Elf On My Wine Shelf

He does not always do as he is told,

He is bold,

It is true,

He does what us parents tell him to do.

Supposedly Elf sneaks around at night,

I admit I’ve seen him hanging off the front door light,

Looking for trouble,

To rumble,

To brawl,

Hanging from the bottle,

Graffiti on the wall.

The kids think he is funny,

Hanging about,

Reporting to Santa,

If they scream or they shout.

But under that slim and slender façade,

Elf still drinks my wine,

He still straddles the bar.

Elf does manage to tone it down,

Come sunrise,

To no surprise.

Innocent and friendly is what Elf would have you believe,

Tiny children are easy to deceive.

However I wonder,

Behind all the lies,

If Elf is just a guy,

That loves drinking my wines.

I’m sure all the parents,

Around the world,

Would happily agree,

With this tipsy girl,

That by the end of a long summer working day,

The imagination is lacking new Elf places to play.

Fancy pants parents far better than I,

Are whipping out paint sets or baking creampie.

In my house, we are just trying to fit it all in,

Maybe move Elf somewhere that isn’t the bin.

Perhaps give him a shelf,

A hanger,

A place he’ll feel fine.

All that I ask,

Is that he buys his own wine.

Feel The Heat

She lays awake all night with a baby burning up in her arms.

She sleeps in the shower with a hot coffee in her hands.

She runs along hot coals in the race to beat the clock.

She is on fire.

Perception

She doesn’t always wake to the chimes of motivation and inspiration; some days she is drugged and dragged, tested and tagged.

She doesn’t always try her best; some days her best is switched to default and runs well below average.

She doesn’t always run, but rather runs out, of goals, gumption, grace.

She doesn’t always go to bed on time, perchance of waking too soon.

She doesn’t always live up to your expectations.

Your expectations are not hers to live up to.

 

 

Joker

She peeled from her chest the card she held closest.

Face up, against pessimism, scepticism and jealousy, she revealed herself.

The Queen of hearts.

 

Leave it to the professionals

Her world looks remarkable even when it rains. Colours darker and views often lost behind cloud or fog, but the picture is still painted far better by the hand of nature than she can ever produce herself. She cannot master the arch of a raindrop or the curve of a palm frond blowing in the breeze. She cannot mix the right colours to show the calm before the storm, the pause of Earth before it reveals itself again. She cannot replicate the sound of thunder rolling over mountains and crashing into waves.

She needn’t try.

In the case of nature, she is not the artist, but rather, the audience.

All Out

Twisting of delicate wrists, the swing of her hips and grind in her grooves shed the insecurities of her teenage years and the shame and desperation of her twenties. Rebirthed into her truest self as glances shower her with confidence, she unfolds, under a disco ball.

She leaves it all on the dance floor.

Drought

She wanted it to rain.

She wanted to lie outside in the cool green grass under heavy, bucketing rain.

She wanted to wash away best impressions off her toenails.

She wanted to writhe against the manicured edges of lawn, exfoliating suburbia from her pores.

She wanted rain clouds to hide her from fake smiles and obligatory invites.

She just wanted to lie,

drenched and entrenched,

in a puddle of her own expectations.