The Christmas Poetry of Morgan Roberts

Since he’s joined the fleet at HMS CV, Morgan has proven himself to be an absolute babe and a one man new music machine. There’s a lot more to him than just guitars and triangles, as this phenomenal Christmas poetry of his shows.

The Real Father Christmas

With the kids finally asleep, the wife
and I can enjoy some peace, quiet,
and Christmas calm before the storm.

We collect from places out of reach,
the stars of the annual hide and seek;
retracing our steps, hoping our secrets were kept.

With relief we learn of our misplaced fear;
presents undisturbed for yet another year.
It seems a child’s belief can ward off the most ardent inner thief.

Gifts wrapped, and under the tree,
it’s time for bed, but not quite for me.
My Mrs Claus heads up the stairs, while this real Santa gets down to affairs.

With a glass of milk poured down the sink,
I open the bourbon as my preferred drink.
I give the cookies a taste, and clarify they won’t go to waste.

Cigarette lit, and It’s a Wonderful Life on.
This is my Christmas; the wife and kids gone.
Only so I can watch my Christmas films; Die Hard, Less Than Zero, Bad Santa, and Gremlins.

My peace is disturbed, all too soon,
by shadows breaking light
let in from the moon.

Noises like home improvement
punctuate sentences
spoken by a trespasser’s movement.

Outside; footsteps, a vehicle, and voices.
Inside; I panic, I get up and run,
left with few choices,
for the cupboard – my gun.

With a crash and a flash the intruder appears,
and I act without thinking, before the dust clears.

And it’s as easy as that; with a shotgun blast,
the real Father Christmas becomes Christmas past.

A Man-Child’s Christmas in Wales

Trying to recollect when I lost hold of the magic
in place of something else, so woefully tragic.

I mean, it’s hard to forget the times I still felt it sincerely,
but it’s harder still to remember when it stopped so severely.

It’d be easy to conclude that it came when I gave up believing,
but I can remember a teenaged-time, one Christmas eve evening;

there may not have been mistletoe, but my first kiss came nevertheless;
friends at the front door, asking my confirmation before she would come to the step.

They walked away to give us some privacy, not realising that instead
they’d left us being watched awkwardly from the window by my bed.

First taste of a tongue and first touch of its texture;
fresh chewing gum, worn by a soft, sort of gesture.

I might not have believed, but I couldn’t help feel magic right then,
and on that night, I could never have conceived, I might never feel it again. 

When was it then, that I replaced Christmas spirit with spirits outright?
Was it sixteen and drunk, challenging my uncle to a contest one night?

Of course I passed out in the toilet, after making a show;
whisky confiscated, cursing my mother in front of her own. 

Perhaps, it was waking up Christmas Day in the Conservative club, pint in hand;
no memory of getting there, it was a good thing I was sat – I definitely couldn’t stand.

It transpired I hadn’t woken, just become conscious once more,
Having had been collected, by my best friend, direct from my door.

It seemed I’d even bought cigarettes and visited his house for some time,
Even chatted to his whole family; it’s a Christmas miracle what I can do blind.

If it wasn’t then, then maybe it was twenty; repeating the same routine,
or tradition as we say. Though, this time I really outdid myself at nineteen;

cider for breakfast, wine for dinner, and whisky for snacks, before crawling to the Con
only to lose count of the pints, and then lose count of more before Morgan was gone;

replaced, by a monkey that had been kicked through Topman, apparently.
Soon, insult and argument followed, then threats of violence with my key.

Still, I sang my way home, kicking wing mirrors to a vandal’s cancan rhythm.
Reaching my front door, I let myself in, but an accident struck my guts from within.

Straight to the toilet, I locked the world out, and Christmas Day closed;
not with peace on earth, but with the frantic flushing of shit covered clothes.

In hindsight it’s hilarious, and as an anecdote great fun.
So, I must truly have lost the magic at age twenty one.

Christmas morning came, much as it always had;
hungover with breakfast, and drinks with my dad.

Presents, family visits, and the booze at full flow,
Christmas dinner, and once again to the Con I did go.

Pint followed pint followed keys in the cubicle,
Cigarettes outside, the night was quite beautiful.

The pattern continued right until they called time
But that wouldn’t stop us, with moods so sublime.

We wandered our way to a house party of one;
our dealer was alone with all his drugs to be done.

Not dreaming of a white Christmas, but living it through.
Though, our host soon grew tired, so it was on to house two.

Tranquil as horses, we sat silent in the dark,
Playing poker on ketamine, our Christmas benchmark.

Boxing Day and paranoia came together hand in hand,
and it was then that I saw and could finally understand;

what was fine for us all any other night of the week
in the context of Christmas was really quite bleak.

’twas the night before Christ-Mass

’twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…
Well, all accept Santa pulling hard on his ropes,
but they were tied tighter than he could’ve hoped.

Outside the house there was plenty more stirring;
the clattering chains suggested jingles occurring.
Roof bound old reindeers despite their best fight,
just like their master couldn’t hope to take flight.

This house meant for presents was all just a trap,
no family here to receive and unwrap.
Jesus made the set up just for his rival.
The intention of this plan? There would be no survival.

With Santa tied to a chair, Jesus pressed play to an infamous track,
‘What’s this Reservoir Dogs?’, was met with a back-handed slap.
Santa pleaded, ‘What are you doing? We’re on the same team!’
Jesus just danced around silently and splashed gasoline.

  

Love at First Sight

Romance? Dead?
I’ve seen it tonight;

in a horde of believers
in love at first sight.

It’s the difference between
swipe left and swipe right.