Posts tagged with “poem” and “father”

September 05

Step Zero

Hello, my name is Paul And my father is an alcoholic (hit the wall) I dream of my father's death and it is still his problem (take a breath) Hello my name is Paul And my mother is dead (hit the nail on the head) Goodbye Dionysian wines of sun, Hedonistic Epicurean good clean fun (have a whine) Goodbye my name was Paul I never had a problem with alcohol at all (hit the wall) There may or may not be scope for a poem in there - too autobiographic for me. AA meetings - not a bundle of fun. Seems they are a way of life for many. Now then, where's my next one? Ha ha Ha.
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October 30

I'll be the death of him!

DO DOGS HAVE SOULS ================== Be careful son, my father would say I tell a lie If I died he would not cry When his dog dies I watch him cry When his dog dies I hate myself for crying ###### -------- But the dog, what of him? He just sees two lost souls and, for pities sake, when the dog dies I see three. What about you? ###### -------- PAW ALL SOUL's EVE 2011 ###### -------- Poetry, doggerel, or therapy, you decide.... All comments welcome and, if I know you, I'll take it up with you in the appropriate manner. Yes, father I am perfectly serious - you are old enough to die of shock now. Over and out
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November 09

Isabel's poem

This was written by my daughter at the weekend, I shall photograph the original text and post it, but this is my version typed as faithfully as I can:-

Look! a leaf
Scrunkling my life away.

Look! a rabbit hole
Like a bowl
Eating my life away.

Look!...a nest
Like a bed
Sleeping my life away

Look at the green grass
Like  a bean
I roll my life away

Isabel Eleanor Amelia Wrighton, November 2009.

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October 28

Three Score plus More

At the weekend I visited my father, aged seventy five, and made sure his computer was online.  Although I am quite sure he shall not manage to read this I thought I would put the poem he gave me at the time online:-

Three Score years and ten
So what does one do then?
The Bible says - that's your lot;
"Can't I do what I forgot?"
Now I am seventy two,
My latter years have just begun
Cruising, boozing, having fun
Seventy Two, don't feel so well
My prostate begins to tell
Oh no!  I'm seventy three
My doctor has his hands in me.
He looked inside and said "It's bad!"
My love, she pretended she was sad
Seventy four, my pension pot is growing,
I remember the wild oats I've been sowing
Seventy five, life goes quicker
And my blood is getting thicker
Oh dear lord six and seventy,
Does that make me feel more Heavenly
Seventy Eight, the reaper's late
Seventy Nine, or is it Ten?
Hari Krishna - not again!
Jesus, Allah - I've got the score
I can't do it anymore.

J.C.W. October 2009

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