Christmas

a poem by Roger B Rueda

is a huge baked ham, a proper dinner
with roast pork and bread sauce,
big wicker baskets
filled with apples, oranges,
and grapes.
It is no prayer.
It is psychological – never
spiritual nor devotional.
Yes, it is Psy blaring far and wide.
It is bangers all over.
It is Father Christmas.
It is iPhone 5 or Galaxy Note 2.
It is throwing a huge party,
huge platters of lasagne, and
buckets of Chickenjoy.
It is presents to wrap,
a Christmas tree to decorate
and carol singers at the door.
It is bottles of Happiness.
It is having quite
a good range of beers
or gins or red wines.
It is a huge shopping rush.
It is family reunions.
It is no Christ – Merry Mas, everyone!

Christmas Eve

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Bouquets of spices permeate the air,
tempting every nose
craving for a sumptuous
midnight spread.
The father is rushed
off his feet,
barbecuing chicken
and pork
kept in a mixture
of oil, vinegar, and
lemon grass, and
seasoned lightly with
salt and pepper.
The cauldrons are warbling
as the mother is julienning
the carrots and peppers.
The sister has gone shopping
for cake and wine.
The children are watching
Nickelodeon.
At 12, everyone sits down
at the table,
waiting for specials
served warm,
Oppa Gangnam Style
in the background.
The younger brother
has just woken up,
carrying his presents
from Father Christmas
through to the dining room.
They exchange presents.
Merry Christmas, greets
everyone.
Spoons and forks are clattering
against the bowls and plates.
Their laughter is filling
the new house.
Later, there follow audible burps.