Category: Relatives

Pricelessness at 90

It's 32,805
The number of days you have now been alive
4,680 in weeks
You're listed among the world's priceless antiques
No way could the auctioneer’s gavel come down
For even the wealthiest bidder in town
I'd place a reserve of infinity plus
And wrap you and take you back home on the bus
You didn't arrive where you got to today
By giving your favourite belongings away
It’s kinder to share your opinions around
Instructions and lessons for free not one pound
Be careful don't burn yourself do not get lost
And why are you foolish and what did that cost
Collected and catalogued in your wee head
Is everything everyone's done or has said
Sound judgements pronounced no appeals 
This one's true
Most 90 year olds are just nothing like you

A mother's words are hard to price
Admonishments and wise advice
I learned at last that listening pays
It took me 20,000 days

Mixed Observation Ward – poem 33

 I flew back from England to see my poor mum
 In fear of sad words and last parting
 She was crying with laughter and glad that I'd come
 That man over there can't stop farting
 She whispered a nurse put a pipe in his bum
 Her hospital fun was just starting
 Despite her low numbers she didn't succumb
 It wasn’t her mood they were charting 

 She wasn’t expecting to hear a guitar
 Just behind the thin fabric partition
 Is it angels in there it depends how they are
 Most patients just need the musician
 Two verses of Edelweiss small repertoire
 Enough is enough repetition
 Mum's band with maracas was better by far
 Do they not have some kind of physician

 Last night when I came she was grumbling away
 I listened to what was the matter
 She’d like a cream tea a nice cloth on a tray 
 And six kinds of cake on a platter
 The chef sends her gruel both lumpy and grey
 She’s getting too hungry to chatter
 So we’re home to do dumplings and doughnuts all day
 Sink our fangs in meringues and get fatter

Celebrate

I’m 88 you know
You’re not!
You’ve got such lovely skin
I feed my face with goodies
From my Tunnock’s Teacakes tin.
I ran the Mothers’ Union
What, good works and scones and God?
That’s right and He and I agree
That everyone is odd
They make my days go all to pot
These people always late
I greet them with my boxing glove
And say I’m 88
Excuses are a lot of rot
You have to be prepared
Those 4 year olds I taught at school
Behaved because I cared
In Limavady Ballygrot
Ralloo and Drumahoe
A thousand former pupils say
She’s 88 you know
And never even once forgot
A face their place their name
Now hers is great great auntie
And her memory’s still the same
All details since the year of dot
All juicy breaking news
All stories wise and wonderful
With worldly overviews
I listened cuddled in my cot
We listen to each other
I’ve learned so much but mainly this
She’s 88, my mother