Comes the holiday whose name i avoid,
with its fake lights
shining with social injustice
and its hollow bells
ringing of consumerism.
Sickly sweet music plays on the streets
Some war rages far away as always
The golden trumpet blowing angels are so tired
And the Santas drown in a sticky sea of coke
I turn my face and retreat
and wish in some forgotten corner of my heart
that the festive season
was real
I send a rare message to a friend
just to check in.
And then the child returns home
just because he wants to.
And another old friend, long ignored,
calls anyway.
And on some thin and fragile plane
almost invisible under the
frantic wallpaper of business
the true spirit whispers
I’m alive
This poem wanted to be written after my desperate attempts of hibernating as a hermit were disturbed by fuzzy warm feels entering my heart completely free of charge, almost like back in the time when people huddled together in the winter and enjoyed food and good company just for the sake of it and not for profit.
If you are equally annoyed at the unnamed holiday and have someone out there who might like to hear from you - maybe contact them. Because it’s the dark time of the year, and people are just happy to have the darkness interrupted by a friendly word or a friendly voice.