Christmas gatherings

I’ve lost my manners
this quarantine. My ability
to keep the curtains
of my mouth stretched
open for a smile suffered.

My social skills, a turned
off faucet in those months
of longing for connection.
Words refused to stream
out without a stutter.

My cousins look different.
Some withered. Hair, a shock
of white. Others went bald
or got pregnant. I angle my curls
and my vacant body to the left.

My aunt still feeds on gossip
with every sip of her golden
coffee. She nibbles on mixed
nuts and tell me about a girl
who got stabbed by her family.

My uncle serves refined
tea like its wine. One with peach,
the other from Morocco.
I politely accept a blue cup
wishing it was a red glass.

I get asked all the usual
questions. I squirm. I busy
myself with watching kids
run around, oblivious. Still
communicating by instinct.


Eithar Almosibeah is a writer from Saudi Arabia who believes that words are the most ancient form of magic. With one publication already under her belt in Arabic, her poetry is finally making an appearance in English in her poetry collection “A Cup of Chaos”. She is hoping to reach minds and hearts from all over the world in order to deliver one message: emotions are relatable across all boundaries. No language, gender, nor culture can prohibit the entwining of souls over one shared sentiment.




It’s a shame really,

I could do whatever i want to freely,
But I’ve got a conscience that speaks to me.
Look at it this way, don’t get lost in the current and let your desires sway.
You weren’t put on this earth to stay,
You’re gonna have to leave one day.

So it hurts, and it burns, when others take turns,
To do what they please,
Even step on one’s dreams.
They made up their own naughty list,
Told us to follow the rules,
But never mentioned they were exempt from it.

I don’t swear in my pieces,
But my peace is in pieces,
My patience been tried, trust no longer alive.
At least last Christmas it was believable,
But this year, i can’t let it slide.
They won’t even try to hide, the fact that they’re living a big old lie.

I wonder if I’ll be told to stay away from my loved ones again?
Will the nation give seasonal greetings over zoom, to their loved ones hospital beds?
They gifted us bikes and scooters, but skimped out on sense.
And when i speak to their supporters, i swear i get tense.
Can’t be asked for a debate, so im just silent instead.

Like i said,
My peace is in pieces and this jigsaw won’t get completed,
Communal Energy depleted,
I just focus on self.
Realigned my goals, put many back on the shelf.
Back on my gym so i can prioritise my health,
They’re only stacking the plates, so it only makes sense,
To lift up this weight, i gotta work on my chest,
But how can i move forward if I’m neglecting my legs.
And muscles don’t grow unless i get rest.
Using my head to benefit myself,
Even on days off my time is still stretched.
Sorry if it comes across as selfish.
But I’m tryna pay off my debts.


Numan Awan is an artist from Slough who’s had the pleasure of performing at some of the best open mic events the UK has to offer, from Mind over Matter to The Vortex.  He started off with performance poetry and has begun to release music on Spotify. His debut track is “Hold on”.



Frost clouds the windows 

Ice fingers defrost under stockings by
the fire. Warm embraces, everyones smiles,
hot chocolate and marshmallows for
each child. A mountain of treats,
chocolates and cheese. Red wine
and whisky, mince pies ready to eat.

Santa is coming, families gathering
excitement travels throughout,
the little boys and little girls,
will they hear Santa shout

HO.HO.HO! Merry Christmas. 

The magic of Christmas enchants
this house. Nobody can wait to see,
what’s left under the tree. Gifts
and treasures, Christmas dinners
to remember. Piles of pigs in blankets,
3 birds roasting, gravy dripping,
desserts too filling. It’s a feast
to be wasted. Glutton decorated faces.

on top
of presents
on top
of presents

Straining months of wages,
tightening belts
for a day of entertainment,
just to satisfy their faces,

savings wasted.

Charity starts at home,
and stays there.
I’m just walking past,
sharing glimpses,
of your Christmas.

My fingers are still freezing,
walking home from work,
dreaming of a bath that’s steaming.
Thinking of ways to tell my children,
Santa was a little light, this evening.
Basics we will be eating, either that,
or turn off the heating.

In the morning,
I’ll have to pretend,
that this Christmas is amazing,
to keep the joy on their faces
crying inside,
because the magic
of Christmas,


Casey Brennan started writing poetry in her teens while growing up in Slough, after moving to Northamptonshire and embarking on a journey of motherhood, she finds time for poetry in-between the lines of her to do list, so that she can share her new perspective of life, birthed the day her sons were born.