My Late Adopted Brother

Bulky, deep-voiced, bushy-bearded,

smoker (both kinds) 

acquainted with drink.

How could he be an angel? 

Thus: 
           deep down 

a gentle, gentle soul

(words of a mourner

on facebook); the kindest, 

sensitive, most creative … 

deepest feelings (another);

his musical gift; and the way

he always had my back.

I like to think of him

pleasantly surprised,

finding himself there;

can well imagine he’d choose

to stay now, not come back

for another turn on the wheel.

Adios, Bro!



[Poem #106]

I'm sharing this one at the latest Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads', and at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #485.

My Dad

Grew roses,

strawberries,

ferns and bamboo.

Made wooden dolls

from round-topped clothes-pegs,

drawing faces on.

Sketched for me

water-colour flowers; I remember

pink heath’s delicate bells.

When I had nightmares

sat with me into dawn,

telling stories.

At parties, played

comb-and-tissue

mouth organ;

declaimed with gestures

‘Abdul the Bulbul Emir’

or some Rabbie Burns.

On every family birthday
made an acrostic poem,

the person’s name down the side.

Laughed

sang

danced.



[Poem #105]

Cross-posted from my poetry blog, The Passionate Crone, from whence it is linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #309

David at 20

My son David —

slim and golden, beautiful —

looks good in all his clothes now,

and is more adventurous with them.

The red T-shirt lightens him up.

He smiles and talks to me

more than he used to.

He seems very happy lately,

confident and free;

even laughs at my jokes.

He has been growing muscle

working as a builder's labourer

(holiday job) for his dad

in Tasmania, at the caravan park.



[Poem #104]

Found poem from old journal entry 14/1/87