Poems about Winter and that sort of thing by Peter Goulding (mind reading books txt) 📖

pitch conspired to make him wary,
And then he was up-ended by a self-effacing fairy.

A silver ball with glinting lights connected with his jaw.
For him this festive fecklessness became the final straw.
“Tactics, boss!” he shouted to the sideline in frustration,
“How should we be dealing with this Christmas tree formation?”


In Dublin We Get Useless Snow

In South Mayo,
Great drifts of snow
Adorn the gorse and heathers,
In Cavan town
It sashays down,
A mass of floating feathers.
It’s good and thick
In Ballylick
Where snowball fights are legion,
Across the land,
The snow is grand
Except in one small region.

In Dublin we get useless snow.
It always turns to slush.
It rots your boots
And soils your suits
And turns your socks to mush.
The kids look out the windows
And can’t wait to go and play.
But it won’t set,
It’s far too wet,
And quickly melts away.

In Dublin we get useless snow.
It’s more like frozen rain.
It hits the ground,
Then looks around
And scuttles down the drain.
It’s never thick and crunchy,
Always watery and dirty,
But what a fuss
When Dublin Bus
Knocks off at seven thirty.

In Dublin we get useless snow.
It’s blamed on global warming.
Some greenhouse gas
Collects en masse
To stop the drifts from forming.
The old lads talk about the days
When snowdrifts covered hedging,
When glaciers flowed
Down Rathmines Road
And everyone went sledging.

In Dublin we get useless snow.
The kids all think it’s silly,
There’s not enough
White solid stuff
To build a snowman’s willy.
The scattering, though pitiful,
Is always a sensation.
It just creates
And dominates
Each lunchtime conversation.

In Dublin we get useless snow,
Not what the kids are after.
An Eskimo
Would see our snow
And wet himself with laughter.
The hot Saharan sun beats down
On ancient Akahidu.
And yet I bet
The natives get
Much better snow than we do.

In Dublin we get useless snow,
Though elsewhere there is plenty.
Our cup of woe
Doth overflow
Although it’s minus twenty.
Bobsleigh teams are unimpressed,
Tobogganists get shirty.
We have to know –
Where is the snow?
Hey, what’s the story, Bertie?


Jimmy Johnstone

The Shelbourne oul’ lads tell this tale,
And swear it is the truth.
I heard it first when but a pale
And unattractive youth.

Jimmy Johnstone, Super Celt,
A jewel so brightly lustred,
Had left Parkhead, though it was felt
He still could cut the mustard.

Campanologist supreme
[Extremely fond of Bell’s],
He was the Reds’ accountant’s dream
The day he signed for Shels.

His thirst for knowledge knew no bounds,
He’d limitless voracity.
But when he turned out, football grounds
Were bursting to capacity.

But there was one bizarre match, which
Was played on New Year’s Day,
And Jimmy walked on to the pitch
Quite “gingerly,” let’s say.

He never once called for the ball,
Just stood there on the flanks,
Not showing any urge at all
To join the serried ranks.

Then someone played the ball out wide,
Towards where Jim was standing.
The full back so commanding.

And ‘ere said full back got to him
And his pale, death-like pallor,
To many raucous laughs, chose Jim
Discretion over valour.

Collapsing quickly on the ground
Before he could be booted,
The cheers were heard for miles around,
When he was substituted.

There’s madness rife around us all,
But surely it’s the worst
To make a Scotsman play football
On January the First?


Kenny Cunningham

Ireland’s Kenny Cunningham
Is not a massive spender.
He’ll eat his bread with Tesco’s jam,
Eschewing wealth and splendour.
His teammates’ mansions are top drawer,
They dine on quince and pheasants.
But they envy him at Christmas, for
He has tremendous presence.


Kwanzaa

Some friends sent me a calendar
Of America’s mid-west.
The pictures were spectacular,
We really were impressed.

However something puzzled us.
[We ought to ask our friends]
On Stephen’s Day, “Kwanzaa begins”,
On New Year’s Day, it “ends”.

Now what on earth is Kwanzaa?
We haven’t got a clue.
We don’t know how to say it and
We don’t know what to do.

It seems a strange time of the year
To have a celebration,
When you’re utterly lethargic and
Have little motivation.

When you’re drunk and fat and lazy
And you’re feeling far from perky,
When you’re starting to recoil from
The sight of ham and turkey.

When you’re sick to death of chocolates and
There’s nothing on the telly,
When you really should be jogging, but
You cannot move your belly.

When you’re gradually increasing
Your consumption of strong beer,
Building to a crescendo when
You celebrate New Year.

So who on earth decided that
This Kwanzaa should be held
When energy is minimal
And vigour’s been dispelled?

Perhaps it is a festival
To praise the god of sloth?
Or perhaps the god of drunkenness?
Or maybe even both?


Midnight Mass

Every Sunday morning, you
May find us in our usual pew,
Nodding at familiar faces
[Also in their usual places.]
Staunch members of society,
We treat the Mass with piety,
And, though the sermon’s rarely dull,
The church is hardly ever full.

However, on a Christmas Eve,
The change is wondrous to believe,
For, through the church’s open door,
Stream people never seen before.
The old, the young, the smart, the crass –
They all arrive at Midnight Mass,
And fill the church from front to rear,
For the first time in the year.

They chatter through the homily
And fidget inattentively,
And I can never understand
Why they can sit and we must stand,
And, as I look at them, I find
Unchristian thoughts invade my mind,
And, in the season of goodwill,
I wish the bastards only ill.


New Year’s Eve

My mother was the middle child
Of seven very different girls.
I’ve seen her photos, running wild,
Her face a mass of golden curls.

Her sisters are like chalk and cheese,
Three are noisy, three are quiet.
The older three say thanks and please,
The younger set of three runs riot.

On New Year’s Eve, the six aunts come
To see the New Year in chez nous.
Alas, it’s too genteel for some,
And far too loud for one or two.

Last year we made a big mistake,
Did not invite the older three.
The younger three conspired to make
A bonfire of our Christmas tree.

This year, poor mother has been put
With this dilemma on the spot –
The younger aunts are coming but
Should older, quaint aunts be forgot?


Ollie Byrne – A Christmas Tale

That legend of Shelbourne, one Oliver Byrne,
Did suffer one advent a bit of a turn.
His eyesight went hazy, his vision was spent,
So down to the local opticians he went.

Well, they did loads of tests and they checked out his pupils,
Giving the notion they’d lots of fine scruples.
They discovered that Ollie was badly shortsighted,
And glasses were needed for this to be righted.

The footballing maestro then tried on the masses
Of tortoise-shell, tinted and rose-coloured glasses.
He picked out a pair and was happy until
He took out his wallet to settle the bill.

There were charges for testing and reading the chart,
And for all of the skills of the optician’s art,
A charge for perusing the specs on the shelves,
Not to mention the charge for the glasses themselves.

So Ollie went mad and said there was no way
On this holy earth he’d be willing to pay.
He stormed to the exit, not deigning to stop
And wish “Merry Christmas” to all in the shop.

Blindly he groped through the packed Christmas crowd
Past where carol singers were singing out loud,
And, as the cold air cut his cheeks like a knife, he
Grimaced as they warbled, “The Ollie and the Eye Fee.”


Post Christmas Miracle

The turkey meat was at an end,
The ham had been devoured,
The stuffing now was history,
The trifle-cream had soured.

The mince-pie box was full of crumbs,
The tangerines were black,
I looked inside our empty fridge,
Just longing for a snack.

“There’s not a thing to eat in here,”
I called out to my wife.
“It’s time we did a shop again,
It’s back to real life.”

She looked inside the fridge and said,
“Now that I don’t believe!
Did someone eat the cheeses that
I bought on Christmas Eve?”

“Not me!” said I. “Not me!” said Neil.
“Not me!” said our Louise.
“It must have been the Holy Ghost –
He’s awful fond of cheese.”

“Three small cheeses fat and round,”
She furrowed up her brow.
“But did I put them in the fridge?
I’m not so certain now.”

We looked beneath the Christmas tree,
The wreath upon the wall.
The cards upon the mantelpiece,
We checked them one and all.

We hunted high, we hunted low,
We hunted in between,
But the roundy cheeses, small and fat,
Were nowhere to be seen.

I searched our room, I searched our Neil’s,
I even searched Louise’s.
Then, peering in the crib, I yelled,
“Ah, look! The baby cheeses!”


Silent Night?

Silent Night, Holy Night,
Kids soon put sleep to flight.
Who’s that clattering my front door?
I can’t stand “Silent Night” any more.
Leave me in heavenly peace,
Leave me in heavenly peace.

Silent Night, Holy Night,
Chamber pot from a height.
Soon told them little brats where to go,
Standing there in the yellowing snow,
Christ, roll on Christmas morn,
Christ, roll on Christmas morn.

Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht,
Sie sind jetzt Nummer acht.
Warum kommen Sie zu diesem Haus?
Schein ich mir wie Sankte Niklaus?
Ich habe jetzt kein mehr Geld,
Ich habe jetzt kein mehr Geld.


The First Noel

Noel, Noel,
Noel, Noel.
Born is the King of Israe.


Silent Night Part II

See! The blackbird sits and warbles
On the glintzy Christmas baubles.
Hark! The turtle doves are calling
Through the flurries gently falling.
Lo! The robin redbreast singing,
Choir to joyous church bells ringing.
Holy Night, as clear as crystal,
Someone hand me my air pistol.


St. Peter Saves Christmas

God wasn’t thrilled by the presents received.
They hadn’t been as good as he’d believed.
No quad bikes, games or fancy clocks,
Just packets and packets of novelty socks.
Of course, he didn’t envy his only Son,
Who had Christmas and birthday all rolled into one,

But just when he thought the presents were over,
He heard St. Peter crying “Jehovah!”
And there, hobbling up from the Heavenly Gate,
Came the very first Pope with a massive crate.
“Happy Christmas God,” said the archetypal
Fisherman who became disciple.

God looked hard at the old apostle,
Standing beside the crate colossal.
“It’s not full of socks?” he asked with alarm,
Feeling a shiver running down his arm.
But Peter just smiled and stood quite still,
Proffering God the cordless drill.

In ten seconds flat, the screws were out,
And the Lord let out a mighty shout.
“Holy Smoke! Great Balls of Fire!
I’ve got my very own tumble drier!”
And he jigged around the new machine
That would dry the clothes once they were clean.

“Oh thanks, old pal, old buddy, old mate!”
He yelled to the Keeper of the Heavenly Gate.
“Its just the thing I’d hoped to get.
Old friend, I’m forever in your debt.”
And he heaved the machine up onto his back
And