You walked on your hands
across the floor, up on a chair,
along the dining table
and down at the other end.
And you could whistle
and play a comb and tissue
just like a mouth organ.
You called me Mary Rose,
my Dad’s name for me.
You were his youngest brother.
At 70, grey-bearded,
you rode a motorbike.
90 this year, you requested a party
'small but memorable'.
[Poem #31]
This began as a game some bloggers played in 2008, to write about people who'd made an impact, in the same number of words as one's age, every day for a year. I did them less often and went on longer, adding one word each birthday. I stopped in 2016 and incorporated them into my main poetry blog. In 2019 I resumed the project and gave it its own blog again, with a new name, where it may unfold at its own (slow, intermittent, lapsing and resuming) pace. I've labelled these verse portraits, but they're more like quick sketches: mere glimpses, impressions....
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