Poetry

not the most conventional Christmas.

written by: babeestars

Wake up,
six o'clock on the dot,
wait an hour,
forbidden entry until 7.
Watch the second hand turning,
light slowly glowing through the curtains,
drifting in and out of excited sleep,
dreaming of every past year
and knowing today will be the best yet.
Pulling presents from the stocking,
one by one,
smile on face,
spreading into childish grin of glee.
stareing at each gift
sampling each chocolate,
testing each pen,
and loving every moment.
Sitting at the table,
waiting to be served,
best china set out,
fruit salad,
my plate of fruit beside it.
smell of croissants from the oven,
orange juice settled in glass,
spilt on the new table cloth,
munching at the speed of light,
to get to the next stage.
Rushing to clear away breakfast,
sitting by the tree in hope,
presents splayed from all sides,
waiting for everyone to find a space.
watching everyone rip at the paper,
digging for your own,
waiting for them to be handed to you,
sure that everyone else has more than you.
Cuddling each bear to your chest,
test driving each new toy,
reading all the songs on the back of every CD,
sampling every chocolate.
Loosing things,
re-finding them among the littered paper,
watching mum clear up the mess made,
marvelling at each new glittered object all over again.
time flies by as you do it all again,
find the odd gift which got forgotten,
play with each toy like you did the first time,
smile and laugh enjoy every second.
Grab a plate,
pile it with nibbles,
breadsticks and crackers and cheese,
cakes and biscuits and crisps.
eat all the things your not supposed to,
leave the things you should,
go back for seconds,
and thirds and fourths.
Spending the time,
between lunch and dinner,
always seems to,
be the longest.
sorting out the presents again,
watching all the TV specials,
eating more food that's not really wanted,
texting everyone on your contacts list.
Dinner is served,
pile it up with all the food,
potatoes and parsnips,
with cranberry sauce.
not a roast turkey,
with all of its trimmings,
but roast quorn and veg
and Yorkshire puddings.
Leave most of it uneaten,
stuffed from everything else,
pull the crackers,
laugh at the terrible jokes.
wear the hats,
even though they fall down,
turn them into coloured paper necklaces,
play with yet another small toy.
finding the small presents among the fairy lights,
small jokes between two people,
beautiful tiny gifts from the heart,
the odd card forgotten at the bottom of the pile.
hugging every all over again,
thanking them for a wonderful day,
pulling out a game to make all laugh,
and laugh they do till the night is gone.
It may not be the most conventional Christmas,
but its my Christmas.