Donald’s ending his year in his own inimitable way. As a weary caravan of refugees troop towards his USA, he’s sending out his own troops to welcome them.

Northern Lights.

Through the barren desert, dry and parched
The rag tag rebellious revolutionaries marched,
Towards the Grande prize they’d set their course-
To be met by Dons army and promises of lethal force.

Among the weary mothers and children Don has detected
Gangs of ‘bad guys’ from whom his States must be protected,
Now at the border his good ol’ boys look out, keen and alert,
They’re gonna protect his holy ground from the Mexican dirt.

It was late in the year, late at night on the Twenty Fourth
A keen-eyed trooper saw a sinister bearded figure heading north,
A flare went up, then a shot, then fusillades filled the air-
Donald would’ve been proud to see the rockets’ red glare.

The sun rose on a smouldering desert, deathly still,
The soldier boys had indulged in a bit of over-kill,
By the border fence, battered and broken as a pinata
Lay the latest sad-sack border hopping bloody martyr.

No one gets in the Great States undocumented,
But this is one under fire Alien who’ll be long lamented,
Sadly for the good children North of the border wall
Santa is officially late, and henceforth, unable to call.

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Christmas is coming- Jeez, already!- and all the sweet (and savvy) kids have sent their wants and needs to North Pole Enterprises. Lets see what apps- what ‘appens?

Off The Xmas List.

Would this long jolly December day never end?
All this kid craved was for the blessed night to fall,
I watched in impatience for the sun to descend-
How I’d like to get my hands on that clock on the wall.

Finally in the wee wee hours of Christmas eve
I hopefully strung up my XXL size Christmas stocking,
Murmuring ‘Santa please  don’t practice to deceive,’
After last year my once-solid faith in Him was rocking.

I lay abed replaying my plan of when Santa would descend;
No more milk and cookies left for when He deigned to call,
Now its eggnog, Christmas spirit, Bells 80 proof, special blend,
This kid is not above greasing the skids to get a decent haul.

Come Christmas morning and what did I receive?
From the mantle fluttered my stocking, empty, mocking,
It hurts to find your faith is based on make believe-
No more lists to Santa, that fat bastard I’m Facebook blocking.

A holiday to remember, coming north, going forth and getting out of the comfort zone, literally.

Celtic Christmas.

Scotland on the winter solstice-
Does a holiday get better than this?
Far from the furthest flicker of the sun,
The promise of it rising to two degrees by half past one.

Usually, at home, I’d be attired in T-shirt and shorts,
Scarves, gloves and boots far from my thoughts,
These negative mornings ain’t what I’m used to,
Here, the gloom is setting in come half past two.

Aye, but bonny Scotland’s a grand place to see,
Still, best look twixt the hours of nine and three,
For if you’ve not seen your share of sightseeing by four-
Unless you’re wearing night vision goggles you won’t see any more.

A touch of heather and vapo-rub in the air?

Bleeding Bloody Cold.

I’m a bit under the weather up here in Montrose,
It started with a splash of rain, then every ruddy thing froze,
These Arctic conditions are really getting up my snotty nose,
I’m running round with a proboscis that both sucks and blows.

Sup?

On Christmas Eve we stepped out in anticipation of fine fare
Hot foot to Scallies on a chill still Stockbridge night,
We hied along at a fair old clip, anticipation in the air
With red noses and white faces the inn was a warm and welcome sight.

There we raised our glasses, said our cheers,
It was grand to have our far flung family together,
Who’s to know what’s held in the coming years?
Let’s now enjoy the fruits of the fair weather.

We toasted one, we toasted all,
We were very toasty, I recall,
When good cheer becomes hard to constrain
How easy it becomes to say ‘same again’.

We left latish, wife clinging to my arm, tightly,
Some blurry photos show these magic moments preserved;
Pity the shaky images don’t show Comely Bank Road, weaving slightly-
Proof positive that warm Scotch hospitality has been well served.

Star Lore.

Star lore

A long time ago
In a gathering place
Far far way a young
ragged couple sought…

A babe, a boy, was born in a stable, so they say,
A gift, Heaven sent, by God, delivered down to save the day,
Or was the real miracle the concoction Mary happened to conceive?
If I were Joe I’d find this ‘God’s son’ Virgin mom malarky too much to believe.

Flying on empty.

Sleeping On The Job.

To my myriad (?) of patient readers, I profusely apologise
I’ve been busy flying the nowadays not too friendly skies,
The travel has been overlong and free time has been short,
And amongst the baggage is a case of insomnia I never thought I’d brought.

I’d long hoped those long dark nights were in the past.

So my scattered thoughts are all up in the air,
Countries, Customs, I declare I don’t know if I’m here or there,
Mid the flurry of of passport stamping I prayed to the One above;
‘God speed me through the quickest queue, spare me the rubber glove.’

Once they spared my blushes my relief was unsurpassed.

This last week should prove the most wearying of our travails,
Settled in to our home away from home I aim to share some tales,
But it’s to a timeless sleep-is-fleeting twilight zone I remain consigned,
Arising at dawn, dead tired, in a zombie state of mind.

At breakfast my better half saw me moody and downcast.

Oh, how long I scoffed and how loud I laughed,
When my sweet spouse suggested a sleeping draught,
She suggested half a bottle of Drambuie,Bonny Scotland’s best
That night I slipped a slug of Christmas spirit in my egg-nog- and then, the rest.