You still fill The same chair-sized space You ever did – Your chair has gone but I still see you stroll From room to room With the usual smile On your face Contemplating your next move Of aged-wickedness, I still hear your voice Laughing at something That’s tickled you, Something no doubt To share in the pub But never in chapel, I still feel your spirit watching Over us as we Inevitably pack away Your treasures Carefully hoarded Over long years. I still love you And miss you Dad and You still fill The same giant-sized role You ever did.
How to manage Father’s Day When you can’t send a card Or a bottle of wine, There’s no twinkly eyes Or a jokey punchline, No gravelly greeting As you come downstairs, Emotional overload In his empty chair. We have to accept The things we can’t change But Father’s Day without Dad Is eerily strange. Throughout the years He gave so much love So while I’m below And he’s up above I’ll feel grateful today That I was his daughter, I was so lucky – No Father’s Day pauper. His spirit lives on Right here in his home His love tangible In the words of this poem.
Forced to face mortality Before strictly necessary, Enjoying life – Doing what you wanted to, Though you knew At 92 years young, Facing the music was inevitable. I thought I’ve have you Another year or two And now you’re scared, Tearful, acknowledging You could die, Losing confidence, Aging perceptablity Right in front of me While I ignore reality.
Coming home from work You’d swing me round, Lift me off the ground, No matter how tired you were, You thought it was funny, It was our joke, A routine; Sure as eggs.
A long time ago Yet fresh in my mind Like the time You came into school With lunchbox and flask To comfort my tears – I see your touseled hair, I see you standing there, In your blue overalls Leaning against the door, Smiling at me, reassuringly.
But then – You’ve always rescued me, Sure as eggs.
An ode to all my aunties Today this Mother’s Day, You were all so special In oh so many ways, You loved me and nagged me, Brought me up to see the light, ‘Cos I was always wrong And you were always right! To Thelma Joan Mary, Dulce Margaret, Violet Mo, To Glennis Maud, Gwyneira Brenda, Marjorie Muriel and Ethel Glo, I loved you all in different ways You all helped me to grow, You chased me with a slipper And taught me how to sew, You clipped me round the ear When I stepped out of line, You loved me through thick and thin So I knew that you were mine, You showed me how to belly-laugh, Helped me find a job or two, You showed me how to knit Keeping stitches straight and true, You told me family stories, You typed for me before PC You laughed, you cried, you hugged, You danced and scolded me And I’ll never forget the advice Received on my wedding day, No need to shave my legs The ball is still in play! I thank you all for rearing me, And I loved my mother Pam, But on Mother’s Day, of all the days, I my extended Mams.
The war cry has sounded, The game’s begun, We’ve sung for our country, Emotions undone!
The ball’s in play – Penalty points, We’re doing ok, But First AND Second try to Scotland, It’s going their way, Wales are under the cosh, The games running away. Come on Wales, You turned up to play!
A game of two halves, Wales are back in the lead, But Scotland’s not done, The threat’s very real, Scottish try, then Welsh, Just 5 mins to go, We’re one point ahead, Can we get any more? That’s it, it’s all over, The battle is done, Scotland’s defeated And Wales has won!
Pundits will replay Every blow to the joints, The rights and wrongs Of every point, But a win’s a win And we’re two for two – Come on Wales, A Grand Slam’s overdue!
On this birthday-day I’m thankful for much The loving touch, The joy and wishes from family and friends, My husband for making it special Even though now I’m a collectable, My daughter and son for thoughtful gifts And no wiscracks about stairlifts, It’s been breakfast-in-bed and champagne-lunch, Moving on to afternon tea – Plenty of treats on my special day, Things to do and things to play, But thanks most of all to the alcohol, The Verve Clicquot, The youthful fountain of pink gin and ice Making lockdown 60 bubbly and boozy, and pink-ily nice.
In this year of years I’m happy to embrace The big 6-0 right in the face: May the gin flow freely ‘Round my wheelchair wheelie, Growing old disgracefully, Living it large for thee and me – May the Lord grant me years to come And may all big numbers be undone, So next year I’ll be 21!
Pandemic slow-down, life in rebound, Slow-motion days While minds play; Racing, restless, shamelessly demanding Answers to prayer that do not come.
Patience. Two syllablesof irksomeness Revving the brain-squall of fractiousness, The caffeine-fuelled maddness of life. Patience. Annoyingly, it cannot be said fast, In any accent, it’s pregnant with pause, A purposeful word. Patience.
Enforced quietude, life in solitude, Time for prayer, not despair; Ardently, purposefully, in undemanding faith, In Spirit-led strength of hope, Pray – and peace will come.