Day Thirty One: 'Resolution' by Jo Bell

'Resolution'

Hungover in the cow-fresh air, they leave their friends
to stuffing frosty cars with leftovers and sleeping children.
He wishes that they had a dog, or tartan travel rugs.

The pub is mulled and mistletoed,
aglint with copper pans and holly.
The Sheffield Pipe Band skirls, unlikely, by.

He heaves her uphill to the torpid castle:
kisses her against the wishbone walls,
trumpets blarting up through crow-filled trees.

They march down singing Wenceslas.
This is going to be a fruitful year,
he thinks. Or better than the last.

Jo Bell

Day Thirty: 'A Bare Bedroom With Two People' by Laurie Bolger

'A Bare Bedroom With Two People'

Twenty and afraid of silences,

I chat mindless babble

when scanning your book-shelves

for clues of you – a comment

for every single one.

I sip rum laced with ginger ale;

we will sit and drink, wait until

one half gives in.

This isn’t when the room stands still,

or when music starts as time stops.

“Do you want another drink?” he asks,

and removes the glass from my hand.

These are those invisible drinking cords

that fasten us together after

a few too many.

I don’t know you that well –

so I sit and talk.

I play with one button on my cardigan

that’s come away, and hangs there

on its thread.

Laurie Bolger

Day Twenty Nine: 'Manchester my Winter' by John Darwin

'Manchester my Winter'

Mascara smudge and pillow shaped

by head now gone and back to home

where paying bills and being straight

and tying gifts with fingertips

that did a trick for me last night

is how it has to be;

And he won't know and she won't know

but we know where this thing will go

where rivers wide and thoughts ill-shaped

by time's raw fate

and love and hate

meet cul-de-sacs of nothing;

The scent of hair and hair on clothes

and make up flaked on last night's threads

and threads of lives and beads of sweat

we haven't seen betrayal, yet,

accelerates the fire;

From flush of youth to long time dead

twelve years in someone else's bed

you bring yourself to hold my gaze

dilation gives the game away;

your omnipresent verbal pause

accented pure Mancunian,

the tremor of your shyness;

In taxi queues at five past three

where office workers take their drink

like once-teetotal pledge-takers

methodism in their madness;

you lean right in, hips sway away

and take a cab the wrong way, south

I often dream but seldom sleep

the vacuum of your absence.

John Darwin

Day Twenty Eight: 'Red' by Michael Wilson

'Red'

you drank the guts of a bottle
to be able to digest the waste of the television screen
don't fear the hallucinations
don't fear the visions you will see
they lead your hand to mine
you argue the black of night time
into the white morning
and are your eyes just cameras
or do you change the things you see?
and you drained the last of the bottle
to see a small sliver of paper at the bottom
drenched in red
that read your fortune
read your life backwards
and left you sitting here

Michael Wilson

Day Twenty Seven: 'Snowhenge' by Jayne Stanton

'Snowhenge'

morning roads snow-blocked

vehicles lie snow-shocked

railway station snow-lined

routes to nowhere snow-signed

High Street snow-stalled

Castle grounds snow-walled

Steep Hill snow-swagged

Christmas Market snow-gagged

Strugglers Inn snowbound

Bishop’s Palace snow-crowned

Minster towers snow-carved

Uphill, downhill: snow-halved

wrought iron snow-crafted

bare trees snow-grafted

sleeping city snow-claimed

inner beauty snow-framed

Jayne Stanton

Day Twenty Six: 'driving home on boxing day with neil looking up at the mountains' by Red Newsom

'driving home on boxing day with neil looking up at the mountains'

through the roar of the heater we plough

into the mouth of the mountains

listening to something called

punk-funk and talking about the novel

you will never write, i saw the way

the weather had fallen and frozen

over the countryside.

and you said:

“when you look at snow

it is really interesting.

it makes clear something

that you'd never otherwise see,

which are the little eddies and currents in the wind.

there are all these tiny weather fractions going on

that we totally miss. micro-worlds.

i suppose that's like life more generally.

you should write a poem about that.”

Red Newsom

Day Twenty Five: 'You Better Watch Out!' by Anna McCrory

'You better watch out!'

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
But don’t feel contented instead please beware,
Because soon that old creep Santa Claus is there.

I know what you’re thinking ‘he’s just a kind old man’,
But don’t let him fool you, of course that’s his plan.
So it is only my duty to suggest ways to divert,
the world’s most successful and most famous pervert.

Now don’t be surprised, come on surely a man creeping
around your house watching you while you’re sleeping.
Is at the very least a cause for concern,
no matter how many gifts he leaves under the fern.

And you know from the songs just what he’s done
he’s even managed to get off with your mum!
so look out for the red suit, the reindeer and sleigh
And don’t let this man ruin your Christmas day!

There’s a million ways to wipe off his smile
Why not fortify your house, home alone style
or at least block your chimney with rolls of barbed wire,
or replace it all together with an electric fire.

Why not place in your kitchen a highly trained sniper,
or let loose near the tree a poisonous viper.
Perhaps speak to an expert; one who has mastered,
the ideal way to take out the bastard!

So in your house keep a hit man to get rid of the sod!
Or else buy a Rottweiler and let him do the job!
Why not instead take your glade motion sensor
filled with poisonous gas to knock out the old lecher

There really is no end to the ways you can keep,
this creep out your house so you actually sleep.
And only at last when he finally takes flight
Can you wish, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

Day Twenty Four: 'Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards (2011 Version)' by Billy Bragg

'Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards - 2011 Version'

It may have been Camelot for Clegg and Cameron
But on Coalition Cul-de-Sac there’s not much business going on
Youth unemployment’s rising and factories are failing,
Public servants marching, Europeans need help bailing
Things have not been this bad since the days of Margaret Thatcher
So keep calm and carry on watching X Factor

In the former Soviet Union the citizens demand
To know why they’re still the target of Strategic Air Command
And they shake their fist in anger and respectfully suggest
We take the money from Trident and spend it on the NHS

High up in the Stock Exchange they’re knocking back the champers
While Boris Johnson Boulevard has been colonized by campers
Who want to ask some questions about the way that we do business
In the twilight of the capitalist system

The world wide web is wonderful if you’ve got something to sell
But opinions often summon up a focus group from Hell
Best not to be distracted, stay focused on your goals
And take my advice – don’t feed the trolls

Jumble sales are organized and charity shops open
The Tories keep on telling us that it’s Britain that is broken
Time to get active with the activists so switch off World of Warcraft
And start working for the Great Leap Forwards

One leap forwards, two leaps back
Chuck out Berlusconi and put in a technocrat
Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards

Here comes the future and you can’t run back from it
If you’ve got a smartphone, I’ve got an app for it
Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards

In a perfect world we’d all sing in tune
But this is reality so switch off the auto-tune
Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards

It’s a mighty long way down rock’n’roll
From Top of the Pops to Strictly Come Pole Dancing
Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards

If no-one out there understands,
Start your own Occupation and cut out the middleman
Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards

So join the struggle while you may
The revolution is just a tea towel away…

Billy Bragg

Day Twenty Three: 'Christmas Steps' by Gerry Potter

'Christmas Steps'

Glorious steps lit by kings
Leave a Christmas imprint and crunch.
In the fib of legends, warmth.

"Follow me pauper and I'll line your stomach gold.
Gold more precious than stew
More precious than shelter
More precious than vocation.
A gold for fire-side stories and song."

A money metal for money feasts
Keeping you wanting and grateful.
A tinsel noose wrapped around the neck of mothers
Is strange fruit for trees,
Baubles hung fatal.

Follow him pauper
Into the cull of charity and debt
And let the season of goodwill reign.
Its warm in the hollow of promises
In the desolation of myth.

He'll jolly a laugh and raise a glass
As you turn your heating down.
He'll be your king and gorge
While you freeze to death in his footsteps.

Gerry Potter

Day Twenty Two: 'Winter Solstice Sonnet' by Lucy Lepchani

'Winter Solstice Sonnet'

Outshone by Christmas and its Light,

by tinsel, feasts and festive cheer,

the shortest day and longest night

takes shadowed place in turning year.

Our ancestors marked out this time

when winter shook the barren land,

and to this sunrise, they aligned

solstice stone circles that still stand

and welcome back sustaining sun.

Our ancestors resilience

to winter’s hardships were hard won

by wits, and skill, and brilliance.

Our heritage: yielded from their strife,

that we may cherish gifts of life.

Lucy Lepchani

Day Twenty One: 'The Songs Say It All' by Dermot Glennon

'The Songs Say It All'

This is christmas
and what have I done
another year over
another year old
and I will be lonely this christmas
lonely and cold
but not lonely enough
as stuck in a house
full of cheery people
glass in hand
and a niece on my knee
hungover so bad
and all she wants is book after book
after cuddle after snuggle
after read her a story
to the quiet dirge of McGowan
and if I get elected
I'll stop the cavalry
The nephews want the monster
to chase them through the house
and the older children
wanting to fleece me at cards
a meal too big for a fragile me
and a voice saying home now
home; you need sleep.

Dermot Glennon

Day Twenty: 'Winter' by Zelda Chappel

'Winter'

I wake up to the smell of yesterday’s coffee

now cold with its tobacco-like smell and watch

through cold glass as spiders build their webs

between the fronds where sage flowers, once

purple lit, now whither in the change of seasons.

The sun becomes refracted through clouds,

thick and round behind the falling shards,

as they project themselves with soft edges and

splay out towards the dampened ground, warmth

long absent, burying light in lieu of spring.

Winter plunges the world into a premature

darkness, the infrequency of the moon’s light

offering little but a bareness tinged blue with cold

so stark it turns the world to monochrome, colour

drained and left to hibernate until Spring’s return.

Zelda Chappel

Day Nineteen: 'Snowdrops' by Jo Langton

'Snowdrops'

robes of pure white shroud
frosted flakes hypnotic whirls
shiver shudder cold

nimble footprints in
crisp snow. Gleaming kids sledging
swerve and slip and slide

perfect white blankets
snow faeries shine in the night
bitter cold: wrap up!

Children play, gleeful
snowballs flying over head
wet socks by the fire

Jo Langton

Day Eighteen: 'The Ice Man' by Sian S Rathore

'The Ice Man'

Where do I walk, now?

Two steps behind you. Lined up backwards

So if you trip I’m first to catch

Your fear flushed paling

Dry tongued gasp.

See, I once was told

Your bones were hollow.

They pop like crack crystals on foil -

Or winter’s frosted sycamores

The leaves we wore like gloves.

I once saw you spit fire

Bolting on in heavy words

You thawed the very earth

And even very frozen me

And when you played my piano

Satie sat in your lap and ate from your palm.

Your teeth were wet with poison

and you tore a gully through my arteries

And I stood still.

Knowing - never stopping you -

There was nothing I wanted to do about it.

Sian S. Rathore

Day Seventeen: 'Let Winter Come' by Nick Jarvis

'Let winter come'

Let the harvest fill the tables,

let the fields look a little lost,

let the flowers go to bed.

Let the days be undone by darkness,

let the trees shake off the last of their leaves,

let the rains wash the year away.

Let the puddles freeze,

let the moon rise and the snow fall,

let the sounds release their silence.

Let the children build their snowmen,

let the paths remain unswept,

let the drift pile up at the door.

Let the hinges squeak,

let the locks rust,

let the tools lie in their box.

Let your breath hang in the air,

let the clouds thicken,

let the sky sink.

Let winter come.

Nick Jarvis

Day Sixteen: 'This Years List' by Sam Lane

'This Years List'

I am not much a praying man myself
And there are more important a cause,
Such as illness and disease at this time,
So to Santa I'm making this call.

For this year I am making one wish;
But to calm my tempestuous heart and brain
And to leave both my town and my love
In good spirits until I return again.

Sam Lane

Day Fifteen: 'Resurrection' by Claire Trevien

'Resurrection'

Thomas dragged her body up the cliff path.
Her legs became encrusted with crushed baubles of heather.

Garlands of sweat dried on her skin, the salt caught
the light like fish scales. Later, he fed her soup.
He called her the Christmas fairy as he picked snowflakes
from her hair. When she coughed, he saw pixie dust settling,
her arms prickled his like a swaying fern.

At noon, she slapped his face, but it bruised hers,
when she left, he had never been.

Claire Trevien

Day Fourteen: 'Coelacanth' by Charlotte Henson

'Coelacanth'

It was dead, what they shared,

and he realized it as much as she.

With love like a coelacanth, gone

was the small butterfly that once nestled in their breast pocket,

occasionally fluttering its wings in a dizzy dance.

The fossil of their relationship was

far more easily located than the living specimen nowadays.

Now, loud nights spent tearing into each others’ ego

as a lion does its prey and as the two stand on a pier,

even now she is circling, waiting for his next mistake.

But for a second, a dark glance on the seafloor.

Beneath, the coelacanth made a steady process,

huge,

and rested directly beneath them.

Charlotte Henson

Day Thirteen: 'A Snowflake's Chance' by Jennie Bailey

'A Snowflake's Chance'

As the chill of old age sets into ancient trees.

Snow, for now, is just a promise – one cloud away.

Now we cling together, shelter from the cruel breeze.

Overcome by the cold, we retreat from the day,

window gazing as the snow starts to fall in haste.

Frozen glitter flutters down like white feathered charms,

leaving little snowflake kisses on the tree's face.

A flurry of snow is welcomed with outstreched arms,

kisses collect upon the darkening silhouette.

Echoes with the creak and groan of limbs lifting snow,

flowing over its boughs; a glacial sheen so wet.

Enjoy this moment; it's the season to be slow.

Love, once again, fights the cold. And now, once again,

love keeps us warm as the chill of old age sets in.

Jennie Bailey

Day Twelve: 'Christmas is Coming' by David Mountain

'Christmas is Coming'

Christmas is coming –
the rich are getting fat,
no one’s put a penny
in the old man’s hat-

Christmas is coming –
Big issue sales are nil,
charity is dead and done
in the season of goodwill -

Christmas is coming –
Santa’s on the rob,
Mum ain’t got no money
Dad ain’t got a job.

Christmas is coming –
gas and electric are cut off,
we’re all cold and freezing,
and we’ve really had enough.

Christmas is coming –
the pubs are warm and lit,
the homeless they are dying,
and no one gives a shit -

Christmas is coming –
there’s no presents and no tree,
no Christmas pud or mistletoe
not even cold turkey…

Christmas is coming –
the Queen will make her speech,
our politicians will be off sunning it
On some exotic beach -

Christmas is coming –
there’s something we all lack,
as we turn our thoughts to Christmas
and wish that Christ was back.

So Christmas is coming –
Merry Christmas one and all,
let’s hope it’s a good one,
I hope you have a ball -

David Mountain

Day Eleven: 'Eardrum Ocean' by Agnes Marton

'Eardrum Ocean'

Slippery, joyful hills of the timeless.
Slushy stills of spring frames,
stroking edges,
tobogganing through year-minutes and lives,
there and back,
touching fringes and blinds,
changing glances of flame,
leaning shoulderside
and fresh-forward,
ineffable

(riddle me, dream),

sliding away in flakes of breath.

Agnes Marton

Day Ten: 'Snow Day' by Ginna Wilkerson

'Snow Day'

Yesterday’s magical white show we

watched with snow-drifted eyes,

waiting for the tucked-in blanket,

smooth and flawless, in the park.

Dark came too soon – winter moon

breathing life into pale twilight;

loveliness lost on dogs and children

who only long for crunching crisp play.

Daylight dawns on new disappointment:

rain now falls in place of snow;

an understudy not nearly sufficient,

no matter how much she wants the part.

Kneeling on the bay window sofa,

a small chilly hand presses flat

to the glass while raindrops

dance a silent quadrille down the pane.

Ginna Wilkerson

Day Nine: 'Bauble Gazing' by Rachel McGladdery

'Bauble gazing'

We can create impermanence today.

(Foot dragging still, though it’s halfway through December)

Dust down the tree and wrap old boxes up in tat.

I will find the lights, bring in some green

to make it seem

that Christmas might yet happen.

But you know deep down I hate the fraud

of putting lights in windows when

there’s not a card bought.

And I can bear the itching to make the house look clean,

to tuck the fripping out of sight,

will swallow down the urge to tidy all the ribboning away

and grin inanely at the Christmas ads

to see your face reflected in a ball of glass,

tottering delicate on a scented bough,

gazing wide at all the room made broad

in the convex spill of light.

Rachel McGladdery

Day Eight: 'Delamere Forest' by Angela Topping

'Delamere Forest'

Pinned in my mind,

the night you left me

alone in the forest.

Walking in winter:

sculptural trees,

muddy paths.

Pale winter sun

slips into the abyss

of a December night.

Faster than leaf fall,

engulfed in darkness,

mere a distant glimmer.

You ran for the car

to rescue us, take us

home to warmth and light.

A curl of memory

for me, something else

for you to forget.

Angela Topping

Day Seven: 'Shop Window Beauty' by Charlie Rawcliffe

'Shop Window Beauty'

Beneath cloud cover

On top a blanket of snow

I watch you slip and slide down an iced-over high street

The shops are closed

The cars won't start

It's just me watching you watching nothing

Your own shop window reflection

Watches as you play with your hair

Adjust your scarf and turn this wasteland into a catwalk

My breath frosts the air

And through the haze

You seem like God's greatest creation.

Charlie Rawcliffe

Day Six: 'Gold, frankincense and that' by Gary From Leeds

'Gold, frankincense and that'

They put Christmas

Decorations up early

In the

Payday Loan

Shop

They say

He paid off

Man’s debt

By dying

That kid in the

Plastic manger by the

Small print

But

Twinkle twinkle

Those little stars

Have a certain

Strobing threat

To them

And I wonder

What you owe

Gary From Leeds

Day Five: 'Manchester Snowfall' by Anna Percy

'Manchester Snowfall'

The city is smudged monochrome

like old newsprint, snow falls like ash.

When my breath smokes in the air

it’s the carbon monoxide of cars.

The wheels of my suitcase skid on ice,

I’m trying to get away, south,

to sugared fields of sugar beet,

where books are shelved,

Not stacked, sliding like decks of cards.

As they are in my grubby flat,

overlooked by gargoyles, whose acid rain

scarred eyes assure me of cancelled trains,

as downy grey flakes keep falling on the lines,

filling the spaces between railway sleepers.

Anna Percy

Day Four: 'Christmas in Camden' by Jack Pascoe

'Christmas in Camden'

Sleigh bells are ringing
while choirs are singing
the soldiers are all coming home
It's the time of the year
when we live without fear
and nobody is ever alone

The christmas tree glistens in Picadilly Circus
and stands so incredibly tall
meanwhile i'll be spending my christmas in Camden
with no one to love me at all

I'm scraping the barrel
and all my apparel
is torn from the head to the toe
I'm stumbling around
in the bad side of town
with no certain place to go

So when all the drunks staying north of the river
should all topple over and fall
i'll be right with them spending my christmas in Camden
with no one to love me at all

When you complain
about full stomach pain
that you get from your big yule time feast
Just look at my state
with no food on my plate
and then i am sure you'll be pleased

I'm sure that you will not get chilly and lonesome
when the church bells are starting to toll
and i'm sure i'll be spending my christmas in Camden
with no one to love me at all

Just fighting the tide
while i'm living outside
of the marketplace miles from home
Could do with a boost
but i'll have to get used
to staying here all on my own

So when you are watching the logs on the fire
and your family's having a ball
please think of me spending my christmas in Camden
with no one to love me at all

Jack Pascoe

Day Three: 'And What Of Me?' by Yanny Mac

'And What Of Me?'

Hair of tinsel
a nose like Santa
and greying beard to match
arthritic limbs, spindle and spruce
red, green and gaudily silver
obsolescent. Of little use

I am Christmas decoration

Tired, broken and slightly out of fashion
temporarily exciting
and secular to boot

Annual. Perennial. Commercially obtainable
a necessary evil
like baubles

A spent fuse, a flickering fairy light, out of my box, for a short festive season
antiquated, perfumed with booze
and synonymous with tedium

I am Christmas decoration.

Yanny Mac

Day Two: 'Once this Winter' by Cathy Bryant

'Once this Winter'

For once, let yourself off the hook.

For once, let anxieties fall away as lightly as snowflakes.

For once, shrug off the stresses and strains.

For once, eat and drink your fill, at will.

For once, let peace lie soft and cool over the usual hot pains.

For once, find things to celebrate, and smile at someone for all the reasons that people do, or for no reason.

For once, let it be. It can wait.

For once, be gentle and forgiving with yourself.

And be wrapped like a gift in one of those rare moments of perfect stillness that only winter brings. Like a gift.

Cathy Bryant

Day One: 'Snow Baby' by Hollie McNish

'Snow Baby'

The snow will be gone when you come baby

The ice will have melted away

A springtime bloom will be waiting for you as soon as you come out to play.

When you open your eyes there’ll be flowers

Branches bloomed into hues

The bees will be back, the petals attacked

and the honies will melt around you

The white will be split when you come baby

The colours splintered through rain

This blanket of snow with its one palette show

Will melt in a rainbow of paint

The cold will be gone when you come baby

Just a warm little cooling down breeze

The leaves on the trees will be minty and green

And the rivers run back into seas

The thaw will be here when you come baby

The animals peeping through dirt

Daffodils trumpeting gateways to parks

As you open your ears to the earth

The land will be soft when you sit baby

The grass grown through daisy chain seats

The sun will be bright, the heat will be light

As you lie in the shade of the trees

The snow will be gone when you come baby

Right now it’s a blanket of pearls

So just rest for a bit, put your feet up and sit

till the buds break the frost and unfurl.

The freeze will be gone when you come baby

The glittering frost-biting tracks

So grow strong with the spring so when snow starts to sing

You can run out and marvel at that.

Hollie McNish

Check Back December 1st for the 1st poem: in the mean time take a look at 'About' and 'Submissions'.