I have been writing about my parents recently. I do not know why, there are no anniversaries immanent. Sometimes one thought just leads to another. It can be that simple.
my father marooned in his house
lung wrecked in the wing back chair
his focus on the procession of his breath
the inhale silent
the exhale a brief whisper
he rewatches the programmes
he did not like the first time round
there is a certain safety in knowing what comes next
until the wiring in his head begins to short circuit
leaves him sleeping an assisted sleep
until it is time to shake his body off
he kicks off from the side
pushes out into the deep
My father had emphysema, it dictated his final years, but did not kill him. He died of a number of mini-strokes. I miss him. This poem is about his end days.
I am not happy with the layout. It looks cluttered, perhaps it reflects life? This is definitely a work in progress. I suppose setting myself the task of posting a poem a week means there are going to be times when I am not happy with the draft. So watch this space.
Hurray For The Riff Raff has a new album out. I am eagerly awaiting the posty to deliver my copy. Here's Pierced Arrows.
Until next time.
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