The snow fell softly on Christmas Eve,
The cold night was set to stay.
Children were all asleep in their beds,
Excited for Christmas Day.
#
As Santa’s sleigh flew across the sky,
Toys and gifts packed in his sack.
Wrapped up warmly from the chill,
He slung the goodies around his back.
#
Jumping down from off his sleigh,
Onto the rooftops down below.
He made his way into the chimney,
Leaving footprints in the snow.
#
But oh! This chimney had seemed so narrow,
They don’t build houses like they did.
His large stomach pressed up against the flue,
how he had got so big!
#
As panic began to fill him,
This had never happened to him before.
He twisted and writhed with all of his might,
But he just couldn’t slide down to the floor.
#
No one would know he was up there,
Unless he screamed loudly for help.
If he was lucky that Rudolf would hear him,
Then the reindeer could go and fetch Elf.
#
If not then poor Santa would perish,
Cremated alive from the flames.
His reputation would be in such tatters,
Ruining Christmas would be such a shame.
#
If Santa got stuck up a chimney,
And children never received presents again.
Would Christmas become just a legend?
Without Santa, it just won’t be the same.
About the Creator
Hazel Rymell
..Suddenly I crash back down to earth with a big almighty bump!
...when not in a dolly daydream, creative me is at home in the UK doing the normal everyday mundane jobs, that seem to go on forever...until the daydreaming kicks in again...
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More stories from Hazel Rymell and writers in Poets and other communities.
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis4 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
Such a cute poem, Hazel. But wow yeah I wonder what would happen if this did happen!