Alan Rickman – some wise words

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A sad loss to the creative world.

G R Jordan author, poet, and top Dad apparently!

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National Poetry Day

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It’s National poetry day so here’s one I made earlier in celebration. It’s from my poetry book “Four Life Emotions” and a wee favourite of mine. It tells of the relationship between my mum and my grandmother when the former was visiting the latter in a nursing home after the onset of Parkinson’s Disease. Sometimes life just flips on it’s head and we’re never truly ready for it.

My Child

She is my child.

She lies head caressed to my bosom, a babe in arms,
Seeking security of my presence.

She is my child.

I cut her food and instruct her on how to eat,
To take the joy of her new life.

She is my child.

She relies on me for the basic human functions,
Assisting her with her mistakes.

She is my child.

I hold her as she walks with unsure balance and direction
But with persistent agitation.

She is my child.

I am close to her and she to me,
For she said I’ll miss her.

She is my child.

She was my mother.

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G R Jordan author, poet, and top Dad apparently!

Changing of a Bed

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When my 4 year old recently kicked me in the head whilst lying in my bed, I got to thinking about how the place where we sleep changes through the years. As so often, this generated the guts of a poem and the following ensued. Usually these rough starts are where my poetry comes from.

Bed

From encompassing arms, I was laid into a flat bed
Bars that protected my roaming urge, left me void of the caress
That would be obtained when I later wandered
Across the landing to reach the space between
My mother and father, disturbing their peace.

A larger bed left me wondering when,
My legs would grow to touch the air beyond the duvet
Which had to be thrown in moments of heat,
Attacked with a vengeance by arms too small,
To control such obstacles to receiving a cuddle.

As testosterone raged and limbs expanded,
I treasured the space that truly was mine
To control and decorate, to relax on and linger
Surveying the posters of dreams that fought
To lay an impression on the journey’s start.

Then in different rooms, I took refuge in beds,
That were not my own but hired for a time.
Homeless but happy, breaking new grounds abroad.
An abode so petite, so cramped and basic
But owned periodically to give it some worth.

Then the bed grew, doubled in size,
To allow for manoeuvre of multiple occupants
Who fumbled and loved, learnt new emotions.
For some the tenants changed but I grew fortunate
In keeping the lodger within the house walls.

Feet in my head, an occupying force,
Takes ground in my bed, with the cutest attack
Which left this dreamer awake most nights.
So strong the attack that more followed on
And all hopes of ownership went off to the wall.

Then she spent longer in that slumbering bastion
Before they suggested a different abode.
But she troubled them not long, never lingered,
And she made her way to a different home,
Parting with tears and eyes ever so tired.

Too much room in this bed nowadays
And no flesh to tell me my feet are cold.
A room that was filled with noise and laughter,
Passions fulfilled and children rampaging
Has become a tomb with orthopaedic pillows.

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G R Jordan author, poet, and top Dad apparently!