Wot! Christmas Poems Already! Yes! Coming To A Poemhunter Site Near You...Don'T Missmassacre At Christmas Tree(In 3-D) ! Poem by Dónall Dempsey

Each Christmas I had wanted
& now had finally got
a yellow blue
green brown
plastic stagecoach

being attacked by red Indians
that had hidden in the hills
of the couch’s cushions
or on the horizon of
the rim of a high-back chair

I lost
in play
talking every detail aloud
to make it real

came alive
in my voice
(How? Me no know!)
All in my mind
my mother’s voice

calling annoyingly
for me to come & eat
heap big festive feast
I leave them
stock still

stopped in mid-action
the hot sun of a 3-bar electric fire
beating down on the scene that is about to be
played out on the prairie of the vast living room floor.

Can the Cavalry
arrive in time?
A cowboy
my Mam’s sewing needle
stuck in his heart

cries out
as I return to find
the whole fantasy
melted down
into a bluebrownyellowgreen
congealed mess

a complete and utter massacre
I could hardly look
the plastic smell of death

not a toy left alive
‘cept the Indians
hidden amongst

the Christmas tree
& me
cryin’
the sole human survivor.

The 3-bar electric fire
laughing... laughing


******

YEAH, NEXT YEAR...!

Trapped between
the Christmas tree
& my sister's evil dolls

(who are intent on taking over
the world)
I flipped open
Channel D

& informed Leo. G. Carroll
aka Mr. Waverly
'I have...a bit
of a problem here! '

He reassures me
in his unflappable tone
'Not to worry Mr. Dempsy
...that's what we're here for! '

My MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E.
helicopter

arriving just in time
to deal with the threat
to Planet Earth

from killer
robot dolls
cleverly disguised as
Christmas gifts.

Would TRUSH stop at nothing?
No. Nothing!
I morphed into either
Napolean Solo or Illya Kuryakin

(it don't matter who)
I had a job to do
a world to save!
Life's tough when you're
a secret agent

...aged *
My twisted sister
screaming

as the flames
rose higher
in our coal fire

& I nonchalantly
(with a little smirk)
dispatched another
killer doll

by pulling it's
voice box out!
'Mummy! '

both doll & sister
scream.
My mother
(or someone cleverly made up to look like my mother)

orders me:
'Put the doll...down! '
'Put...the doll...down! '

'Or there will be...
no Christmas dinner
for you! '

(No Christmas dinner for me
...how dastardly!)
What kind
of evil clone could concieve of such
...a punishment!

But I can see
(it was no use)
she had the dropp
on me

so I gave myself up
played along with the alien clones
...giving myself time to think!

Maybe the mother figure
was a double agent?
I gave myself over

to excess eating
and was full
of good cheer.
My smile ached
but I kept it there!

But, next year?
Yeah, next year!

THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E(or The United Network Command for Law & Enforcement) was what every little boy aspired to in 1965. It was cool to be a spy and the Cold War was still hotting up. Thank God for U.N.C.L.E. making that evil TRUSH cry uncle or was it auntie. Robert Vaughan pretended to be Napolean Solo and David MaCulum pretended to be Illya Kuryakin and I pretended to be both. Leo G. Carrol was Mr. Waverly who had a hard time keeping us all in control. And you thought it was easy being a kid...it was fraught with danger!


*******


THE LAST OF THE DONALLDONALLS

It was a most carefully
planned raid

on the out-of-bounds
Army plantation forest

that we attacked
with such sudden ferocity

startling squirrels into
dropping their nuts

us carrying off
broken frightened saplings

ideal for making bows & arrows

nicking twine
from our four father’s garden sheds

& thus armed to the teeth
with real weapons

we played games of Indians & Indians

(nobody wanted to be a cowboy)

I having told them all about
THE LAST OF THE MOICHANS

(the magic of words... Chingacgoook...Uncas)

We all wanting to be noble & brave.

Our imaginations
hitting the mark

a sharpened pointed stick cum arrow
hurt like heck
on back...leg or neck

Voices yelping yowling:
“I got you…I got you
you’re...dead! ”

One could hardly deny
the evidence of real blood

and a long blood curdling howl

fallin’ down
a hill

clutching your fatal wound

only to return again

brazen and

more alive than ever.