Author's note: Sung, of course, to the tune of ‘Deck the Halls . . .’

Hail! The annual bourgeois spendfest!
– ching-a-ching-a-ching, the cash tills ring –
Time to bloat your children’s toy chest!
– ching-a-ching-a-ching, the cash tills sing –

Hark! You’ll hear now
Christmas ditties;
– jing-a-ling, have a sing, while you shop –
In the mood for
yuletide pretties?
– jing-a-ling-a-ling, so buy the lot –


Hit the mall and grab a trolley!
– ching-a-ching-a-ching, you’re welcome in –
Tis the time to spend your lolly!
– ching-a-ching-a-ching, see Santa grin –

A.T.M. won’t
give more cash out?
– boo-hoo-hoo! What to do? Tell you what . . . –
Punch your pin and
max your card out!
– ching-a-ching-a-ching, we’ll take the lot –


Hear the Sally Army playing.
– boom-de-rum-te-bum, de-dum-crash-tum! –
“Pennies for the poor,” they’re saying.
– boom-a-bang-a-thrum, de-too-tle-tum! –

Salve your conscience
with some copper
– rat-a-tat, look at that, fifty p! –
But spend your pounds in here, dear shopper!
ching-a-ching-a-ching
Thank God we’re free!

© Anthony Baverstock

Holidays Arrive Early With The "Christmas ...
--------------------------------------------------------
Anthony Baverstock is from Colchester, reputed home of Humpty-Dumpty.

Mark Snow pulled up in his van
alongside a very old beech tree.
The county said it had to come down
and he’s a carpenter, you see.
The tree was troubling a boundary wall,
for a hundred years it had stood there
and Mark was eying up the wood,
thinking how beautiful, thinking how rare.

Before they knew it he’d shimmied up
and tied himself to its branches.
Three days later he hadn’t come down -
somehow he fancied his chances
of saving the tree from the chainsaw blade,
a spur of the moment decision,
armed with no more than a woolly hat
and a can to store his fluids in.

Villagers plied him with fish and chips,
sandwiches and cups of tea.
People drove past and honked their horns -
they said he was just like Swampy.
But Mr Snow (Snoz to his friends)
said, “I am not a crusty.
I’m a reluctant activist,
I don’t want people to recognise me.

I’ll stay up here as long as it takes
and then I’ll shave my beard off.
I’m normally tidy and smartly dressed,
I don’t make a habit of looking a scruff.”
He rose to the challenge, an ordinary chap,
and this is what impressed me.
He’s not like Swampy; I’m not like Snoz -
My way is writing poetry.

© Heather Wastie

Barking mad? Not me, says the arboreal answer to Swampy
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Heather Wastie is a wordsmith, humorist and musician with a rich professional life as poet, composer, singer, songwriter, keyboard player and facilitator.  Find out more at Heather's website.

So now we're rid of Tony's nasty chum,
See freedom beckon! Look, we've blitzed your way!
What? Preferential treatment? Oh, come come!
The civilised do not do things that way.
What's that? A drop of cheap petroleum?
One for the road, indeed? Well, I won't say
No to a tipple, if you're having some.

© Philip Challinor

UK trade minister begins business talks in Libya
-----------------------------------------------------------
Philip blogs at 'The Curmudgeon' - He insists, "You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry." Philip is the author of a number of books.

          Ask the experienced, not the wise one, Arab proverb

The ladies room is empty but for two.
Whisper – May I borrow just a few bullets,
I have an urgent need now.  Two handfuls
move from one handbag to the next.

She’s on her way to the secret hospital
in her uncle’s flat – a rebel needs an
operation – she’ll exchange the bullets
for anesthesia vials, stolen…

printers, guns, money – women have
a way.  Secret phone calls to TV and radio,
the world hears a woman’s voice calm,
it represents a people they are half of,

skilled, not just wise, and now is the time
to drive cars alone, build hospitals, to control
towns and people they’ve nurtured since birth
to stand and fight.  And believe they can

hoist the red of the flag, color of blood shed
when they shot at soldiers and the fiery blossoms
of pomegranate, the green for a new spring unfolding,
girls and women planted on the ground in plain sight.

© Lavinia Kumar

Libya’s War-Tested Women Hope to Keep New Power
------------------------------------------------------------------
Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her family includes a variety of cultures and immigrants. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, and more.

It is getting too crowded down here.
Drenched in condensation
hot, plump breasts squeak like wet rats
against the glinting, purple glass.
Full lips, fat with blood
grate on pearly razors
Dry tongues claw like sandpaper at neighbours’ shirts.
Clothes are melting.
Toes, elbows, shoulders fill every nook
Fresh pinstripes and pipedreams are
thrust     
from the depths relentlessly
Salt burning raw skin.
Bare fingers have only the space to tickle the polished surface.

The spectators fill their lungs
they stare down
trousers fat       bulging
sweat sparking from clenched palms
trusting their own creation to hold fast
to protect.
Beards matted with bubbling saliva
and fuming aftershave
Some press their faces to the glass
smearing drenched tongues over the writhing mass
contained.
Pleasure ripples, shudders, erupts
those below wince, clench bloodstained eyes

We are waiting.
    a crack    
        just one

Have patience ladies.

© Natalie Moores


No 10 and the glass ceiling: token gestures and hot air
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Natalie is a 21yr old MA student writer from Manchester. She currently sells cheese for a living, but is determined to make it as a writer.

Me and you and Netanyahu,
What, oh what are we to do?
Say we let the hate abate,
And let them have a separate state?

Me and you, Mahmood Abbas
Help us make it come to pass.
Accept the presence of the Jew,
Most native born, the same as you.

© Stafford Ray

Israeli-Palestinian talks must resume - Mideast Quartet
------------------------------------------------------------------
Writer of musical plays and reading resources for schools. Wannbe novelist, one completed, two more on the way. Poetry happens when moved, limericks when amused (interchangeable).

Hello, I'm back! And hasn't Martin done a very good job of keeping things going in my absence (as, to be fair, he does in my presence)?

We've had a very sparkly week this week, with flowers and medals and lights and mirrors - who knew the news was quite so frivolous... or was it?

For starters, in 'Nimby' Anna reminded us that we have to put our non-sparkly stuff somewhere - as long as it's nowhere near us. Then Charlene Langfur showed us in 'Safe' that (unless your name's Gaddafi) those ribbons and medals are hard-fought and well-earned. US marines appeared again in a first contribution from slam poet James Schwartz celebrating the end of the 'Don't ask, don't tell' policy with it's simple but powerful message: 'As You Were'.

Helena Nolan brought us flowers on Wednesday, all the way from Kenya in 'Day 44' - a clever, unsettling poem that hints at human immigration, the package handled 'As if somebody cares' but ultimately forgotten. Another new contributer to Poetry24, Kashmiri poet Anjum Wasim Dar chose the curious subject of clever corvids to suggest we should be better able to use the tools we have for peace in 'Who Is The Cleverest Crow Of Them All?'

Well, someone who is very clever (but doesn't crow about it) is Anthony Baverstock who finished the week with his gem of a poem 'Talisman.' There were more notes from him on some of the unusual words used in the poem - do chat to him in the comments section if you're interested.

His poem serves to remind contributers that we're interested in all forms of poetry, including the 'concrete' poems, audio files and your recent additions on YouTube - as long as they link to the news!

Clare