Gran'dad's Little Gift

My daughter gave birth to her first child in November

so here's my response to that event. A bit schmatlzy, I know.

To My Grand Child Freya Rose

It was more than good to see you lying in your crib
In fact, ‘bloody marvellous’ would be nearer to the mark.
Your little face, so tiny and intent; large hands clutching at thin air.
You have your mother’s features, but it’s early days as yet,
And maybe as you grow a bit, your eyes will go dark brown
Like mine.
I hope I live a good few years to see how your growing goes.
My wish for you, a great childhood, my darling Freya Rose.

This poem is dedicated to all those poets who
can really strike a chord with their readers.

Your Poetry Sings


Your poetry sings.
It shimmers with subtle similes.
Your metaphors are musical.
And your imagery sublime.
‘Look,’ you seem to say,
‘And you will become submerged
Into my world.
Discover truths that you never knew existed.
Feel the emotions that cascade.
Know me, and know yourself.’

I long to write like that,
But lack the muse somehow.
My poems are in your face.
No questions need be raised,
No hint of careful introspection.
Why use your thought processes
To untangle what isn’t there?
Here, the truth is plain,
What you see, is what you get.
My poetry does not sing.