Celebrations

Fleece on Earth
Wild faces Gallery

I wish we could put up some of the Christmas spirit in jars and open a jar of it every month. 

Harlan Miller

Celebrations

Her life was a predicament, a life of non-adjustment,

her wildness inexact but she did not falter

in spite of a malaise that’s seen as quirky, not quite normal.

(I tell myself and her that normal is boring).

Orphaned and unmoulded, she had no prototype to run by

and Christmas strangely always brings such pains to mind.

On shrinking days her heartstrings became broken;

there is so much she abhors, avoids or even tries to tolerate

for she’s learned false colours are a sham, a visual fallacy

and a false light always shows itself before a coming dawn.

Never one to fall in and march, she cannot sing in unison

while all her loathings move to stir and wake.

Getting up, going out, they all become too much,

planned events and obligations, grandeur, pomp and circumstance,

anything wide of the truth, deceptive or deceiving.

Pressure to spend precedes a runaway frenzy.

Her list of hates goes on, I beg her stop.

What does she love, I hear you say?
Ah, that could fill a book and would make a far nicer poem,

let’s celebrate,

there is so much, so much.

Cait O’Connor