Child’s Day

No tears on waking,

one to keep

from words of love still running deep,

Two or more shall still be shed 

upon this day and those ahead

for mum-shaped love departed.

Daughter still,

though only name,

when both have gone, it’s not the same

Love shaped, parent-hearted.

I’ll never be an adult till

I forget, don’t miss them still,

Child-shaped, broken-hearted.

A rose or two I’ll lay today,

My children with me as I say

Goodbye, again,

Love and miss you always,

tears now started.

Funny how

the years betray

the child inside us, come what may,

 Children all, though parted.

Some tears I’ll spread for kids around,

some for others lost but bound

to heaven’s home where still they be

parents always to childlike me.

As children, how we started.

Today is Mother’s Day in the UK. To all children and parents, children still, for the love you have and give, be blessed.


More Than Mere Words

Are you ok?

Are you well?

I need to know these things.

When I care, I care.

I can’t make that go away.

Are you thriving?

Are you happy?

Do you need someone?

Is life blessing your days?

Is there a way I can help?

Just say.

Love is what it is.

And spreads.

Be well.

Be blessed by love.

Don’t be afraid.

Or alone.

How are you?

More than mere words.


More than enough occasions of failure to whistle a tune when it calls, but

Enough understanding that when it rolls round again,

I know I’ll rise up after the fall.


Too much experience with sadness and grief when it comes to pass

But enough to know that time heals like the cliché.

Unending grief does not last.


Too many times of depression to wish it on anyone, even a foe,

The dearth of hope and gladness of feelings

Leaves you with nowhere to go


But spiralling down to a sunken abyss where creatures of night fill the dark

And reason and joy depart for some time

While you wait for the song of the lark.


Nothing in life is unchanging and that’s the way it should be.

No stagnating pond where fish circle endlessly round,

That’s never a life for me


Or others that feel the persuasion, the prompting of spiritual fire,

There’s only one way, the direction is up

Soaring ever higher and higher.


That’s just the way it is with some, optimists I believe they are termed.

Nothing in life completely fazes us,

No matter how many times we are warned.


It’s a testament to either stupidity or an eternal longing for hope,

It’s viewed by some as unreality

And by others as somewhat of a joke.


But it’s a damn sight better than moaning and groaning for what lies way behind.

I’d rather be looking to stars and bright linings

Than staring blankly around.


It may be that others are doubtful at intelligence married with mirth

But there’s nothing to be done with nature’s benevolence,

That’s the way I’ve been since my birth.


If all of the world was a reality or pessimistic fuelled by the dire

And nothing of hope filled visions ahead

I’d jump straight down to the fire


Of hellish depression with no end in sight, just a yawning cavern of dark,

Nothing would make a semblance of sense.

No, I’ll hang right onto my spark.

One Single Tear

one single tear escapes and wends

its way slowly down from eye to cheek,

to wake in night unknowing what

has made me weep

one single tear

yet despair and grief are cloistered in,

suffusing, spreading still from soul out

to my pen.

one single tear wiped so easily,

no more to follow suit, but wonderment

that all I feel shed only

one single tear.



Words of comfort,


Before beginning

Or ending.


Deepest thoughts

And heart’s belief.



Loss so great.

No time

To repent


And actions.


To grief.



Not later

Or tomorrow.

Time slips




To this thief.


Pubescent and angst-filled; a bad combination,

Invariably, ending in tears.

I still cry, though, I’ve not been pubescent,

For quite a number of years.


There are other reasons I find for crying,

Like a movie called, ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’.

And then there are tears of a mother,

And, sometimes, those of a wife.


They’re healing, cathartic and pleasant,

When the emotions just overflow.

Without the use of lachrymal gland,

My feelings wouldn’t know where to go.


I’d bottle them up and stop it with cork,

Start another, till I had a great load.

Then, one day, like champagne just popped,

I know that they would explode.


Now, some men don’t cry very often,

I’m sure there are women as well,

But, I can’t stop it, when something I see,

Causes my heart to swell.


It’s like someone has squeezed it, when my heart has been filled,

And massaged it to ensure that it feels,

And when, least expected, sometimes embarrassing

Moments, it bursts and empties the well.


I don’t cry to be maudlin or depressive.

In fact – and this feels a bit sappy-

I’m much more inclined to fill up inside

When I feel blessed and just so damn happy.


They’re salty and quite full of flavour,

I’ve tested this on my lip.

Tongue tipped to lip as tears flow down my face,

Reaching my mouth drop by drip.


One of my kids is like this,

And, sometimes chooses to see

‘Titanic’, or some other movie

That turns the tears on like sea.


Is this a familial trait? I don’t think,

‘Cos the rest are not thus inclined.

In fact, my eldest just laughs at the habit

And thinks we’re both out of our minds.


She laughed at ‘Les Mis’ and thought it ok;

‘Could have been shorter without all those songs’.

Meanwhile, the crying daughter and I,

Snuffled the whole film long.


The fountain of tears can be blessing

Or, curse, if for something that’s sad,

But I find it relief to expel happiness and grief

In tears. So what? My bad!

The Business of Dying

As I explore the fabulous blogs that are out there, in this site, I am amazed at the wide variation of themes. I also note recurring themes and it seems that the human experience is meant to be shared. In doing so, laughter, enlightenment, education, wit, beauty and so much more are made available to all readers. I would like to think that we all have something to share. And so far, my experience of this site, reassures me that this is the case. I have found myself laughing fit to burst (Harsh Reality, Opinionated Man), moved (Geo Sans), entranced (PICZLoad), enlightened and amused (Marian The Seminarian) and well, pretty much every range of emotion as I gaily follow so many impressive people. I’ve only been on here a few days and I’ve hardly been off it. I can’t stop reading. (Not doing much for the writing).

I said in my Blog that I would date any entries that are ‘old’ writing. This is one of them. It’s still close to my heart. And I know, from speaking to others since my Mum’s death, that the experience is universal and also unique.


The business of dying is more difficult than the business of living. No matter how busy or arduous your life nothing surely can compare to how hard it is to go through the process of diminishing unto death. Getting up early, organising family, food, chores et al can all be done with some effort. Being unable, gradually or suddenly, to do anything for oneself is frustrating, humiliating, overwhelming.

How can one cope with the loss of all independence? How does one resign oneself to decreasing ability, mobility, choice?

My mum is dying and it’s not easy for anyone. We watch and tend and listen, trying to comfort, minister, alleviate.

Mum, though, does not understand why. Why does she have leukaemia? Why does she feel so tired? Why does she have to go for transfusions? Why does she have a catheter? Why do these nurses and carers have to be coming in? Rationally and in conversation she understands. These things can be explained – she is not without her mental faculties. But inside her heart she does not understand why. It’s as if death should come and take her by surprise. Instead, it is creeping through her body, insinuating itself slowly and mercilessly. She cannot let go to life – she is, after all, still alive. The desire to remain so is strong and inbuilt. But she is tired. Tired to the bone and tired of feeling the way she does. If death has to come she wants to go to sleep and be taken by it. Staying awake and being aware of its insidious progress is tortuous for her. She knows it is happening deep down – deep down in the marrow of her bones and deep down within herself.

Acknowledging the onset of death – the end of life – the departure from loved ones – I don’t know how anyone deals with this. Nothing in real experience has taught me how it would be. It is all foreign ground – to me and to my family.

The movie experience of dying is written from someone else’s experience or imagination and it is no help to the individuals involved in our own drama.

Mum is suffering, surely. But it is not physical pain for which there is pain relief. Her torment is an earth – bound purgatory, neither living nor dead.