Happy Birthday to me
I'm too giddy with glee
To nail this one
You have a tonne
To look back over
A field of clover
Without too much scandal
I'm adding a candle
December 11
in December
December
December 10
in December
The giant frame of my brother
Bearhugged me in a smother
Casual and jolly as ever
Dressed inappropriately for the weather
He had come from the snow
But Sevilla put on a show
We spun tales through the streets
Before looking for Spanish treats
December 9
in December
At their heights
Christmas lights
Are cheer-bringers
Like wedding singers
Or ripe plums
Spread amongst chums
Christmas in your face
A marvellous taste
December 8
in December
Crisp goodbyes
Firm business eyes
I helped you, you helped me
Yes, but I worked for free
Sometimes it pays
To show gratitude, as it stays
With you as you reflect
On friendship and respect
December 7
in December
Like a majestic African dawn
Animals rumbled deep into the morn
Unfortunately this was no Lion King story
But a restless night in my dormitory
The snoring was fierce; it shook the bed
And the very core of my weary head
As a pack they appeared to call each other
I searched for an object I could use to smother
December 6
in December
Fresh air and a sunny path
Exploring Granada's other half
The river is not quite crystal clear
No rudey nudey's happening here
I linger on the streaky sky
The clouds leaking shades of dye
The colours morph and darkness grows
The moon strikes a thoughtful pose
December 5
in December
Knock knock
It's writers block
Who's there?
Didn't you hear...
Writers block
Oh sorry, I forgot
Well I'm here and I'm blocking
Well this is shocking
December 4
in December
Smack whack bang here's a poem
Just allow me to sing you a low hym
Daintily drifting into your drums
While you snooze and twiddle your thumbs
This one's about all the heavy hitters
The insignificance of man, the frailty of quitters
Grab the popcorn this is getting good
It finishes on a high, as all poems should
December 3
in December
The primal allure of a deck of cards
Gathering all within 26 yards
The dodgy dealer hoarding aces
Wandering eyes and shady faces
The smiling assassins that slowly appear
The one that's sure they have a poker career
The cards take on a life of their own
We scrap to take our place on the throne
December 2
in December
We are all made of stories
Piles of indistinct categories
Old drafts crumpled, cast aside
Stories told, and those we hide
Narratives compel our every thought
The things we've done, the things we ought
The purist gift, my fellow dweller
Is that of a story teller
December 1
in December
The novelty wears off in a 12-bed dorm
The things I see daily should not be the norm
The roommates are a constant lottery
A faster turnaround than the clay in pottery
My personal space bubble has had to shrink
There are less and less spaces for me to think
The mood is jovial and sometimes heated
Here I remain; not rested but not defeated