Many know that post-Christmas feeling...
when you've eaten so much that it feels like the turkey is trying to fly back up your throat to explode from your belly seeking sweet release back into the sunlit world.
That feeling as small stuffing warriors poke your gurgling stomach wall with roast parsnip spears, chanting for release from this infernal prison, urging their turkey overlord on in its herculean task.
The great escape, Oh brother turkey where art thou... they're going Stir Crazy, and just need out!
Sprouts tumble around the internal pipes, eagerly clawing their way through the sewers of your intestines like a platoon of angry Andy Dufresne's from The Shawshank Redemption.
But now I'm just banging on about movies I've watched 😂... time to get on with the poetry before I run out of metaphors.
Cheesus Christ Not a Cheese Board
Father leaned forward while loosening his belt
"It's time to carve" he muttered to himself,
his fat little children chittered with glee
his wife full of wine tussled the roastees
the sprouts and carrots glistened with butter
and the baby gurgled and farted a sputter
the turkey now carved they descended like jackals
knives jousting with forks in a terrible battle
plates were heaped high, gravy flowed like a stream
over spuds, veg and stuffing, and like a well-oiled machine
all food was portioned - even the baby's was mashed
and it gurgled in joy displaying a gravy mustache.
They shovelled and chomped in a riotous display,
parsnips, cabbage, sprouts... nothing got away,
when dishes lay empty after this gluttonous flood
mum beckoned for silence, "now for the Christmas Pud."
And away to the kitchen she flew nimble and quick,
so fleet of feet, like a wine sozzled Saint Nick,
she emerged with a vat of custard and pudding aflame
as father clapped and nodded a hearty acclaim,
"Look what your mum has made" he gesticulated,
the kids started clapping and the baby hesitated
at this flaming pudding eyes wide with wonder
he cast bowl joyously aloft to shatter asunder
father guffawed and laughed in spite of himself,
mum glowered "you clean that up then you fat little elf?"
He heaved back his chair and sucked in his belly
but as he bent it wobbled like a bowl full of jelly.
The whole family laughed as mother doled out the Pud,
and the baby cried until tears flowed in a flood
"none for you my darling" his mother joked
and retrieved a plastic bowl as the baby moped
staring at his spoon like the world had exploded,
mother dropped him a bowl of Pud fully loaded.
The feast slowed as the corners were filled
of bulging bellies and intestines strong-willed,
a silence descended as sweat beaded their brows,
until father piped up "time for the cheese board now."
I decided to make a reading of this poem as it inspires fond memories of my childhood Christmas’ at my grandparents.
Every Christmas Eve either my mother or grandmother would read Clement Clarke’s The Night Before Christmas to me. To be honest, I think it was a desperate attempt to curb the excitement and lull me to sleep with images of the presents under the tree when morning finally dawned.
This tradition paved the way for my love for writing and performing poetry. It was the first poem I ever memorized and is still ingrained in the old grey matter.
Happy Christmas Everyone 🎄
I would like to give a big shout-out to @stickupcurator (and @stickupboys) for their amazing contribution to supporting music, art, imaginative writing, and all things creative on hive. If you haven't already, you should go check out their account for music, crypto podcasts and much much more 🙂👍
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