Dating Santa

Please be aware this has a slight adult theme and for that I may no longer be on the nice list,  I apologise.


It has been a very long time,

But I still can’t quite forget,

The night we had together,

That night that we first met,

I’d hung my stockings neatly,

Against the fire to dry,

You’d eyed them so discreetly,

Though I’m sure I heard you sigh,

I saw you in that outfit,

So big and red and round,

And I knew I’d pay a forfeit,

If I made the slightest sound,

You wove a trail of magic,

That had me in your spell,

And I saw the stretch of fabric,

As I watched your big bag swell,

I’m not the type of woman,

Who throws herself at men,

But I felt my boundaries loosen,

When I saw your fountain pen.

You asked me was I naughty,

And I said “Oh no, I’m nice”

You looked at me quite haughty,

And said you’d check it twice.

You gave me such a present,

Against the prickly green,

That the needles fell in torment,

And the fairy’s not been seen.

So this year I’ll be waiting,

For the big man in the suit,

For when you’re dating Santa,

The naughty list is mute.

You’ll Know Why


I would walk for a hundred mile,

Just to hear your voice, to see your smile,

I’d scale a mountain way up high,

Just to see you soar, to watch you fly.


I’d swim the length of an ocean wide,

To watch you float on a moonlit tide,

I’d catch the stars that light the sky,

And gather diamonds passing by.


I’d steer the moon that claims the night,

To swathe you in its resplendent light,

I’d weave a path through constellations,

Trailing dreams and declarations.


I’d keep the sun from slumbers wake,

To catch your dreams before they break,

And I’d hold them in my palms up high,

So you’d know love and you’d know why.



I had a recommendation from the very talented to check out  ‘Romantic Monday’.  Such a great way to spend a Monday, so I wrote this piece with that in mind.





Who will you call,

When love starts to fade,

Who’ll hold your hand,

And try to persuade,

Who’ll be the one,

That leads you away,

And who’ll be the one,

Who prays that you stay,

Who will you tell,

Of the dreams that you hold,

And who’ll be the one,

To see them unfold,

Who will tell stories,

Of where you have been,

And who’ll paint the pictures,

Of all that you’ve seen.

Who will be burned,

By the heat of your touch,

And who’ll be the one,

That’s left to begrudge,

Who will you wake with,

On each new tomorrow,

And who’ll be the one,

Who rises with sorrow.

Who’ll be the one,

Who comes after me,

I hope she is all,

That I couldn’t be.

The Twelfth Day Of Christmas

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On the twelfth day of Christmas,

My husband gave to me,

Twelve headache helpers,

Eleven buzzers buzzing,

Ten children screeching,

Nine glasses braking,

Eight lights a-fusing

Seven crackers snapping,

Six oldies napping,

Five ———-broken ———nails,

Four smoking pans,

Three bottles drank,

Two laddered tights,

And a paper crown slipping off my head.


The Instruction Book


If love had a handbook,

Or instructions to follow,

Would the order affect,

The coming tomorrow.

Would a step from the norm,

Restructure the whole,

Would the world still revolve,

Or embrace the free form.


If I knew when to stop,

When to stand back and wait,

Would I learn to accept,

An evolving dictate.

Would I banish my fears,

Of a love that’s free falling,

And welcome the freedom,

That stalled the fate’s calling.


If I went with plan B,

Instead of plan A,

Would I drown in the glory,

Of every new day,

Would I feed on the essence,

Of a love more divine,

And drink from a fountain,

More heady than wine.


If only the handbook,

Was a little bit clearer.

Now You See Me, Now You Don’t

I so look forward to Wednesdays. Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A wonderfully addictive 100 word photo prompt from the fabulous Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I’d recommend everyone to join the merry little band of 100+ equally addicted participants.


Copyright : Adam Ickes

His eyes watched the smoke rising from the pit. Shapes formed, hesitated and then re-grouped. The elders crouched, motionless. Faces blank, pupils wide; white tipped flames reflected in translucent ebony. A slow building hum seemed to wrap around him. He thought of the fame, the notoriety – “UNKNOWN TRIBE DISCOVERED”. His wasn’t the first expedition, but the others never returned; blamed on poor preparation, fever, animal attacks. He looked down, feeling almost invisible against the rising hum. Then realisation dawned, as his body slowly faded into the ether. A sardonic smiling villager threw another pair of boots into the pile.


What if, in some parallel universe, objects were the lives and things, like us, were the mere objects?

Prompt: Your goal this week is to practice personification.  Speak from the standpoint of an object.  It can be any object you desire, whether it be a storm, or a box or a speck of dust or what have you.  What does that object feel?  Can it be subjected to the realm of human experience?  Can it make any sense?  Can we, as human beings, somehow relate?

Written for We Drink Inspiration – Poetry Prompt #004: Personification


As dust I am a subtle trace,

Upon the surface layer,

A veil across the outer shell,

That hides the past purveyor,

I am a speck so intricate,

The naked eye can miss,

The delicacy of symmetry,

Upon a ghost breaths kiss,

A trailing tease of finger tips,

That score across my form,

With no escape from emptiness,

That’s born of neglect and scorn,

For I mark the time that passes,

As an echo within the grain,

Just memories and shadows,

That leave a dappled stain.