Ode to a Fiat (Oops!)

Dad drove the Fiat to Cornwall.
Oops!
...and we were almost there!
Eager for our holiday,
before white smoke
billowed from the bonnet
and filled the motorway air.
Oops!

Dad broke the Fiat on the way to Cornwall.
Oops!
...and we were towed the rest of the way!
Eager just to get there,
before someone else
took the last hire car
and stranded us for days.
Oops!

Dad mourned the Fiat he drove and broke on the way to Cornwall.
Oops!
...and we were understandably unsympathetic!
Eager for a new toy,
before Dad could
forget the dead Fiat
and move on to something less aesthetic.
Oops!

Fathers' Day

My sadly lad, badly rad, mad bad Dad:
Sad, definitely. One word - trainspotting.
Lad, for sure the heart of one - goal potting.
Bad, never. Except "I've missed the train" fad.
Rad? You're pushing it! Embarrass-me-able!
Mad, depends. Unfathomable jokes, mind!
Bad, not to me. Anger, but always kind.
Dad? I think that one's unavoidable.
Ok, maybe I was being too cruel
to him. This is the part of the poem
when I am not meant to grumble or groan.
Sympathise with him - supporting me! Mule.
But mules do not love their master's hands,
a whip crack, driving on, to distant lands

Sara's lasting thought...

I think papercuts absolutely wreck and you get no sympathy because most of the time you can't even see the damn things!

Lord of the Skies

Fat hands reluctant to give away those

Humbled medallions – grubby, smudged,

Smeared with the sweat of cleaning,

Of helpless, hopeless tears,

Of ‘Give ‘em back! I can hardly see!’

Until the glossy white image forms,

The thin trickle of smoke and the tiny flame

Of protest,

‘Jus’ blurs, that’s all…’

One’s loss is the gain of others.

His fault,

That clumsy wailing whale of a boy

Encouraged the bolting look, the fist,

The smack over the head to send the wealth

Tinkling over the rocks.

Broken.

‘Now I only got one eye’,

Now I only got one chance, half the chance, but

Hope, still to be recognised as more than mere

Sunlight gleaming – gleaning sunlight

For a worth of gold.

Cry out in the night

For rescue from those who have forgotten.

Something moves, someone trips, and

Snarls, crashes, flying limbs, but

‘They didn’t come for the conch’.

Plucked to safety with his left hand,

Led away from the darkness

Into the light, respected, protected by

His stabbing spears.

Forwards to glory.

A golden dawn.

Fresh tears joyful with

The glint of honour, the burning of duty,

Proudly displayed from the waist

Of the flame headed boy,

Reflected in those ‘gilt buttons’ of uniform.

No guilt.

A desire fulfilled, standing before the towering creation

Unfurling, uncurling ever skywards

To lick the furthest heights of a potential gained

And to taste sweet success and pride.

To weep for ‘the darkness of man’s heart’ is

To greaten the roaring of victory and

The roaring of the end.