigations, psychiatrists, debates –
for now it’s a nation in mourning.

Under the tree, no presents piling,
just fears, and rows of white boxes,
instead of lights or snow’s quilt
covering all that is dark
and spoiled in our world.

© Afric McGlinchey

A Hennessy Poetry winner and Pushcart nominee, Afric McGlinchey’s début collection, The lucky star of hidden things,  was published in 2012 by Salmon.  Afric lives in West Cork.