Those things I hear.

those things I have seen,

saddened my heart,

trying to bring Christmas cheer.

To witness adults,

their children, too,

all on my list,

their names I scratch off,

for a Christmas they will miss.

Needless pain, horrible death.

children shot, adults die from meth,

yet soon my sleigh will ride through the air,

shouting to all Merry Christmas or is that but a dare?

From the Sub-Office Station 173

North Pole

Subject: Concern

The elves have a concern,

Santa's thoughts in turn,

like our own does burn

deeply in our minds and fear,

Christmas may end after this year.

He hasn't been his jovial self,

and we elves fear for his health.

It is an arduous task he does each year,

spreading all the joy and cheer,

but we worry he has lost the way to enjoy

bringing smiles to all the little girls and boys.

We pray, we hope, he survives his pain,

that he may continue bringing children happiness,

over and over again.

I remember my adolescence,

the quintessence of acquiescence,

accuse my essence,

excuse my evanescence -

I soar like a luminescent goose,

with sled screws bruising the head of moonlit spruce,

drinking like a noose on my neck wrapped loose,

in addiction and substance abuse,

pour a little something extra in juniper juice,

commute from a roof butte through a chute,

covered in soot, owl hoots and arm tattoos -

of cruise missile and kangaroos,

I break roos out of zoos with clues and coups,

the bamboo canoe bombs better diffuse

if i were a writer

i would say

i'm sick of people

writing poems about me.

they've painted a picture of me

in their head,

and now i must fulfill it

until i am dead.

haunted by an immortal dread,

i binge on sweets to quell the urge

cheeks red with the impact of the purge.

i have to eat until i'm blue

because that's what your poems say i do.

and when my stomach can no longer handle

the burden

i'll vomit until my cheeks and nose

are red as roses

because that's what your poems

want me to be.

and i'll walk out

of the bathroom

with a smile

and a jolly laugh

(stomach shaking

like a bowl

full of jelly)

because santa

isn't allowed

to be sad.

***

i wake up

on christmas morning

to see

that santa left a note for me

next to uneaten cookies and a full glass of milk.

maybe next year

just make me

a salad.

Spread sheets

Databases

Files of sorted letters

By age

By request

Some so sad my heart tears in two

And hidden in a background file

My sadness, my horror

Where no one ever sees

For my mask is a jolly one

And Santa never cries

Does he know we sense

how hard it is?

To bring a gift but

not heal the hurt?

Just because we can't see

eye to eye

Doesn't mean we don't

feel his stress

His heart breaks

we know it does

And cookies and milk are not

The balm every child thinks

“Hey, elf. You there…do we have staff writers for kids wanting books down their chimneys”

”Yes, sir.”

”Here have them handle this challenge…and make it sweet.”

”Yes, sir.

I've spent years giving-

everything that everyone asks for;

wishing for a happiness I'm not sure

exists.

It's never enough. I'm still

all alone,

trapped, in this cold place

I call home.

If these gifts I give are hope,

then where is mine?

~

What if he's not coming this year?

Maybe I asked for too much,

or I wasn't nice enough to earn a gift.

I don't think I'll write a letter

next year;

he's obviously given up on me,

so I'll quit wasting his time

and wishing on shooting stars.

LETTER FIRST

An elf

sophisticated, full of vigor

did instill in Santa art of write

in Elvish, Dwarvish and Human too

as he was

a Tolkien fan

Santa, now litterate more

more even his bones wanted

read, read and read

and heaps of posts

were him above

a crushing evelasting, neverending shadow.

Elf the Santa sought

how to survive the mountains nigh

children babble mostly

inelligeble wishes

whispering death to Santa

with their towering, never quiet height.

A fathers children helped unknown

a thought of brilliance long ago

so the printing pres, no factory was born

and elves started their busines at one go.

Soo no sleigh disturbed the winter sky

no white bearded possible thief disturbed the children sleep

no entity touched milk and cookies left.

All that was changed for all

with printed answer to the childhood

masses origin of mountaind dread

of written please for gifts.

Answer big and clear:

There is no Santa, parents your invented him.

Don't wait, don't ask, don't doubt.

Give a write of want direct to parents now

And never write again

You answer get will not.

There is no Santa and no Christmas is your parents weight to bear.

A letter to end letters all.

LETTER SECOND

Yao, waited for forbidden gifts

as yellow guards searched for their forbidden faith

and letter was

all

he got.

In the hovel,

where small

cut down spruce tree waited

straight as ramrod

he read the on of billion letter from the North.

And replaid, in tears

"If you dont exist, who wrote this.

If Christmas dont exist, why wrote this

My dreams died, but you live.

May your life drink only tears of children."

Santa, with letter almost none

among the elks and elves

is in peace

but the water funny is

all the time

taste

as

tears.