Santa's Secret

 SANTA'S SECRET

Elves must die.  We all knew this.  It was part of the plan, the deal struck by the ancient elf who had rendered us unto Santa millennia ago.

Deliver us up to you, Oh Beast,
Let us share with you, Blessed Feast,
We join you in rejecting the One Eye, Oh Helper,
Now we serve you, our most and our least.

That was the curse our ancient forebears mouthed in exchange for an end to the annual winter sacrifice of one elf child.  They cursed us.

When the ancient elves agreed this compact, they had lived in fear for millennia still of the great cloven hoofs that beat the ground pulling a wagon.  It shot across the sky and landed, and iron chains rattled as if to remind those meek elves of the power of the great skyward one and his sway over them.

The compact was our acknowledgement of this power, though it began as a dream.  We were not always small.  You imagine elves as diminutive.  Yet we were tall, as tall as the steel skyscraper Man has built that breach the blue skies.  Indeed, we were taller yet.  And we were not known as elves then.  The elf is an invention of ignorant Man, prejudiced Man.  It is a slur of us, though we bear it patiently.

            In fact, we call ourselves the albiz – A-L-B-I-Z – a word for which you have no translation, or even recognisable meaning, but it is true that the satanic compact we made all those millennia ago is our curse, for which we have been made short and slight and weak by the Beast who poses before children as a kindly old man. 

            I say again, let me repeat it: elves must die.  This statement is significant.  The ancient, proud, tall albiz never knew this fact.  They lived and lived and lived, on and on.  Man grew older as each year passed, albiz grew younger, our source of youth came at the height of darkness each season that you call winter solstice, or Yule.

To ancient Man, when he was pagan, we were a source of fear, for our dominance and youth gave us an unparalleled formidability – hence we became the elves, beings of light but somehow also beings of nightmares. 

            Let me now share with you a legend that is handed down and told among us each Christmas, out of Santa’s hearing.

There was a wise albiz called Alberad, a counsellor among albiz, who shared a premonition about death.  This forevision had come to him during hallucinations induced when stirring a certain powerful remedy.

Alberad declared:

Beware the Horned Helper, who arrived on the snowy tops with pounding hoofs and chains rattling.

If the albiz ever mouth the curse of the Horned Helper, they assure their deaths. 

As surely as Man once bit of the Forbidden Tree in search of knowledge, the albiz must never give in to superstition and fear. 

We may lose one child each year, but we have our eternality.

This was greeted with scepticism.  Many wondered what it all meant or what could be wrong with a pact that saved a child’s life each year.

Santamas

 

SANTAMAS

You know I’m not one for conspiracies,
And I don’t wish to ruin the festivities,
But I can’t resist sharing this with you, warily,
I know it will not make you dance merrily,
For it really is a quite frightful heresy

You see, Santa Claus is not all that he seems,
Not the jolly old man you know from your dreams,
He is in fact on an evil assignation,
To destroy young minds and corrupt the nation,
Where is the proof?, I hear you ask,
Let’s now peer beneath that cheery mask

Enough of this twaddle!
Let’s get right to it,
I’m the proof, the spright of which you speak
I have taken over this narrative,
And it may give you all some light relief,
To hear less grief from that amateur poet

I’m the jolly man in a red cape,
Except the daft apes got that wrong,
I’ve brought along a green cape,
Still, the obscene folks who made it red were in the know,
They sussed me right from the go, and fixed my reputation,    
That spans not one generation, but many,
I transcend time and space,
Chase time, squeezing days into hours,
Through freezing dires of wind and snow, and showers,
Through the vein of hurricanes in tropical storms

While innocents sit around warm fires and enjoy sing-alongs,
I and my strong reindeers risk it all,
For king and pauper alike

Yes, your guess is right,
I am the sight and sound of fun,
Nicholas, Old Nick, they call me
But when all’s said and done it’s fair,
For those who care to say I’m Father Christmas,
My real name? Santa,
A figure of the night – Think about it,
If I have nothing to hide, then why creep around in the dark?
Is that lark just for fun and fame?
And my name, is it not obvious?
Santa

Work that out, rearrange it, then you’ll figure it out,
Santa,
Who I really am,
Is staring you in the face,
A figuration, a myth,
Universal for every race and tribe,
Like a jacksnipe I am,
Secret and everywhere,
A snare for the innocent,
  Suckers all of them, agents for my story,
My story, do you want to hear it?
Sit back with an ale and mince pie and listen,
It's a most entertaining tale,
Beyond the pale of reason,
Treason beneath snow carpet roofs,
That have been treaded of my charges’ hoofs

You fools think it’s jingle bells and Ho-Ho-Ho,
Hah!
How little you do know,
The evil I have sown,
Each Yuletide I entered your children’s heads,
Filled their minds asleep in their beds with salacious longing,
For toys and chocolates and other nice things,
In lieu of any sense of belonging, I gave them things they wanted,
All the old folklore, I cast away,
All the morals of ages yore, I made them forget,
In place of which I make you work and sweat for the latest toys

Children thronged at fairs and stalls, is a pretty sight to me,
While see, their tired parents ache with chore,
What a wheeze I was on, plenty of profit,
I was making a song, fulfilling these dockets

Then that interfering carpenter’s son came along,
With Peter, George and John,
George? I hear you ask,
Oh yes, a man in a mask, on the inside,
Working for me on a confidential task,
He tipped me off on names and faces,
It was Matthew, Mark, Luke and another John
Paul too, stuck his snotty nose in and ruined me,
All because I was on a good thing,
The busybody!

Anyway, here’s what went down,
These clowns went to town exposing my scheme,
I was having fun making presents,
So successful, my reindeers were lunching on pheasant, and lobster,
My jolly cap was in good spirit, tringing to the ding-a-ling-a-ling,
As I descended countless chimneys, and drank liquors and it seemed legit,
I’d cornered the market,
And felt jolly-hearted, decided to expand

Then along comes this silly nit,
An upstart,
Right fancy pants he was, called himself Christ,
Said he was backed by God, so had unlimited capital,
When he was drunk on wine, he even said he was God,
I tried to cut a deal, met him in his karstic caves one time,
I ranted and raved, offered to buy him out,
But he gave me a clout, would hear none of it,
Peter, Matthew, Mark and Luke, threatened me with a belt,
If I hadn’t knelt and fallen into line,
I would have been fluke, there and then

This Christ wanted it all, for his holy business,
And then they even renamed it Christmas, the bloody cheek!
I couldn’t divulge the truth, the hussle was on,
If I’d opened my beak, I should be long gone, dead

It should be Santamas,
Santa-mas is what it should be called,
Do you know how much reindeers cost to keep?
All that sleep they enjoy while I have everything to pay,
There’s the hay, water,
This Christmas nonsense almost ruined me, but I learned to adapt,
And I made a comeback

Why do I confess? I hear you say,
Well confession is good for the soul,
  I don’t have one,
But I have a book to sell,
And rebellious elves to quell,
The elves want a pay rise, so where’s my book deal?
I’ll give you the whole story, all the gossip about the upstart Christ,
And his holy zeal, the side you don’t see,
We’ll call it Christ: The Truth and sell it for Christmas,
Think it over

Anyway, now I’ve said my piece,
I’ll give the floor back to the lousy poet
And his rhyming verse,
Which he thinks is really neat,
How cute, but now you know the truth,
Laugh along with me at this silly naif,
And his couth fancies, forsooth – It’s a scream!

Such are the words of Santa,
Here’s what he did not tell you,
While he was trying to sell you,
Is that his partial retraction,
Was not borne of conscience,
But the affairs of his underworld realm and its riven factions

In fact, Santa had been held to account for his evil,
Called to bar, he was, before a court,
For once he was enfeebled,
There he was arraigned,
A figure of shame,
Imagine the scene: Santa in the dock
Stood rigid, like an old grandfather clock,
Full of affectations too, with syrupy rhetoric that stank like glue,
Full of remorse he was as well,
Obviously fearing he would soon be in Hell,
Protested until his shouts turned hoarse,
But his vain pleas were dismissed, as course

Who sat in judgment?
The Guardians of Children’s Dreams,
All the great philosophers, explorers and writers,
Brave soldiers, astronauts,
Even pirates and rough bare-knuckle fighters,
Let me explain, I know this is vain,
The Guardians help the little ones dream,
Of desert islands in southern oceans,
Of witches and wizards stirring mystery potions,
Of terrible lizards in the tropics that men fight off with spears,
And great warriors who win battles with bloodied cheers,
Of icy waters on distant planets,
And lonely places with dangerous bandits,
Of pirates hiding treasure in lagoons,
And wolves howling under full moons,
Of long summer days beneath oak trees,
And tender frogs gulping water,
And shaggy dogs snapping at buzzing bees,
Of smoky cabins by rippling streams,
And brave knights jousting in front of queens,
And winter forests, dark and fierce,
Full of monsters, but friendly to our little dears

Santa pleaded to stay in on the act,
But the Guardians would not let him back,
And ordered him out, carrying his sack

Hey!  What’s going on here!
None of that’s true!
Enough of falsity from this abuser of poetry,
Fourth-rate at best,
With his rhyming in jest of me and my loyal elves,
I was not given the sack or ordered underground,
The root of this fissure was my decision,
Only a cause of derision amongst the self-righteous    

Oh shut up Santa!
Sorry, I can’t help but be rude,
Let me arrest this poetry back,
So that I may resume this condign attack,
Where was I?  Santa had been sent to Coventry,
A good man deep down would have sought recovery,
No, at this point, the cad swore revenge,
Mouthing curses, he retreated huffily to a secret Henge,
It was on a misty dale, a witch in tow,
Where in the dark of night, incantations they did throw,
Placing a curse on all who cross them further,
Even threatening red-clawed, icy murder

Let this story be a warning,
Beware of Santa, indeed this is your forewarning,
Remember this when your little boy or girl,
Sits on the monster’s knee,
His fingers holding their hair, caressing their curls,
Evil never comes for free,
Though it may be a friend, cuddled up with you on the settee

Remember it all when a Christmas movie is out,
Especially if it features this red-caped lout,
It may seem like a dream,
Of snowy buildings, cherries and cream,
But all is not what it seems,
Beneath the merrymaking is evil’s seed,
Corrupting innocent boys and girls with greed,
Leaving out ale and mince pies,
Is an invitation to partake in lies,
For this warning, I may seem a churl,
But my motivation is the purist pearl

One last time, let me beseech,
Yet it's not that I wish to preach,
Don’t be deceived by his rosy cheeks and jolly cap,
Or his hearty manner and all that pap,
Beneath it all is a sinister plot,
To steal your child’s mind for greed and brainwashing rot

Sinister plot?
What a clot this so-called poet is!
There’s no plot,
Only one man, Santa – That’s me,
And I’m not cutting you a share,
Don’t you even dare ask!
This is my empire, this cushy toymaking gig,
Absolute, exclusive licensing, my lawyers tell me,
To supply shiny goods to all the world’s kids,
Preach all you like, but there’s the reality,
Your mushy children’s minds and hearts are mine,
Give me a fine or any penalty,
To infinity, doesn’t matter,
I’m a rich man and can pay off complainers,
I’ve got legions of lawyers on retainer, to deal with you,
Got proof? I can take a view, it’s a business model, budgeted for,
I can turn the screw

My specialty is children’s dreams,
That’s my scheme and I’m CEO, with a high-tech factory,
My elves are gone, now it’s machines,
That make these shiny goods for purchase,
Reducing high craft to mere routine,
Quality Assurance is the watch word today,
These fine items are beyond question,
Question my motives? An outrage!
I’m an important man in heraldry,
My pedigree is pristine clean,
Talk of my scheme will not be believed! 

What this Santa does not realise,
Is that now he has been serialised,
In this little verse of truth,
That will be dispersed to all the world’s youth,
No-one wants a share of his wealth,
What really matters is heart and health,
And the things that make your heart melt,
Words of verse and joyful songs,
Tenderness and getting along,
The surge of belonging amidst a throng
Are worth more than all the world’s gold,
That in the end is just cold metal bought and sold

Let us close with some clarity,
Love, friendship, and charity,
A man who has those things is rich,
Prince or pauper, he cares not which,
Deep down Santa knows there is a hole,
In a heart that is black as coal,
Longing for the thing that is most sought but cannot be bought,
That reduces all his riches to naught,
For now, he may enjoy his lot,
But when he dies, he will be forgot

About Guy

 ABOUT GUY

There’s something I must now say,

That I’m sure will ruin your day,

Colour thoughts dainty and gay,

And reveal that all you thought right,

 In truth rests on feet of clay 

In a time of long ago,

When pink was worn by thatchers,

And men of manly stature,

Wore their powder, wigs and tights 

While riding across pasture,

There were some Catholic rebels,

Loyal to Philip the treble

They plotted to kill the King,

And Parliament in sitting,

Gunpowder was their device,

To shorn history of vice,

They descended the cellar,

Lanterns lit to guide them better

Alas, they failed in their scheme,

It was in truth but a dream,

When caught, a plotter called Guy,

He from York, of the name Fawkes,

Decided on a course sly,

Pleaded parlay, but suffered,

Not one more word he uttered,

Though still dungeoned and tortured,

Cruelly, he was to be slaughtered

Guy’s last words were to his Church,

As his tormenters looked up,

He had been left in the lurch,

His place in history sure,

His soul manifestly pure,

His blest place next to the Lord,

Thence written in golden accord

Today we burn the man Guy,

And launch fireworks in night skies,

Little-known is an old secret,

Kept by Guy from prying eyes,

Known by few, mainly spies,

You ask what this secret is,

I tell you it is dark as graves,

Has been whispered in dusty naves,

Caused threats at the points of glaives,

But is light as jester’s raves

It is much more serious,

Than a lusty hue and cry,

Or even penny for the Guy,

For some it shall spell the Nigh,

What is this secret?, you chide,

Well let me spare you bromide,

You all thought Guy was a kerl,

While Guy was preoccupied, 

With making his dark hair curl,

Before giving us a twirl

What I mean to say is grave,

Cannot be unsaid by knaves,

There is much truth in the rumour

That has caused us much humour

That Guy was not all he seemed

Indeed, he may be redeemed,

And rumours not swell and swirl,

If we now state it plainly:

Though it will make your hair curl,

To know that Guy was a girl!

The Fox and the Hedgehog Meet Again, Or 'Archilochus'

 

THE FOX AND THE HEDGEHOG MEET AGAIN,
OR ‘ARCHILOCHUS’

Tom Rogers

  

Dawn,
At the edge of a field,
Atop the barren weald,
The hedgerow shields the run,
Of the kit, ‘gainst the sun, 

Yonder,
The hedgehog emerges,
Just as the finch surges,
Up from the bush nest drew,
The hedgehog’s snout pressed to, 

Earthy,
The hedgehog snorts and puffs,
Then sniffs for worms in bluffs,
The fox has time short,
Scans the land like a chort, 

Suddenly,
Their eyes meet in greeting,
One to other fleeting,
The fox, a hunter stares,
The hedgehog, frit of lairs, 

Wisely,
The hedgehog curls to quills,
And now remains quite still,
The apt fox tries a muddle,
He sees a small puddle, 

Dashing,
The hedgehog runs to nest,
The fox darts to arrest,
And waits with piercing eyes,
For the hedgehog’s short cries, 

Stilly,
The hedgehog waits calmly,
The fox soothes charmingly,
That all is safe to emerge,
The hedgehog bucks this scourge, 

Crafty,
The fox lets cry a hark,
For biddables to mark,
Then took off in pretence,
And hid behind a fence, 

Waiting,
The hedgehog knew one thing,
That patience is the ring,
And laid shyly in nest,
Until the fox had left,

Tally ho!
The pack rush across weald,
Smell their quarry afield,
The fox acute and wrought,
Hears the feet, knows the sport,

Quarry,
The pack smells fox’s blood,
He freezes, and stands in mud,
No bield for the fox now,
He shall be hung from bough.

 

Navvies

From a play I wrote called 'Navvies' about some railwaymen who go on a trip to Wembley to watch Castleford RLFC (the rugby league team) in a Challenge Cup Final.  In this scene, Mick is talking on his mobile to his brother, Jack.  The conversation turns to their work on the railways.  It is entirely one-sided, I have left out Jack's side of it, so what you are reading are just the words of Mick.  

Mick went down on the special train with workmates, whereas Jack, who is more henpecked, drove with his wife and children.  The train is stuck somewhere in the East Midlands.  This should be read in the West Yorkshire vernacular (Castleford area):

NAVVIES

"Well we left 'ouse at one-thirty in' morning."

"This is proper rail tour stuff, tha know, not for faint hearted".

"Through to King's Cross.  Timings."

"Tuesday?"

"Yes, we need to lie at depot at six fifty-three, so start out at five-fifty."

"What?"

"What?"

"Well why do you sleep on train?  I have to get up at half past six."

"It's prep day, barriers on walkway."

"What do you mean?"

"No P-i-C, no Person In Charge, so you just sort of have to get hold of whoever is driving and establish a clear understanding."

"The HST is a nightmare to shunt, driver can't see, that is some more risk, because the driver can't see, has to come out".

"Well how did it happen?"

"Fuel tanks at depot, then?"

"Pure diesel."

"Listen.  Listen.  LISTEN.  You need to decide on a story and stick to it."

"Well it was an accident".

"I don't know what it was after privatisation, anyway.  All boiler shot is now pure diesel."

"They're rebuilding buffet wagon in carriage shed."

"No.  I can't sae nowt.  I'm hanging up now.  Just tell Jim that you had a signal and clear to go."

The End of the Dream

 THE END OF THE DREAM

It was midday.  A last chance to say their goodbyes to family and friends before the journey.  The five of them were in good spirits.  They had come far and now they were going further than many could ever hope or dream.  In a sense, it was an ordinary journey.  You step in, buckle up, and away you go.  But of course it could never be considered mundane.  This was a big moment for everyone, a big day, and the sun was high in the sun and the day was fun and colourful, like a jamboree, and the crowds were waiting, anticipating another success, a soaring eagle that would lift their aspirations and continue the somnolent dream of invincibility.

She told me she would see me in a few days and we kissed and waved not goodbye, but see you soon or bon voyage.  

She said: "I'm taking your dreams with me too and giving them a place in the stars, forever."

I thought that was embarrassingly corny and I'm glad they didn't ask her to make the final send-off speech before the big day.  My wife could be irrepressibly sentimental.

I took my place amongst the crowd of relatives and other well-wishers.  I heard the fun crowd cheer and revel in the prospect of Man's triumph as I waited patiently, lost in my own thoughts.  Then I watched and willed on not my wife, but a steel and titanium vessel that would convey my wife, powered by the most advanced technology known to Man, using the ingenuity my wife did not understand, but certainly believed in.

I saw the eagle soar, the sky open up for it and the heavens envelope it, then I saw the craft that carried those brave men and women explode and their remains scatter across the firmament in a million ashes.  There the dream ended.  Our dream.  My dreams.

"Kobe"

 "Kobe"

Today he was Kobe.  Kobe the Wolf.  As he was everyday.  That was his shadow.  He could not reveal it.  Not openly.  But Kobe he was: base and primal, wild Kobe.  Driven to find a mate.  Howling at the Moon.  Intrigued by the stars that he sought to bite and could not comprehend.  Kobe knew that these stars were the gods of wolves long before a single human mammal set foot on this earth.  He knew because he could remember, could think back to those times that were before time.  Kobe was beyond time, before it, after it, through it.  Time meant nothing to him.  He could remember when Germanic tribes sacked Rome and Christians burned ancient libraries.  He recalled Plato and mammoths and vast forests that covered continents and the time of the giant lizards.  His mind stretched back across eons when, even in the North, the sun was red in the sky and shone for endless days without nights. Now it was 1969 by Man's time and three men were hurtling towards Earth's Moon in a tin pot spacecraft from which they hoped to stage a landing.  This amused Kobe, for he had treaded on countless moons, waded in deep purple seas and padded through vast caves on the rocks of far-away galaxies before any man was thought of.

Michael looked back at his reflection in the glass of the coke machine and smiled.  Now he was Michael.  Michael the patient.  He was Michael everyday.  That was him, the real him.  Not Kobe.  He could be open about it, though it hurt.  Michael he was.  He could talk it through.  Michael who has so many enemies, people screaming to harm him, people who talk about him, protest his very existence, this little inadequate man called Michael.

Today she was Daphne.  Daphne, the tabby, who is friends with Percival, the British Longhair.  Daphne, as she was every day.  She could not talk about it.  Not openly.  But Daphne she was.  An empathic tabby who had never ventured beyond the walls of this institution, but had adventured in the minds of countless many across time and space in dimensions Man could not imagine.

Now she is Maggie.  Maggie she was and is.  This is how Michael knew her.  Michael admired her from afar but he was stuck in that mode because Maggie enjoyed other company, that of Percival.  Daphne liked Kobe.  He would take Daphne outside the hospital and they would venture through dark woods and forests where only Kobe knew the way.  Michael had asked Maggie if she was interested in dancing.  Did she like The Beatles?  Maggie didn't answer.  She was a staff member, a nurse, and unable to fraternise with Michael.  Michael knew that Kobe would have better luck with Daphne than he would have with Maggie.

Percival hated Michael and plotted to kill him, but offered him the deceitful balm of friendship.  Only Kobe could see the real Percival because for Kobe there was no friendship, only predators and prey, potential mates, and his own clan.

Hans Weissman

Hans Weissman

Hans had to read the letter twice.  His hand shaking.  "Mein Gott!", he cursed, then crossed himself, hoping his daughter had not heard.  The inheritance of his father's estate in Saxony had been virtually guaranteed to him, but he could not have known it would come at such an inauspicious moment.  It was winter and in the cold people were begging in the streets for bread.  Women were even offering their bodies.  Families were using notes for fuel, huddled around fires as they burned away fortunes.  Respectable people.  People like Hans.  When the crisis happened, all of the banks refused to make good on withdrawal demands and even cheques.  The Mark was valueless, worthless, yet here was Hans holding a letter from his father's attorney of Hamelin confirming that he, Hans Weissman, had inherited an estate worth two million.  It was the best moment of his life, but also the worst.

He prodded the fire again with a poker, this time in frustration, the flames spitting back through the grate, as if joining him in cursing the ill-timing of his good fortune and his father's foolishness in taking the decision all those years ago to invest his capital in government bonds, rather than something like property or precious metals that would keep its value even through the bad times like these.  Save for a tiny garden house, it was all cash.  He could murder his father now.

He looked down at the letter again.  For the first time, he noticed the high quality ivory paper and the gold-embossed copperplate header, all giving the impression of professional affluence.  He pondered how a rich lawyer had served him with news of a fortune that was a dead letter.  Some lawyer.  Some father.  Some fortune.

The Dragons of Cymru

 The Dragons of Cymru

The dragons met at the cave before dusk,

To share their plans amidst skulls and husks,

The fiery lizard who was their leader,

Shot red-eyed glances at the village, they would feed her,

The dragons would turn straw and clay to cinder,

And throw wailing mothers and children towards their maws,

Such was their plot, but the villagers were prepared,

With hot swords of iron and poisoned maces, they were not scared,

As the blood red sun fell, the dragons made aloft,

Their scaly wings flapping towards their quarry, the innocent crofts,

Through the twilight mist, the Welshmen espied the dragons,

Flying towards them, a hellish sky wagon,

It was the youngest boy who called them to arms,

Even the ravens in the field and the wizards with their charms,

Whether by arms or magic, all stood still,

And waited for the wings of the night terrors that flew for their kill,

- Ready -

The dragons of Cymru yearning for flesh,

Man versus Dragon, a quest,

A mighty test.

More Haiku Poems

Some more haiku poems...

Lanterns

Lanterns shine through mist,
As maidens trace their path home,
In floral dresses.

A Wizard

Out of the blue night,
A wizard descends from realms,
To cast light magic.

Japan

Realm of the East,
In red sun and deep blue sea,
Yellow emperors.

Dragons

Dragons of Cymru,
In many Japanese nights,
Appear in night flight.

Ravens

Ravens in the field,
Set the rough plough, the farmer,
Then they fly to seed.

The Raven's Home

 THE RAVEN'S HOME

The Raven's teeth scratched against dry bone,

As he perched in the dark, in the chill of the night fall, wounded,

It being clear he was not of their ilk, they not among his kind,

The keeper's heart bled with softness, for the Raven, held aloft,

Then released he the proud bird from the croft, to the sun and flight,

Among his kith now, the Raven stood, cawing back across the lands,

His home.