I just found this, written after my father had a heart attack in January of this year, I must have thought this rubbish at the time, it probably is but what the hell :-)


Trial

The plumbing makes
a hell of a racket,
it bursts out
in either scorching heat,
or thumps a beat
in time, I am sure
to an ancient family ghoul.

Rory and I meet for breakfast,
not our usual fayre, but
this is Oxford, England,
and we are staying in a
bed and breakfast
close to the John Radcliffe.

Its been nearly 30 years,
it hasn't changed much,
I was a student here
cycling like mad,
spending too much time
in a nightclub called Boodles,
and wearing a scarlet gown
to the May ball.

I always found the food
indigestible, even then,
I was brought up
on le petit dejeuner
and the sunny slopes
where my grandfather lived,
I liked café au lait then
or chocolat from urns.


I drink my coffee black now
and I don't think I have had
chocolat for years,
I would make it for the boys,
teaching them how to dip
a brioche without it getting
soggy and collapsing.

I am pleasantly charmed though,
the room I am in, is eclectically
drawn together, and the shower
is more than functional,
although the towels
are distressingly
designed not to wrap.

Rory and I discover the delights
of a cheap pub at dinner,
he has always eaten well,
as long as it contains
all the food groups
he is happy.

During the day we haunt
wards, and cafeterias,
I read the papers
on my fathers bed.
There is one chair,
an armchair which he sits in
wired up, sadly not for sound,
Rory takes the only other chair.

There is a man next door
who came from Pennsylvania,
he came over during
the sixties with the airforce,
met a girl from Banbury,
stayed here ever since,
he engages in chatter,
and visits all the inmates,
a nice guy.

Its January and the weather
is pretty cold and damp,
I acquired blisters
from the boots I had
just acquired and I don't
sleep well.
My room is too hot
and to leave the window open
I am drowned by sound.

We eat breakfast in a
wood panelled room
pictures on the wall
depicting times,
before our time,
or my time;
suburban Britain
full of phlegm
and fortitude.

I preferred my study days
in Paris, where we
went to lousy jazz clubs,
I had long lace mittens,
black nails,
and perfected that
starved look,
it served me well







Haiku by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 740 times
star mini Editors' choice
Written on 2013-08-31 at 17:41

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Wonderful writing which made me be there with u...and that is always good...when I can become the author thro' their words or join them on the journey then I am hooked
I am not surprised this is Editor's choice ...it is truly a lovely piece of work which I will continue to read:)
cxx
2013-09-21


StillHoppin The PoetBay support member heart!
The way you focus on the details as opposed to the emotion experienced serves to highlight the emotion. It is my experience that in grief, we are struck more often by the details than by any other thing - the sprouting thread from a garment, the absurdity of certain customs (or towels which don't quite wrap), the things which surround us (perhaps because such overwhelming emotions are too much to deal with, and these "trivial" subjects which lend themselves to the detached feeling we often experience, are not)... my 2 cents (you can get a refund if you don't like them ;). I found this to be incredibly descriptive, authentic in voice, and beautifully written. ~
2013-09-04


countryfog
I find something intriguing about your writing - paradoxical is not the right word - how you are intensely present in your poems, aware of every detail and also every nuance, but in that explicitness is also reflection and subtlety, a kind of suasion by which we are drawn in to experience the moment as your place in it and it in you. Despite all that you reveal I suspect that there is much more that you leave unsaid, that to know you would be to often encounter a deeper mystery.
2013-09-01


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Another fine poem describing a sequence of daily events and thoughts, almost a diary entry. I especially liked the first and the last two stanzas.
2013-09-01


Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
This text has been chosen to be featured on the home page of PoetBay. Thank you for posting it on our poetry website.
2013-09-01


shells
A lovely "story" read, you portray the displacement that illness brings on both the visited and the visitor so well and I love the opening heartbeat of the plumbing.
2013-09-01



I googled the John Radcliff to have some idea of where you were. Glass and sleek/slick modern amid the nearly ancient stonework and towers and nooks and passages of Oxford.

This is compelling and one of my favorite poems of yours. The last line gave me pause . . . Goth?
2013-08-31


ken d williams The PoetBay support member heart!
A treshure , to have such a good poem.
Ken
2013-08-31