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The Ghosts Of Christmas Now Past.

Updated on December 26, 2009


The Ghosts Of Christmas Now Past...    

Christmas is over now
with wide yawns,
multiple sighs ,
and mounds of
colored wrapping paper
sleeping  in black garbage bags
under the starry skies.

 The cries of exclamations forever
trapped in the

crinkled up balls.

Smiles still plaster young tots
who got from Santas lots
hand delivered
to their very own house.

They never question
the size of his bag
that can fill the spaces 

beneath trees of millions.

Bills coming round

to visit soon
old nasty bills

got demands
and the po' folk

will eat less
to cover the

seasons cheer
the rich will feel

nary a pinch
and the middle class

will tear a checkpoint

from thier budgets.

Soon orphaned  

trees will

gather on curbs
still dripping with

forgotten icicles
hand picked and

then cast away
like ol friends

they will huddle
in the drifts
far away

from Christmas.

New years dawn

will find them
compacted into

sanitary removal
from this past years list.

Leftover turkey
and ham will grace
the slabs of bread
spread thick
with condiments

and gobbled
with a piglike

zest over
the next few days.

presents will slowly

be absorbed
into the household
melting and blending
with all the other

collected debris
of our most giving
and recieving lives.

The homeless

will be back out 

on the heating grates 
or huddled in

westinghouse boxes,
the free food

still clinging
to their uncared

for teeth.

war will resume

all over the world
and bullets will

fly faster than
Santa's reindeer
ever reached velocity.

sometime in late

April I'll find a
bit of tinsel tucked
in some dusty corner
and hold it up

and see it twinkle
and perhaps I'll smell it
to catch of whiff of
yesteryears joys or
wiggle it in the light
to bring back the

glory of that day.

Or perhaps I'll

just suck it up
in the vacumn that

holds all the other
Ghosts of Christmas

now past.

Tommorrow I will

wax melancholy
like a snowman candle
whose wick

is immersed
in a pool of wax tears
for all that was
and now coagulates
until the heat of
passion brightens
my season once more.

Until then

the attic
will be decorated with
boxes of trinkets
awaiting the

of their sparkling displays.






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