Mum is in her cups again,
Afraid to say, & then
she might just be a tad
apoplectic,
or is it diabetic?
Mum is acting up again,
but this time in a wheel chair.
She has gone again & died her curly hair,
into the weirdest shade of yellow
this side of the Mersey.
Mum is in her cups maybe,
or maybe she is not,
& it is I who am hallucinating
or discombobulating
while the crazy cat lady
who is my girl friend pounds the deck
upstairs in our house boat,
cleaning up, always cleaning up after
those damn cats.
Mum is far away,
but all that I now have to say
is "Ma, ye git wha' ye deserve,
for all the beatinz ya gave me;"
and I say a bit more gently to my Pa
"Hey, Dad, why don't you let Ma have a phone?"
(I'd wish to her he'd throw a bone!)
So while we wait,
& while my ass-ets do depreciate,
my trucking brother tells me on his phone
(he finally got a cellie, that crazy Luddite!)
"Sis tells me the nurses called the social workers
on Dad 'cos 'ee was leavin' Kelly --our other sister)
Alone.
Home alone.
Yeh, youse heard me right.
Come on Da, won't you throw the Beach a bone?
I love yez, Ma, but yer soon to be a goner!
On the more serious side,
if you'll allow a bit of a ride
with imagination's or poetic license inspiration,
I would have to say, it's been an educational experience,
or maybe a transcendental trip, a real effin' journey
into the minds of our dear not yet departed relatives,
lee speaking... from the winds of troubled times,
from being out on a limb, or rather being torn from limb
to bloody limb toward a limbo you won't want to ever know...
But I digress,
& should undress,
for it is late,
is late,
is late & the biological clock
keeps a tick-tick-ticking
toward who knows what might-deserved fate
awaits me.
Good night, dear friends, o parting was such sweet sorrow
that I'll have to meet again with ye tomorrow
at the Court Jester's & Scummy Moat Pub.
Author notes
Written after having written another bloody poem after a spat wi'the auld biddy who'se my s.o. 4 beddah or for worse. A curse?
To be more honest, if I might now that I ahve come down from my anger's high, I will admit my mother HAS had a stroke, and IS in a wheel chair. However, she IS GETTING BETTER, thank the Lord! (J.C. not Krisna this time)... Please pray for her. Thanks.
Oh, & I wish the best for that relative of yours, sir.
In a list
A contest entry
- CONTEST: All about strokes. by Barry Hodges.
300 points, ended February 11, 2008, 5 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Sorry, the system is acting up again. If you have a complaint, please tell it to Kevin.
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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****ing weird. Odd mis-spellings add to the weirdness. I once met someone from Liverpool. It was a very nasty experience.
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Very interesting. I like your language, it had an interesting affect on the poem - how you used your words. Every line flowed so well... Into the next, and the whole poem just left me thinking.
I like when poems do that to me
Wonderful write you have here
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Thank you and a happy Monday to you, dear Perception
Hello, dear reader; thank you kindly for your gentle words.
John Tarik Black Jack Walker
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Your Majesty..lol,
You have been soo-o added to my most precious, most envious favorites list...deal with it..
I can figure out exactly what this means, even if others don't...scary, huh?
I pray your Mum gets better..love her..she's your Mum..
Peace,
Jin
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Thank thee dear Jin, & bless thee
Ah feel it an honour to us that you do say your kind words and share your attentions with us, and we shall be more than pleased, even honoured, to give thy poetry or stories a wee gander.
Thank thee too, for thy prayers. Ah hope thou art well and live long in all thy fullness.
Peace,
John Tarik "Blackjack" Walker
McHenry, Illinois
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I like the colloquial language here and the storytelling style of family life. Very down to earth with a touch of humour too!
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Thank you, Westley.
I thank thee and wish thee well too. We of the Illnois Walker family do ask of the Lord for thee our blessings and wishes we semd off for a full life and safe partying.
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