My maternal grandparents.
With a brewery in the cellar,
You'd have thought that he'd have been
A drinking sort of fellow:
But, he was never tempted
To partake
In spite of being surrounded
By a lake
Of invitation
That, being free,
Would have been too much for most
To see
Without diving in
And willingly drowning
In a frenzy
Of downing.
He touched
Not a drop
Of the barley
And the hop,
And his wife,
Brought up surrounded by stupor,
Thought how lucky she was
To be one of the few poor
Who did not have to suffer
The beatings and the breath,
That made others
Wish for sinful death.
Then, at his age 26,
Their eighteen-month-old daughter died.
This started the deluge
That never dried.
The river of salt,
He found, could be diluted;
The intoxication
Made the pain muted.
At 56,
Riddled with 30 years
Of 16-pints-a-night
Of mood-lightening beers,
His doctor told him
That he would die
If he didn't stop:
He decided to try
And, for a year,
Drank milk and gave up cigarettes.
He soberly had time
To ponder his regrets
And, about time,
Gave to his wife
His full attention,
A deserving life.
After 12 months,
The doctor told him
That the damage had not been corrected;
The bell tolled him.
No point
In staying given up:
He rejoined,
The land of the sup.
At 58,
He was granted relief:
He passed on, and passed on
Double the grief.
13:06, Tue. 13/02/2007.
Poetry by Mark J. Wood
Read 991 times
Written on 2007-02-28 at 14:17
Tags Grief
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He Took It Badly – As If She Didn't
Born in a public house,With a brewery in the cellar,
You'd have thought that he'd have been
A drinking sort of fellow:
But, he was never tempted
To partake
In spite of being surrounded
By a lake
Of invitation
That, being free,
Would have been too much for most
To see
Without diving in
And willingly drowning
In a frenzy
Of downing.
He touched
Not a drop
Of the barley
And the hop,
And his wife,
Brought up surrounded by stupor,
Thought how lucky she was
To be one of the few poor
Who did not have to suffer
The beatings and the breath,
That made others
Wish for sinful death.
Then, at his age 26,
Their eighteen-month-old daughter died.
This started the deluge
That never dried.
The river of salt,
He found, could be diluted;
The intoxication
Made the pain muted.
At 56,
Riddled with 30 years
Of 16-pints-a-night
Of mood-lightening beers,
His doctor told him
That he would die
If he didn't stop:
He decided to try
And, for a year,
Drank milk and gave up cigarettes.
He soberly had time
To ponder his regrets
And, about time,
Gave to his wife
His full attention,
A deserving life.
After 12 months,
The doctor told him
That the damage had not been corrected;
The bell tolled him.
No point
In staying given up:
He rejoined,
The land of the sup.
At 58,
He was granted relief:
He passed on, and passed on
Double the grief.
13:06, Tue. 13/02/2007.
Poetry by Mark J. Wood
Read 991 times
Written on 2007-02-28 at 14:17
Tags Grief
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
la tristesse |
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