I make a mistake

This poem is being awoken that causes a fright
This poem is hearing crying on a starlit night
This poem is a nudge in the back by my wife
This poem's about my turn to tend to the love of my life

So up and off to our sweet daughter's pink crib I go
So pick her up, tears vanish as a kiss I bestow
So a sweet smile comes on her now beaming face
So I smile too as she now looks around the whole place

We go off to the kitchen to warm some milk for her
We see a bottle of beer in there but I must demur
We warm up the milk in saucepan but make a mess
We put it in a bottle she drinks I give her a caress

I make a mistake by taking her in our room
I see at once that her face is now all abloom
I see that my dear wife is shaking her sweet head
I know now that I have to find another bed 

Image found at https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/252201647869405238/

I sensed a movement

I sensed a movement in the bed
The time had come few words were said
I phoned the midwife as arranged
She quizzed me on what things had changed

T'was her day off but she still came
To be with mothers was her claim
She knew her job, she was a boon
Lucky us, bub would be there soon

I was put to all sorts of work
To keep me from going berserk
As push and shove went on and on
Do this, hold that, the time soon gone

With an arm wrapped around my wife
A little cry signalled new life
Baby came with tears all round
Midwife more jobs for me then found

Take this, do that and lots more
My heart was beating now full score
At last I was allowed back in 
Weeping tears at her weighing in

That was so many years ago
Three kids have their own babes now
I still recall this midwife's aid 
When this new dad made the grade

Image found at www.bbc.com

Yes, this is a true story of my job as a husband, father and midwife's aide at home back in 1962

The proposal

I looked at you
You looked at me
Considreing
The grave consequences
Of this our love

With firm resolve
I said those words
Contemplating 
The heated discussion
with your father

You smiled at me
And you said yes
Deliberating
What he'd say when he found
You're up the duff

Despite the stress
His jarring voice
And irritable look
He laughed it off with an
Infectious grin

Image found at www.cosmopolitan.com

Love entwined

I've lost my identity
I'm no longer who I was
Just where has that boy gone?

Just where is that little lad?
Wading through the cold water
Catching fish in a stream

Who shyly turned in the class?
To look at the girl in pink
Who pokes her tongue at me

Then hold hands much later
At the flicks right at the back
To grab a kiss unseen

Who nervously walked the aisle
To wed a beautiful bride
Eyes so blind but for her

Just where is that young father?
Who cried at his children's birth
And felt himself made whole

Then went around the wide world
To find them a better life
Working in the sun's heat

Who saw all the kids leave home?
Fulfilling their hopes and dreams
As love entwined them all

What is his identity?
Now that the years have rolled by
Children he's your father

Image found at www.dadsguideonline.co.uk

Raising the flag

                                                   
I migrated to Australia way back in 1966 from England and my family settled well in our chosen country.

When my father retired they thought they would join us to keep close ties with their grandchildren and in those days of high employment they found a job being guides in an historic house of the pioneer Captain Charles Sturt who explored the one great river system in Australia the Murray-Darling basin.

They lived on site and this allowed them to explore possible places to buy a place of their own without any pressure as they now had their accommodation provided.

They both enjoyed the work and meeting people however there was one job my father had to perform there which caused him much heartache.

Each morning when the pioneer's house and museum was opened for public viewing his job was to raise the Australian flag on the flagpole in the car park.

He never did quite get used to raising this standard of the country in which he had not been born so soon after arriving as it seemed he was denying his birthright.

Images found at www.charlessturtmuseum.com.au

Yes, this is a true story.

Childhood passes

Fathers love it when their babes are boys
For now you can play with them and their toys
Race their model cars up and down the hall
And then to teach them how to catch a ball

But it is so different with little girls
When you see in them their mothers curls
They're so precious as they sleep in your arms
As you protect them from all life's harms

You kick a football and play with dolls too
And get splashed at sea cos that's what kids do
Then you worry when they are so sick in bed
And thank God for all the prayers you've said

What pride you feel when your son grows up tall
But anguish when your girl for a boy does fall
How their childhood passes so very fast
And how much you want to recall the past

But despite the sadness as they leave home
They soon come back with kiddies of their own
Their little ones crawl on you and pull your hair
You love them when you see yourself in there

Image found at www.shutterstock.com

Years gone by

Years gone by
With grandparents two doors down
Two aunties there too

Two cousins tucked in
Fathers had been called to war
In Britain's dark hour

The war was raging
Housing appropriated
For the duration

One uncle at sea 
The other stationed far away
Each child same story

My dad in London
Keeping things working at night
Dowsing the bombs fires

Same for all of them
All they had was constant hope
And fear for us kids

Nobody was spared
Others uncles at front too
All gone to war's call

North Africa, Burma
Fighting in desert, jungle
Patrolling the seas

War's an ugly thing
Making orphans and widows
and peace for us kids

You fought for our homes
You fought for us your children
Now we honor you


Image found at www.flygvapenmuseum.se

The children were in bed

Rings under her eyes

Docile much like a rabbit

Fear her companion

Children were in bed

Long before he came home drunk

For his evening meal

He might be okay

Not inflict her with abuse

She could never tell

With some money left

He’d slowly eat in silence

He might not hit her

With empty pockets

She would be the one at fault

If she’d dared whimper

Nobody believed

Her excuse for the bruises

Even her children

They tried not to cry

Huddled together in bed

And kept dead quiet

Image found at www.zolaurbannews.co.za

The killing of a super hero

When I first started blogging this was an early post of mine and seemed to beg a review and rerun for this prompt.

The saddest thing about growing up is killing off your super heroes. Of course my super hero was my Dad. And soon after I started work I killed him dead, metaphorically that is.

He was my super hero because he adored my Mum. He was a brilliant sportsman in his youth and as a young man. Around the house he was always able to fix things. So there you have it; a loving, sporty, wonder man. So he surely was my superhero.

He was a very loving husband and probably drove all the other relations mad the way he hugged and kissed my Mum. Demonstrative love was not normal for working class people after the first bloom of marriage had worn off.

He played soccer for his works team, cricket for the town side and was a champion billiards player. He taught us boys the rudiments of many a card game which was very useful at the family get togethers that occurred at Christmas time so we could compete well with the adults. He came out to referee a scratch match of football with local boys on the neighbourhood sports ground during the vacation period. Above all he had a great sense of humour. I loved him.

When I got my first job, one of the perks was a yearly trip to London to attend a Building exhibition for architects, builders and other specialist to enable us to keep up with the latest trends in the business.

After a trip there one year I thought I would call in to see him at his work place in the city before I went home. I searched every depot that he was likely to be but his workmates all gave the same excuse. "Oh he gone down to Fisher Street" or "He'll be at Conduit Street by now."

I never caught up with him. And sadly instead of being able to have a chat and go for a beer with him after work, I caught the train home alone, pondering about him. Later on I found out that he had just taken an hour off work and gone home early. But as I sat in that railway carriage alone being whisked through the suburbs of London on a dark and dismal evening in November I thought about life, families and the future.

What I worked out was that I had been given a wonderful lesson in life. That small event of no consequence at first sight had set me free to be my own person. I was already well thought of at my new job; I even had a life and friends that didn't include my family but it was this very small event that somehow established me as an independent person.

What I discovered was that my father was not a superhero anymore, and he didn't need to be. He had done his job, taught me a lot and set me some great examples in life and it was my job now to live up to them. If I made mistakes, that was my responsibility from now on.

I do hope those characteristics in him that I so admired live on in me and that my children will also learn too, then break free to be superheroes to their own children as well.

The killing of a super hero

The saddest thing about growing up is killing off your super heroes. Of course my super hero was my Dad. And soon after I started work I killed him dead, metaphorically that is.

He was my super hero because he adored my Mum, he had been a sportsmen in his youth and as a young man, and around the house he was always able to fix things. So there you have it a loving, sporty, wonder man. So he surely was my superhero.

He was very loving husband and probably drove all the other relations mad the way he hugged and kissed my Mum. Demonstrative love was not normal for working class people after the first bloom of marriage had worn off.

He played soccer for his works team, cricket for the town side and was a champion billiards player. He taught us boys the rudiments of many card games which was very useful at the family get togethers that occurred at Christmas time so we could compete well. He came out to referee a scratch match of football with local boys on the neighbourhood sports ground during the vacation period.

Above all he had a great sense of humour. I loved him.

When I got my first job, one of the perks was a yearly trip to London to attend a Building exhibition for architects, builders and other specialists to enable to keep up with the latest trends in the business.

After a trip there one year I thought I would call in to see him at his work place before I went home. I searched every depot that he was likely to be but his mates all gave the same excuse. "Oh he gone down to Fisher Street" or "He'll be at Conduit Street now."

I never caught up with him. And sadly instead of being able to go for a beer with him after work, I caught the train home alone, pondering about him. Later I found out that he had just taken a hour off work and gone home early. But as I sat in that railway carriage alone being whisked through the suburbs of London on a dark and dismal evening in November I thought about life, families and the future.

What I worked out was that I had been given a wonderful lesson in life. That small event of no consequence at first sight had set me free to be my own self. Already in my life I had travelled to France alone as a 16 year old. I was already well thought of at my new job. I even had a life and friends that didn't include my family but it was this very small event that somehow established me as an independent person.

What I discovered was that my father was not a superhero anymore, and he didn't need to be. He had done his job, taught me a lot and set some great examples and it was my job now to live up to them. If I made mistakes that was my responsibility from now on.

I do hope those characteristics in him that I so admired live on in me and that my children will also learn too, then break free to be superheroes to their children too.