Phileas Fogg,
On a brigantine sledge,
Braved the Omaha wind
As it twirled.
So, Jules Verne might say
That a full eighty days
Is plenty to travel the world.

Amelia Earhart
Crossed the sea –
The quickliest feat
…For a girl –
In twelve hundred forty
Short minutes, you know:
Others failed, but gave it a whirl.

Rosemary Doyle,
Our wonderful mum,
Exceeded these
Feats of grand scale!
She has crossed oceans faster,
Breezed over Great Plains,
And – without perspiration – prevailed!

Carefully, casually,
She raised five kids:
‘Neath our burden
She never collapsed.
Loving and giving
Us lives we are living.
Have there – really – eight decades elapsed?

Octogenarian?
Silliest word:
It sounds like
A sea creature’s vet,
But if you want true fun,
Then just orbit the sun
Eighty times, like our mom:  It’s no sweat!


© 2Mar2018 DracoTalpus
For Rosemary N. Doyle
On the occasion of her 80th birthday

The words left unspoken
are always harder to stomach
than those which were said.

It's 3am

I'm on the phone
No one's awake and I'm alone

It's 3am

The radio's on
Songs are played on lonely station

It's 3am

I'm in my bed
My eyes are open and sleep has fled

It's 3am

I'm on the balcony
The sky is dark and just quite scary

It's 3am

Some windows have lights
Could they also not sleep tonight

It's 3am

I'm still awake
When will life ever give me a break

“Don’t talk to me in that tone!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“Why can’t you be more like your brother? He’s younger than you!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“You need to lose weight! You’re too fat!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“I am the mother! You are the daughter! I own you!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“You are such a disappointment.”
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry mother.
I’m not the daughter you expect of me.
I will be better.

Why am I never good enough for you?
You comment on my flaws, constantly, diminishing my already low self-esteem.
You compare me to others, saying how I should be more “like them.”
Will you love me if I’m compliant with your every wish?
I’m sorry I’m not your perfect daughter.
Stop reminding me that you love my brother more than me.

I’m sorry.
For being who I am.
For being different.
For bringing you pain.
For not being enough.

Please. Stop. Don't.
Your words. Won't leave.
My head. Hurts.
I don't want to listen.
Make it stop.
I can't take it anymore.
SHUT UP!

I’m sick of listening.
I’m sick of you.
I hate myself.
I hate you.

I know.
I should be more like him.
I know.
I am not perfect.
I know.
I do not have your love.
I know.
You hate me.
I KNOW.
I’m a disappointment.

Wheeled around in a pushchair,
an innocent child
stares out at the world
with a sticky-faced smile.
A day at the seaside
with ice-cream to eat;
how it melts in the sunshine
and drips on her seat.
“Oh no, look at Ellie!”
her mother exclaims;
“She needs her mouth wiping,
she’s covered in stains!”
But Ellie just giggles,
her small gooey hands
are now grasping her bib,
she cannot understand
that one day in the future,
a lifetime away,
she’ll be taken again
down along the same way,
for a day at the seaside
with ice-cream to eat;
it will melt in the sun
and drip down on her seat:
And she’ll need her mouth wiping,
again and again,
when she’s on medication
to ward off the pain;
staring out at the world
with a bland vacant smile,
pushed around in a wheelchair,
an innocent child.