Today's poet

Quote:

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Originally Posted by merrylegs

46 is too young, me and you are 46 this year, but we ain't going anywhere, too much to attempt yet;)

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I'll drink to that! See you soon my friend :)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hes

I like this too Merry...some great sentiments.

It will be six years in February since my dad died and I read this at his funeral because he was not religious and had an unorthodox approach to most things. Your poem and this one seem to make a good pair.

If I should go before the rest of you,
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone
Nor when I'm gone speak in a Sunday voice.
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must
Parting is hell
But life goes on
So sing as well.

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Like that Hes, sounds like something my Dad would say, he was not religious but believed in walking a straight line through life, treating everyone with respect and sticking to things no matter how hard they got, if he wasn't my dad, i'd have still loved him. Reading at funerals is hard but i've been to many where the vicar reads a speech about a person he never knew, glad i read at my dad's;)

Press on son, press on,
I never taught you to give up,
Or feel sorry for yourself

Quote:

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Originally Posted by merrylegs

Like that Hes, sounds like something my Dad would say, he was not religious but believed in walking a straight line through life, treating everyone with respect and sticking to things no matter how hard they got, if he wasn't my dad, i'd have still loved him. Reading at funerals is hard but i've been to many where the vicar reads a speech about a person he never knew, glad i read at my dad's;)

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Your Dad sounds brilliant Merry. I loved mine to bits but he was a prickly character and it took me years to get him to be affectionate and open up. Was just getting somewhere and he died! I have two sisters and we took over the funeral and did it ourselves. Hard but much better than a stuffy vicar and nicer for my mum.

when I have felt lost
I run in search of myself
and find an old friend

I'm off to bed. Night all!

Evening all

I have read with interest all of the comments made about fathers tonight...my father died around 14 years ago when I was in my early twenties...he was a benign sort of fellow who I was not that particularly close to but would have liked the opportunity to get to know more as an adult...i think that would have been possible...

The first poem I ever wrote was about my father, I was in too minds about whether to put it up, but here goes...I found writing it a very emotional experience and it revealed to me the complex feelings that I had toward him...so for some it might be a difficult read...here goes...

My father, my father who are you?

Were you the tired, “old”,
broken man
who collapsed in “dad’s chair”
after a long day at work,
too tired for hugs,
too sad for conversation,
your true friend a bottle of Broon?

Were you the farting, drunken slob
who would always be late for Sunday lunch?
Making mam irritable,
breathing your alcohol breath over my little face
and saying “giz a kiss”?
Waking in the night to have the world’s longest piss.

Were you the loveable joker, “stealing” my nose for fun
or finding a coin behind my ear and calling me your blue eyes?
Us walking to the shop together,
you to get your beer and a treat of choccie for your little girl.

Were you your mammy’s blue eyed boy who could do no wrong?
Were you the frustrated artist whose eye for detail
constructed beautiful stain glass windows for a living
in some sort of concession, a resignation to the mundane,
to responsibility and deadness.

Were you the lonely twelve year old,
sitting upstairs in the public house with your dog Shep
(the name in fact of every dog you ever had),
lost in your isolation
while your parents ran the bar below
and paid off the POLICE.

Were you the eight year old who was evacuated
to an unfamiliar place, who was neglected
and whose baby sister died at the age of five,
who blamed himself somehow,
who was scared beyond words.

Were you the father, my father
who showed his tenderness in “good night, god bless”
and tucked me in with a sad ache in his huge eyes?

Were you the father who could not connect
with your own daughter for to do so
was to remember a loss too difficult to bear?

Were you the five stone skeletal shell,
ravaged by cancer, with a look of fear and dread upon you?
Then it was my turn to be scared and to not connect...

You, my father were all these things...I think...and I miss you.

I was just switching off but had to log back in after reading your poem to your father Freckle. It is brilliant. I found it deeply moving and am really glad that you posted it. Thank you. Now I really am going to bed. x

Letter to my Boys.


Don't cry, Don't cry my dear sweet boys,
Remember Daddy when we played with your toys,
When your back at home pretend i'm chasing you round the floor,
Laugh at the times i fell asleep and started to snore.

The days on the beach and games and fun,
Bounding about jumping on mum,
A million memories of magic and love left behind,
I know that one day you'll men brave and kind.

Remember although you can't see me now everyday,
I will stand by your sides and with my hand guide your way,
You both mean so much to me that is so true,
Believe me i will always watch over and love you.


By Matt Harmston.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by freckle

Evening all

I have read with interest all of the comments made about fathers tonight...my father died around 14 years ago when I was in my early twenties...he was a benign sort of fellow who I was not that particularly close to but would have liked the opportunity to get to know more as an adult...i think that would have been possible...

The first poem I ever wrote was about my father, I was in too minds about whether to put it up, but here goes...I found writing it a very emotional experience and it revealed to me the complex feelings that I had toward him...so for some it might be a difficult read...here goes...

My father, my father who are you?

Were you the tired, “old”,
broken man
who collapsed in “dad’s chair”
after a long day at work,
too tired for hugs,
too sad for conversation,
your true friend a bottle of Broon?

Were you the farting, drunken slob
who would always be late for Sunday lunch?
Making mam irritable,
breathing your alcohol breath over my little face
and saying “giz a kiss”?
Waking in the night to have the world’s longest piss.

Were you the loveable joker, “stealing” my nose for fun
or finding a coin behind my ear and calling me your blue eyes?
Us walking to the shop together,
you to get your beer and a treat of choccie for your little girl.

Were you your mammy’s blue eyed boy who could do no wrong?
Were you the frustrated artist whose eye for detail
constructed beautiful stain glass windows for a living
in some sort of concession, a resignation to the mundane,
to responsibility and deadness.

Were you the lonely twelve year old,
sitting upstairs in the public house with your dog Shep
(the name in fact of every dog you ever had),
lost in your isolation
while your parents ran the bar below
and paid off the POLICE.

Were you the eight year old who was evacuated
to an unfamiliar place, who was neglected
and whose baby sister died at the age of five,
who blamed himself somehow,
who was scared beyond words.

Were you the father, my father
who showed his tenderness in “good night, god bless”
and tucked me in with a sad ache in his huge eyes?

Were you the father who could not connect
with your own daughter for to do so
was to remember a loss too difficult to bear?

Were you the five stone skeletal shell,
ravaged by cancer, with a look of fear and dread upon you?
Then it was my turn to be scared and to not connect...

You, my father were all these things...I think...and I miss you.

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Brave to share that Freckle, very emotional and honest, i salute you.

That was unbelievable Freckle made me cry.