In one of her last few semi-lucid moments
my mother quizzed me.
She gazed at me myopically
and seemed to be asking
herself as much as me.
“Did I really love you?”

It was the first firm indication
of a previously suspected
demonstration of approaching
senile dementia.
There were others,
more mundane,
less cerebral,
mainly related
to her toilet habits.
Clues that were easier to ignore
than to acknowledge.

What did she mean by it?
“Of course you did”
was an instinctive but meaningless response.
She peered at me uncomprehendingly,
as though my reply
bore no relevance to her question.
A question that has haunted me
for over forty years.

But how could I doubt her love?
Had it not been for her concern,
I would have perished ‘neath the surgeon’s knife
on my return from evacuation
in Fakenham.
She never would have dared challenge
a doctor’s diagnosis
on her own behalf.
She was of the generation
and the class
that treated medical practitioners
as gods.
But for an offspring she was quite prepared
to fight both tooth and nail
in some basic, ritualistic simulation
of a jungle tiger’s protective shield
at a perceived  threat to its young.

And later,
when she rushed my sister and myself
into totally unorganised evacuation
to Llanelli in order to escape
the sudden perils of flying bombs and rockets.
How could I ever doubt the love
that she exhibited in my presence
in her debate with the headmaster
of the local Grammar School?
Her insistence that he accept me
despite my lack of Welsh
that would ordinarily be a
basic entry requirement.
Her refusal to accept
the rules and regulations
was a mother I had never seen
nor could I have imagined her
to be capable of
such persistent challenging.

Thus, my mother, tottering on the brink
of what was to be a life-annihilating
dementia, asking me, in a rare, lucid
moment, if she had ever loved me
would seem to be a non-sequitur.
Was it a sudden recognition of
a coldness that she might exhibit
to the world, but which did not reflect
the love that she really felt but
failed to exhibit?
For that matter
was the “me” really me or was it
some other family member with whom
in her later stages of dementia
she confused me.

But it has induced a question
that now I have to pose myself.
The recollection of those many
wonderful experiences
that demonstrate
the lengths to which she was
prepared to go
to defend those values
which she honoured
though rarely overtly.
render the question
meaningless.

Unless, unless it be reframed
into an accusation of my own
failure to recognise
to appreciate
to reveal
the extent of my own feelings.

Perhaps it was I
who should have posed the question:
“Did I really love you?”

Our lives were always
so interconnected,
so entwined.

Despite her years
of pain
and suffering,
her concern
for my wellbeing
was always
evident.

Since her death
my own health
has
miraculously
improved.
I am fitter now
than I have been
for years.

This morning
I awoke
to the most absurd
thought:
did she die
that I might live?

Denial rose
unbidden to my tongue
but
I could not disclose
the words that lay
unuttered
in my heart

The diversity of peoples in the world
is like the diversity of instruments in an orchestra;
they provide different sounds
but they produce the same music,
and by collaborating
they enhance it.

This is an experiment.
I hope it causes merriment.
If you think it rocks,
just tick the box.

Tears come from the heart
and my heart is as cold as ice.
So don’t ask me to cry,
for if I cry
it will not be for you as you are
but for you as you were;
when life was serene
and joy was unsullied,
and hearts were undemanding . . .
and tears will never bring that back.

Dreams recur in different ways.
The first hesitant holding of hands.  
The first tremulous brushing of lips.  
and when we try to recapture
that sleep-borne reminiscence
we are left with
the residue of sadness
or a residue of sourness.
We try to clutch at an ever diminishing
straw of recollection.
We almost have it.
Then it is lost.
Dreams die in strange ways.

I have been stupid,
I have been wise;
and I know this will come
as no surprise.

Stupid is
more fun.

I am so weary of the constant repetition
By the shallow and disreputable folk
Who claim to be our leaders,
Yet unremittingly by tactless talk
Betray the very principles
With which they sought to gain
Our credulous support,
And treat with reprehensible disdain
And superficial jargon
And empty-headed vows
Those principles that leaders of a bygone age
Did fervently espouse.
Where are they now?
Where have they gone?
Please reappear! Come back!
Those rare folk that we could depend upon.

The transience
of everyday events.

The fear
that much experience
will pass me by.

These fleeting concerns
disturb my waking hours
and interrupt my sleep.

I lack a strength
of purpose.
I deplore
the weakness of my mind;
the doubts
that happiness will yet return;
that new growth of spirit
will spring from old;
that I will retain the faith
to go on building
from every death
that decimates my world.

And
I owe a debt.
I have a commitment.
I must maintain the will
to go on fighting.
I must retain the hope
that life and love
may yet be won.

And I must accept the fact
that dogmas may vanish,
that temples may fall,
that ikons may crumble,
and credence
may moulder.

But
Earth Abides

Every moment spent
Feeling so annoyed
At anything I may have lost
Might better be employed
In celebrating all those wondrous moments
That I have enjoyed.

I honor the foreboding that appears,
The hesitancy it heralds in the call,
The inadvertent buttress of the fears,
Reluctance to acknowledge the outfall.

And, all the while, the heav’nly choir gives voice,
The prayers devout as any that were heard
But yet recalcitrant insistence on pro-choice,
Determined to maintain faith undeterred.

by Matthew Prior

Sir, I admit your general rule
That every poet is a fool!
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.

                                 Matthew Prior

Today is to enjoy
and not think about tomorrow.
it is better to live in joy
than it is to die in sorrow.

Vicious tongues may not be stilled
Prophecies may be unfulfilled
Knowledge gained may not prevail
But love will never fail.

Always keep in mind that
your love for each other
should be greater than
your need for each other

Let blockheads read what blockheads wrote,
Lord Chesterfield once said.
Thereby inviting us to judge him
As a dunderhead.

Let wise men read what wise men wrote
Is what I say instead,
And you may judge me for yourself
Since my work’s quite widespread.

I am experiencing something
that is unique for me:
a growing belief in
my own mortality.

I got in a stew
About you.
And not knowing what I should do,
My only way to treat the issues
Involved an entire box of tissues,
When I got in a stew
About you.

I got in a mess
I confess
When you revealed signs of distress.
Though a very small bit o’ me
Considered at least the epitome
Of how we two might coalesce
I confess.

I quite lost my head
When you said
You would never share my nuptial bed,
Though a very small part of my mind
Believed you were just being kind
Despite saying we’d never wed
As you said.

I got in a stew
About  you.
But I had to accept your adieu,
Though the shaking apart of me
Was breaking the heart of me,
And I got in a terrible stew
About you.

And I bellowed, and yelled, and I moaned
And I hollered, and cried, and I groaned
And intoned that it’s time I withdrew
From your view

Eternal peace I sought, in eternal solitude.
Yet eternity is timeless and it is endless.
When we talk of killing time
We are suggesting an end of eternal life.
But we are in it; we are of it;
We cannot end it; it is part of each moment.
It will, by definition, continue evermore.
What a comforting thought.

You may say that she has gone to meet her maker
now that she is with the undertaker.
Or possibly it’s passed, passed on, or passed away
that you prefer to mark the day
on which finality did overtake her.

It’s fine to think she rests in peace
now that she’s pronounced deceased,
departed, gone, or finally succumbed
these metaphors have me benumbed
as a substitution for surceased.

She lost the battle, lost her life,
freed from further agonizing strife,
gone to heaven, breathed her last
and now has found eternal rest,
that mother, daughter, friend and wife.

She has gone to meet her Lord
from further pain she has been spared
I hate to break this sad news to you
sorry if it does confuse you,
but it simply must be said.  She is dead.

It’s a pity, they said glumly,
that because of your neglect
we are obligated to remove it;
and although it’s been quite comely
and you may wish to reflect,
there is absolutely no way to improve it.

They gazed into my eyes and said
“Once it’s gone it will look bad
but there’s no way it can be corrected.
When something dies it must stay dead.
Best to remember what you had
than hope some day it might be resurrected.”

But though I took their words to heart,
I swore I’d not forget it,
although it left me in some disarray.
There are some things from which we cannot part
painlessly.  And I regret it;
and still deplore the day they took my Porsche  away.

[See notes below]

That model of a ****** rifle
is one with which we need not trifle
the acronym is far from hard to see
representing, as it does, accuracy.

Indeed, extreme tasked ordnance
from Latin countries such as France
appreciate a form such as exacto:
regarding it as simply ipso facto.

Where did it come from?  Where will it go?
I pose the questions, I listen for the answers,
and hear nothing but sibilance
in my defective auditory sense.
But answers there are . . . I know.

Nature has always given the response
That echoed in the nightfall of my soul.
It began in those excursions as a child
and gathered pace in wartime’s exodus,
‘midst shattering of peace and of belief.

‘Twas ever thus, to walk upon the Sussex Downs,
The Surrey Hills, the Essex flats,
To feel the wind upon my cheeks
The song of birdcalls in the air,
And life so full of radiance and joy.

‘Twas ever thus, the yearly trips
To Devon’s headlands and to Cornish beaches.
The voyages across the seas,
the sojourns in yet more distant lands.
Exultation with exheredation.

Decades of travelling, seeking the answers,
so much of the time forgetting the questions;
journeying hither and yon, tracing the clouds
following their dreams, and mine, on shimmering shores,
discovering the sweetness of life grown sour.

And through it all I have known love, excessively,
and never cautiously enough.  A spendthrift
wasting all the wealth of praise and acclamation
in luxuriant homage to his own dissipation,
sleeping with salvation and waking in confusion.

And now, the twilight of a life grown weary
in a constant yet inconstant search for answers,
at last gives way to calamitous acceptance
of the eternal verity.  Ex nihilo is nonsense;
we have no option but to embrace ex materia.

© Joseph Sinclair, May 25 2022

Faith is belief without reason
Reason is belief tempered by doubt.
Faith is instinctual.
Belief is cerebral.
The vast majority of people
Prefer faith to reason.
Our choice of leaders
Bears witness
to this assertion.

There is a country that is far away
In time and space no more than shadow play;
A land designed to elevate the soul
More lofty than a soaring oriole.

A place that helps to make my spirit sigh
And soar as light as any dragonfly,
Respecting each the rights of every other
Where every man to me is my blood brother.

I lived there in miasma quite opaque
Within a dream I dreamt while still awake.
A land that’s still as far away in heart
As this which very soon I must depart

Although they seem so very far away
Neighbours are a cynic’s sobriquet
For people who are simply non-aligned
With nothing but contempt for all mankind.

Within the real world all is selfish interest
But not so far away in truth this is the best.
True patriots there are who here assemble
Be warned you tyrants that you stand and tremble.

Knowing that I had but a short span
of time before
I would depart,
and cognisant of all that I had built
upon the trellis of my dreams.
I wondered how best to preserve
those unique sentiments
as my endowment to the world.
There seemed to be
no formula for one such as myself
to entertain the posthumous
yet valid sustentation of my life.

But then the gods,
or such as pass  for them
in my philosophy,
took pity on this sinner
and vowed to store his yet
unsatisfied  expressions
of Life’s truths
for all posterity.

They salted a rain cloud
with my spawning seed
that I might yet persist
in word and deed.
Then storms produced
a prophecy,
a bequest to my progeny
that when I am no more,
and worms have done their worst,
the nascent grains of my philosophy
shall still remain intact and undispersed.

And so these morbid lines
continue to enhance the pages
of this conduit;
to bore, excite, annoy, exasperate
and otherwise to plague their readership.
But have no fear:
take heart dear reader,
persist in honest faith
and reassurance that
the peregrinations of this verbal inning
is closer to its end
than its beginning.

For Johnny
John Pudney
1909-1977

Do not despair, for Johnny head in air.
He sleeps as sound as Johnny under ground.

Fetch out no shroud for Johnny in the cloud,
and keep your tears for him in after years.

Better by far for Johnny the bright star,
to keep your head and see his children feed.

Success is not judged
By what you got out of it
But what you gave up


Be kind to yourself
And be kind to all creatures
As well as the earth


Disputes with loved ones
Should be held to the present.
Don’t bring up the past.


Be considerate.
Do not respond in anger
But maintain your calm

So, I make mistakes!
But I’m happy to do so.
If you learn from them.

Each time I re-read
Something I wrote long ago
I’m closer to me

To be possessed of
The wisdom of youth and the
Vigour of old age.

Seek if you would find
But seek not too intently
That way madness lies

It’s an acid test
If life hands me a lemon
I must **** it up


Trust integrity.
Failure to do what is right
is the greater wrong.


Don’t hide your feelings.
Yelling is much less painful
than biting your tongue


Present facts fairly.
Refrain from embellishment.
The truth should suffice.

At my age, friends become fewer,
and those that remain
are all the more venerated.

It is becoming harder and harder
to recall that time
when older people were revered.

As time passes, so do the elderly,
and the contemporaries
that are with us, slowly diminish.

There comes a time in life
when we become uncomfortably aware
that we are outliving our friends.

I feel I want to say please bide awhile,
do not desert me at a time
when there are so few of you left.

What is this discomfort that I feel
when I outlive a friend?
Surely the guilt should belong to the one leaving me?

When sights and sounds and sentiments
Once real have lost their worth;
And when those fragile elements
Lie dust-like on the earth,
Then shall my heart no more conceal
What it would most express;
And shall I come at last to feel
That unaccustomed bliss.

I bought myself a pencil.
I had a lot to write.
I bought myself a notepad too
it was a gleaming white.

I started to write upon it
but the words were very faint.
I went back to the paper shop
to tell them my complaint.

With the pencil in his hand
the shopkeeper scratched his head
and said “you need to change this
for a darker form of lead.”

I asked him most politely
with no hint of aggression
“2B or not 2B, " I said
"that has to be the question"

                                               Bill Shakespeare

Forget about your Sigmund Freud;
It’s something you cannot avoid.
To reach a time of lessening desires
And the quenching
Of those lifelong fires.

And you can keep your Alfred Adler
Against the stream a baffled paddler.
No harmonicist like Larry.
His musical skills were quite "verborgen"
He dealt with a very different *****.

The apple is gone.
It departed today in the wake
of Gonzalo’s sting.

The sting in the tail
of a hurricane that
should never have touched our shores.

And so the symbol
of tenacious life
no longer bears witness
to my own tenacity:
my own survival in an
irresolute world
now seeks another yardstick
on which to pin a shaky faith.

The past’s historic
the future will be perfect
and the present’s tense

The longest lasting grief
is grief for one’s own self
for one’s mistakes
for lost innocence;
for real or imagined
harm to another.

The most important
lesson to be learned
is forgiveness.
And  the greatest
advice of all
is to forgive oneself.

She always bore her sufferings
with fortitude beyond credence
and always thought of others
before herself.

Music was such a large part of her life,
for her the bells were always ringing.
She would be saddened beyond measure
if she believed our grief
prevented us from singing.

For life goes on
and we move on
and she would be the first to say
"It is right to grieve
it is right to display sadness,
it is right to shed tears
so long as you continue to believe
that I will sing with you through the years."

I have now ended
the final years
of my
second adolescence.

I have attained
a plateau
of calm
and peace.

But adulthood is so boring
and childhood so demeaning.
I’m looking forward to
my third adolescence
when I can once again discard
the inner childhood self,
and yet reject
all adulthood’s
responsibilities.

I want to weep but
I have no tears to shed and
it is killing me.