22

Behold the two swans as they glide up the river,
Glissading along with such effortless ease.
The hint of a breeze sets their feathers a-quiver,
Swimming or resting wherever they please.

The cygnets are grown, they are out there exploring,
Discovering places where waters run deep.
They splash with excitement when rapids are roaring,
Complaining at length when the banks are too steep.

The fast-moving stream where the waters would tumble
Is calm and untroubled as age-weathered glass.
The crash of the ocean’s a far-distant rumble
And life is serene now as slowly they pass.

The beech trees stand deep in the water’s reflection,
The butterflies dance through the blanket of haze.
The swans have succumbed to the river’s direction
And float in contentment beneath the sun’s gaze.

Through meadows and copses the river keeps winding,
As petulant Spring is left far, far behind.
The sun watches regally, scorching and blinding,
His course, like the river, but vaguely defined.

Behold the two swans in the calm Summer weather
Gliding downstream to the great river mouth.
A long way to go but they’ll make it together,
Tails to the north as they drift ever south.

21 my darling daughter

It’s twenty one years since the day of your birth,
Since first you appeared on this unprepared earth.
If I’d have known then how much trouble you are,
I’d have looked for a refund and bought a new car.

In arguments always you claim the last word.
If you’ve an opinion, it’s going to be heard.
But one time this confidence took a great toll,
When you winked at the President and prayed for her soul.

Twenty one, twenty one,
Its time to stop messing, there’s work to be done.

Your room is a bombsite in lilac and pink.
The state of it’s driven your mother to drink.
Anyone tempted to enter, beware!
Lord Lucan and Shergar might well be in there.

You “work” in your room, but you keep the door closed,
Break out in a rash when some housework’s proposed.
We spend both our lives trailing round in your wake
And tidying up all the mess that you make.

Twenty one, twenty one,
Life as an adult ain’t half as much fun.

You’re helping us both, you presumably think,
By leaving your dishes and cups by the sink.
Thank God for the fairies who take every cup
And rinse them all out and then wash them all up.

You drive like a demon and frequently curse
When Gary does not let you into reverse.
But it is your fault, the mechanics all say,
For choosing a car that is patently gay.

Twenty one, twenty one,
Please don’t fix your hair when you’re doing a ton.

You go to the Vortex and pity all those
Poor middle-aged fellers who stand there and pose.
But though they’re quite sad, lined up there on the shelf,
You can hardly be called a spring chicken yourself.

You say you’ll commit us and put us away
To get all our cash without too much delay.
But ill-gotten money will always be cursed,
And anyway we’re gonna spend it all first.

Twenty one, twenty one,
A lifetime of struggle and worry’s begun.

From Tokyo City to sweet Budapest,
You’ve travelled the world causing civil unrest.
But though we’ve encouraged you, helped you to pack,
Wherever you’ve been, you have always come back.

The shops in the Centre are your biggest fans.
You’ve been cited by many in their business plans.
It isn’t obsessive, you say it’s not greed,
But how many handbags does one woman need?

Twenty one, twenty one,
And you think we’ve believed all the stories you’ve spun?

The room empties quickly whenever you choose
To carelessly kick off your socks and your shoes.
World domination would soon be complete
If we could just harness the smell of your feet.

Despite all your failings, in one certain field
A special quick-wittedness has been revealed.
In this one regard, you’re as cute as a fox,
For you don’t have the problem of losing odd socks.

Twenty one, twenty one,
This birthday has not got much further to run.

Each night I kneel down and I pray to God that
You’ll snare a rich feller, who’ll buy you a flat.
I maybe the Daddy that you dote upon,
But sadly for you, I’m a sugarless one.

And so darling daughter, I see how you’ve grown,
And maybe you’ll shortly have kids of your own.
Compliment or not, it depends on your view,
But I’m praying that they will turn out just like you.

Twenty one, twenty one,
We hope you enjoyed your big day in the sun.
Twenty one, twenty one,
Its time to stop messing, there’s work to be done.

Valentines Poem 2008

It’s Valentine’s Day once again, love,
The time for emotion and dreams
And I still love you so
With a passion, although
We are coming apart at the seams.

We’d better take care of our bodies,
Now that those fifties are lurking.
Though the aching’s increased,
I still love you, at least,
The parts of you which are still working.

If I delve through the fog of my memory
To the time when you were a spring chicken.
I loved you back then
As much as now, when
Our art’ries are starting to thicken.

I know that your adamant that all
Your aches can be laid at my door,
When I marched you for hours
Past the trees and the flowers
Little knowing the trouble in store.

I know that it’s really frustrating.
This aging is breaking my heart.
But my love still takes flight
When I watch you, despite
The fact that we’re falling apart.

No more will we go rollercoastering.
No canal banks in all kinds of weather.
We cannot run riot,
We must take things quiet,
But at least we will do them together.

The Glorious Twelfth

.

In days of old,

I have been told,
Twelfth birthdays marked the bound’ry.
Upon that day,
Kids ceased to play
And went off to the foundry.
Past childhood days
Were lost in haze
And any toys were hidden.
‘Twas off to work
As Gard or clerk,
And laughter was forbidden.

At twelve years old
The work bell tolled
And drowned the sound of laughter.
Down in the pit
You shovelled coal
And had to be a grafter.
You earned your pay,
Two bob a day,
Or more if you were lucky.
The boss was gruff
And work was tough,
You came home tired and mucky.

But nowadays
There’s not this craze
For sending kids out earning.
It’s off to school
Now, as a rule,
This is the age of learning.
No more do they
Hand up their pay.
In fact they cost us money!
Its now become,
For children, some
Great land of milk and honey.

But Kate, I’m told,
Now twelve years old,
Knows childhood days are finished.
The hours of leisure
And of pleasure
Greatly now diminished.
She’ll clean her room
With mop and broom
Whenever she’s a minute
And make sure that
Her habitat
Has nothing dirty in it.

She’ll walk the dog
And clean the bog
And iron when it’s raining.
She’ll dry each cup
Of washing up
And all without complaining.
At half past five
She’ll sweep the drive
And paint hall, stairs and landing.
Though muscles ache,
She’ll take no break
While she’s still strength for standing.

She’ll help her Da
To load the car
Whene’er they go out shopping.
She’ll clean the brass
And cut the grass
And all this without stopping.
She’ll shine her shoes
And clean the loos,
No matter if they’re grubby.
So when she’s grown
She will not moan
When cleaning after hubby.

So welcome, Kate!
Grown-up life’s great.
We hope you’ll learn to love it.
And if friends say
“Come out to play!”
We hope you’ll rise above it.
You’re twelve now and
You understand
You must accept your duty.
Oh all is changed
And rearranged –
‘Tis born a terrible beauty.

Kate's Christmas Message

The nation awoke with a definite buzz
On the thirtieth day of December,
Remarking “This will be a great day for us
And one that we’ll always remember.”
They texted each other in great jubilation,
Reminding their friends of the time and the station
Then tuned in, in scarce-controlled anticipation
To hear young Kate Lawless addressing the nation
In tones clear and bold
With r’s roundly rolled
With her masterly powers of oration.

A hush filled the air as she started to speak,
All eyes in the church were upon her.
They listened, intent on her pow’rful critique
Of the value of parental honour.
She told each recalcitrant sister and brudder
To reflect on respect and to learn how to smudder
Their hard-working father and long-suff’ring mudder
With love and support. And the crowd gave a shudder
And wiped away tears
That left blackened smears
And turned round and hugged one anudder.

And when she had finished, the country arose
And gave her a standing ovation.
Touched to the heart by such eloquent prose,
They called her the soul of the nation.
Then every Patricia and Pauline and Percy
From Rathlin to Rosslare, from Derry to Dursey,
From Fair Head to Farranfore and vicey-versey
Clasped hold of their mother, at pains to let her see
How sorry they were
That they had dissed her
And begged her forgiveness and mercy.

The words of a prophet hang long in the air,
Affecting each person that hears them.
And many who listened to Kate’s earnest prayer
Now honour the parent that rears them.
Psychologists ruminate ‘pon what befell them.
They all remain quiet, no need to compel them,
They’re so well-behaved that there’s no need to quell them
For myths just exist for great minds to dispel them
And the organs of state
Are grateful to Kate
For the message she opted to tell them.

The summer of our lives

And though the embers of July
But twinkle faintly in the grate,
Dwell not upon fine days gone by,
Nor dreams that brushed the iron gate,
And do not fear chill winds are nigh
And stormy tempests lie in wait,
Because the sun in wave-lapped sky
Tacks tiredly through a rougher strait.

For though the river heaves a sigh,
No longer gushing in full spate,
‘Tis certain it does not run dry,
But rather swells with mounting weight.
And listen well to those on high,
Who scan the skies from lofty crate –
‘Tis far too soon for human eye
To spot the ocean’s vast estate.

To August now, let winged thoughts fly,
To golden sands that lie sedate,
And lazy gulls that swoop and cry
And dare to mock the tread of fate,
And blazing towels on which to lie
And pause for breath, rejuvenate,
Before autumnal gusts apply
A twinge or two to summer’s gait.

To the Horribly Scarred Woman

As you dropped thirteen floors,
You didn’t even pause
To look up from regarding your nails.
On the Aerosmith ride
You just sat back and sighed
As the ‘coaster shot off down the rails.
The log flumes went crashing
And tumbling and splashing
But I don’t think you once raised your guard.
But you ran out of luck
And came badly unstuck
When a drain left you horribly scarred.

‘Twas a warm April night
By the moon’s lucent light,
As we strolled back towards the hotel.
The crickets were chirping
And Emmet was burping,
And the world and its daughter were well.
A small step from the street
Was too much for your feet
On that late-night I-Drive promenade,
As your sandal careered
And so quick disappeared
And you ended up horribly scarred.

The lengthy red weal
Didn’t hurry to heal,
The scabs took forever to form,
And you hobbled around
With a stick to the ground,
Like a wasp that’s displeased with the swarm.
For the house was all messed,
But your leg needed rest,
Which, for you, was especially hard,
But despite all your snarling,
I still love you darling,
Although you’re quite horribly scarred.