Email Poem

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Poem

Santa, I do confess
I feel a little bit strange
A middle aged man sitting on your knee
Whispering into your ear, my grandest wish
Let us both hope people do not get the wrong idea here
I am at my wits end Dear Santa
All I want for Christmas
Is for her to call me
So that I may here her voice
Like a musical saga
A symphony of  Celtic dreams
The honey that flows deep into my heart
The sweetness that grows in my soul

Am I demanding too much?
Of this earthly world
That I, demand heavenly wishes
That I dream in colors unreal
That I cry for things that seem the impossible
The North Pole and all its promise
Dream
Oh but I must dream, dream or die

No more dreams
Is death for sure
Let me not be murdered
By a phone that rings not


ps
Dear Santa

I am disappointed, no poetry memberships, no phone calls in the night from lovers
No mistletoe even in me dreams, Gaelic winds blow cold over me heart
Id ask for a train set, but the way things are going you’d give me a train wreck
Bloody hell on you Santa, you must be busy helping nice people, cheers anyways

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