You were born far away in Armenia,
I came from Jackson Heights,
But though we shared no language,
Raw passion filled our nights.
I sacrificed my marriage,
My house and my career,
But these things mattered not to me.
So long as I had you near.
And even though you left me,
To seek out pastures new,
I'll treasure till my dying day,
The love I shared with ewe.
RIP Gene Wilder (1933-2016)
Inhaling the scent of a tropical paradise
You run happily
Along a sun-kissed beach
With sand between your toes
And the wind in your hair.
Your nights are filled with laughter and joy
And you wonder how
You could possibly get any happier.
...If you're drinking Bacardi.
Gagging on the stench of piss and shit
You tread carefully
Over a toy-strewn floor
With Lego beneath your feet
And pulling out your hair.
Your nights are filled with argument and frustration
And you wonder if
You will ever get your life back.
...If you're raising a toddler.
(My son is no longer a toddler. However, on some days, like today, he behaves like he still is.)
A lovely place that can't be found,
On any British map.
Yet one I used to see with Mum,
While sitting on her lap.
There'll be no more selling fork handles,
And no more "language" from Tim,
No more of those wonderful monologues,
For it's sadly goodnight from him.