There are tears, of course there are tears,
but a death isn’t really tragic after so many years,
so we should be celebrating your wonderful life:
your nine children and committed wife,
your family that seems to grow by the day,
who will all miss you now you’ve gone away.
But as I sit here, my eyes are wet,
not with sadness, but tears of regret;
for not spending enough time with you when I could,
not enjoying your garden or the hunts for firewood,
being the distant relative even when I lived near,
and a virtual stranger since moving down here,
for thinking of visiting you as a chore,
not making the effort to see you more.
But we don’t know what we’ve got ‘til it’s gone,
and now one of the good guys has passed on,
so I need to say, as I try not to cry,
“I’m sorry, Paddy. Goodbye”
This is a poem about birth from a father’s perspective. It compares the the second time round with the first, which I wrote about here
This time they gave us a date,
but this time we still had to wait
as we were fourth in line to be sent
and a string of emergencies came and went.
So my wife waited in the hospital heat,
thirsty, and with nothing to eat
but, when I was away in the loo,
they came to say my wife was due.
This time I was still asked to wait outside
on the same plastic chair where I’d sat and cried
so, shaking and pacing the floor,
I peered through gaps in the same theatre door.
But this time there was laughter in that room
as they poked and prodded and anaesthetised her womb
and when I was eventually let in
instead of tears, my wife had a nervous grin.
This time, behind a blue cloth screen
I heard doctors working away, unseen
so I relaxed and held her hand,
together facing a birth the way it was planned.
and our girl was delivered by those unseen heroes,
who measured her weight and counted her toes
and when they had her clean and dried
this time she was able to stay by our side.
We all sit down to watch the news,
really an excuse for a cheeky snooze;
through war and politics we quietly nap,
waking up to see the weather map.
Then we listen intently to our TVs:
Is there a heatwave or another big freeze?
Should we take a coat or wear our shorts?
The answers are in the weather reports.
Nothing makes us panic like a bit of snow,
when it’s time for work we can’t go,
the slippery roads giving us a fright
so we stay at home for a snowball fight.
We’re all perplexed when the sun comes out,
our reddening faces shrouded in doubt,
so charcoal is burned and hosepipes are banned,
and bikini-clad girls are on the newspaper-stand.
We only like it when the sky is grey,
with sporadic showers throughout the day.
Anything else and we’re all complaining,
we’re only happy when it’s raining
Now that you have started to grow
there are some things I want you to know:
Do the things you think worthwhile,
love the people who make you smile.
Everybody has a story to hear,
individuality is nothing to fear,
so be yourself, be proud,
don’t disappear in the crowd,
and don’t care what the neighbours say,
their opinions don’t matter anyway.
Don’t vote for anyone wearing blue,
who aims to protect the well-to-do.
There’s no shame in ever needing aid
or seeking help when you’re afraid,
so support the people who need a hand,
learn from those that you don’t understand.
Wear a poppy but don’t go to war;
is anything worth killing for?
Trust no one who believes in prayer,
but know you can’t prove there’s no one ‘there’.
Don’t worry about the chores left undone,
don’t ever read ‘The Sun’,
but read the books that keep you late,
leave food you don’t like on your plate,
listen to music, sing every line,
never heed advice, especially mine.
Unemployed? Skivers? Workshy bums?
Or people let down by Etonian chums?
As they pass ‘back to work’ interviews,
adding to numbers in Job Centre queues,
the unwell are forced to seek a job,
to the glee of the Mail-reading mob
who resent the disabled, needy and meek;
and politicians who can’t live on £50 a week
force the young to work as a pound-shop slave,
whatever happened to ‘Cradle to Grave’?
So people fall through society’s holes,
pushed by Government’s ideological goals,
taxed for bedrooms they can’t afford to heat,
they have to choose which meals to eat,
struggling just to stay alive,
in a society where foodbanks thrive.
We’d often see him round about,
then he’d visit when we put bird seed out,
and as we handed out the nuts he’d crave
the squirrel became increasingly brave
until every day he’d take a chance,
making our excited baby start to dance
as she saw him begging at the door,
melting our hearts so we fed him more.
But then he assumed he’s a welcome guest,
so moved into the attic and built a nest:
a place to shelter with his rodent bride,
where they eat the nuts that we provide;
a place that meets their every need,
it’s warm and dry for them to breed.
But they chewed the things that we had stored,
Christmas decorations have been gnawed,
and they’ll chew the pipes if they need a drink,
it’s time to evict them, we start to think,
and so to rid us of this rodent brood
a man we called brought special food.
He smells the shampoo in her hair,
she listens to the tale he tells
and wishes she could be elsewhere.
He smells.
Leering at her feminine swells,
not trying to disguise his stare,
as she tries to bid her farewells.
He smells her scent as she sits there,
aloof as all the other belles,
imagining her body bare.
He smells.
From the shops I need to buy:
-a toy for me or I might cry
-a magazine of cars I want to drive
-beer so the party starts when I arrive
-a duvet and pillows for our new bed
-wine. And aspirin to help my head
-nappies to keep the baby clean
-sweets to reward how good she’s been
-a card to celebrate the exams she’ll ace
-a house warming present for her new place
-dog food for the pal that now needs our care
-dinner for one as I’m the only one there
-the tablets that help when I’m feeling ill
-some paper for writing out my will.
Adam Writes Poems 