Friday Poem #160: Shock and Sore

Good evening and welcome to this week’s fabulous Friday Poem! I’m pleased to tell you that my return to swimming has so far been successful. Last Saturday I swam 800 metres in the session, and on Tuesday I increased that to 1000 metres. I have a short term goal of being able to swim a mile in 200 metres chunks by the end of February, and then after that my training regime will be in the hands of a work colleague who is a triathlete. He’s going to get my fitness and swimming technique much better, and I’m really relishing this challenge!

But enough of that – I know you’re all desperate to read this week’s poem, which again is sourced from the eternal spring that is my life.

I recently downloaded the NHS (National Health Service) App, and found that along with booking doctor appointments, and checking out symptoms, I could also access medical records – either about medications taken or known allergies. I don’t have any allergies that I’m aware of – but was surprised to find that there was a record that said in 1977 (when I was six years old), I had an allergic reaction to latex bands (underpants). I have no memory of this, and my parents never mentioned it whilst they were alive as far as I can recall. I’m left with so many questions, that I just had to write this poem.

So, here it is – I hope you don’t react badly to it.

Shock and Sore

It was when I opened the App

And came face to face with the facts

That my past rushed to greet me

With an audible “THWAPP!”

I was shocked and confused

Felling crushed deep inside.

Like I’d been forced to wear boxers

That were a much smaller size.

But there it was, plain and simple

On my screen in black and White:

An event I was not conscious of

Now brought into the light.

Why did I not have a memory?

Why was this erased without trace?

I had fragments of a puzzle

None of which were in place.

My parents never told me

Though they obviously had known

I was six when this happened

And would not have gone alone.

There would have been action to be taken –

Consequences; change of plans

How could I only discover this now

As a fully grown man?

But none of that matters

This could not have been chance;

My medical record said “Sensitivity

Adverse reaction to Latex bands (underpants)”

So many questions, 

And all the answers untold;

Why was I wearing latex underwear

At less than seven years old?

How severe was the reaction?

How long did the marks take to fade?

Should I cancel that Gimp suit

I just bought on eBay?

Perhaps I should leave it

It could be quite safe –

Possibly the greatest risk might be

The chance it might chafe.

Part of me wants to find out,

I’ve just got to be sure

If this is just some clerical error

Or if I’ll be squeaking and sore.

I’ll never know what truly happened

April 18th, 1977

Both my parents have passed on

And are looking down now from heaven.

I wish I  could see them for one moment

If I could just have one chance

I’d ask how the hell I ended up

Allergic to Latex underpants!

.

Friday Poem #159: Hyperbole

Hello, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

Great news! I’ve had the all clear from my consultant to return to swimming! so tomorrow morning I will get back in the pool and start my return to fitness – and beyond to my goal of swimming a mile non-stop. I’m really looking forward to it, but I know it’s going to be tough.

Also this weekend, my Mother-In-Law is having an early 80th Birthday party. She’s 56. That’s a joke – it’s her birthday in a few days, but we are gathering friends and family to come together to celebrate her birthday with her. It’s going to be a lovely occassion.

So, a good weekend is on the cards – I’ll let you know how I get on back in the pool. To be honest, I’m excited enough by the fact I get to use my new swim bag, and swim jammer shorts!

But now, on to this week’s Friday poem. This poem has been waiting to be written for a while now. It’s been in a notebook as one word for many months, and previously, when I started to think about writing it, I didn’t like where it was going, so I gave up. However this time, it just flowed – so I went with it, and this is what I go.

Here is the Poem – I do hope you like it.

Hyperbole

It’s never made much sense to me,

Why ‘Hyperbole’ is pronounced

‘High-per-ber-lee.

Whilst phonetically,

This may well be correct

To say it so

Doth leave me very vexed.

I’ve suffered anguish,

Been wracked with pain

Wrestled with my conscience

Time and again.

I’ve gnashed my teeth

And wrung my hands;

Sought solace in the songs

Of thrash-metal bands.

But nothing can soothe my fevered brow

There’s no denying what I realise now:

This word just screams out

To my very soul,

“For Pete’s sake, just say ‘Hyper-bowl’!

The hours I’ve walked my home at night

Devoid of reason as much as light

With which to answer my urge so strong –

Why does saying ‘high-per-ber-lee’ feel so wrong?

Perhaps because this word stands alone:

No others like it, it’s on its own.

Of all the words with which it rhymes

None end with the same spelling –

Is that a crime?

You would say not,

Once you did see

Them ending with “ally”, or sometimes “ily”

And yet individual, and most unique

This word demands

Such different speech.

But why? But when? But whom?

Say I;

What institution, what government

Did once decide

That for this word 

Which means ‘obvious and intentional exaggeration’

It’s vocalising should separate it from

The aggregation

Of all the words

With which it rhymes

To stand alone, for all time.

I for one, will bring it in

Embrace this word with one simple thing:

I’ll change the way this word’s pronounced

And should it flutter from my mouth

It will be beautiful

Like a bird 

Simple yet whole

Free to be heard

A word to enjoy,

That won’t take its toll

Not ‘high-per-ber-lee’

But ‘hyper-bowl’.

So join me in this Etymological revolution

By choosing a much more sensible solution.

And when you next  choose to exaggerate

I’ve told you a million times –

Say “Hyper-bowl”

And you’ll feel great!

Friday Poem #158: Scrapbook

Hello, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

It’s been a tough week for me physically – my left foot is not adjusting well to the resumption of my regular walking routine. Regular follows of my blog will know that I had surgery on it back in October, and from then up until the 6th January, I was basically resting and doing very little walking. Since 6th January I have been walking two miles a day most days, and it is fair to say that my left foot – and the recovery area of my surgery doesn’t like it. My big toe and joint on my left foot continues to remain swollen, and there is generally some degree of aching all the time. On top of that, I have recently been visited by my old friend Sciatica who may have popped round as a result of a change in my gait (I’m currently limping, but don’t know if that is temporary of just how I will walk now because I don’t have the flexibility in my left foot to push off the ground as I used to) , or whether I have been sitting badly.

And as if that wasn’t enough, I’ve literally just bitten my tongue whilst eating some fruit. Only last night, my Fiancee stated that “isn’t it weird how that when you bite your tongue or cheek, you always do it twice?”. I instantly replied that I’ve never bitten myself twice, as I find that the pain and discomfort from doing it once is enough to put me off repeating the feat anytime soon.

This week’s poem came about as a result of Sciatica. It was keeping me awake, and as I couldn’t sleep my brain started putting some words together, and this poem came out of it. It was originally titled ‘Handle With Care’ – but then I had a niggling feeling that I’ve already written a poem with that title………although I can’t be sure.

And by that, I mean that I can’t be bothered to trawl through 157 poems to check.

So, here is this week’s Friday Poem. I hope you like it.

Scrapbook

Handle with care

Though it might not look much

Just a scrapbook of emotion

That would crumble if touched.

Just a jumble

A mish-mash

Bits and bobs

From here and there.

Memories of seconds

Of moments;

Your laughter

Your hair.

The way you looked

At me once

When we were best friends

And every day

Lived in sunshine

No need to say sorry

Or try to make amends.

But our sky clouded over

And your sunshine withdrew.

You moved on

Better without me

As my own prophecy

Came true.

I was writing our obituary

With each thoughtless act

Now I’m buried

Beneath regret

Weighed down by the fact

That you were right about everything

All the warnings you said

And I’m haunted by your pain

Swirling round

In my head

With my own pain

Of recollection

Wishing I could go back

Though you would not be there anymore

Our journey stopped.

And you went on without me

Making a new set of tracks.

All I’ve got are tattered pages

Battered and worn

Just to prove I did love you

That it wasn’t all

Failure and scorn.

Those few precious moments

Held in perfection

For all time

Are worthless now 

In terms of us

But will be

Forever

Mine.

Friday Poem #157: Wallet, Bonnet, Dog, Shop

Hello! Welcome to W is for Duck, and to this week’s Friday Poem.

I was back to work this week, and in terms of my recovery from foot surgery, back to my normal walking routine of parking 1 mie away from work, and walking that mile to and from work each day. Overall, my foot has coped well, but it has been painful some nights purely because it’s being used more than it has since 22nd October last year – almost three months. I see the consultant on 22nd January, and I expect to get the all clear to return to swimming – and not a moment too soon! I weighed myself on Tuesday morning this week, and found that since stopping swimming and with the onset of Christmas (and my weakness for mince pies, christmas pudding, christmas cake, and chocolate), I have put on 1 stone or 6.3 kilograms in weight.

Fortunately, a colleague at work who does Triathlons has agreed to work out a swimming routine to a) get me back to fitness, and b) improve my technique, stamina and speed. So once I get back in the water, I’m going to really go for it. When I stopped swimming in October, I was swimming a mile in just under an hour, in chunks of 150 metres (6 lengths). My goal is to swim a mile without stopping, and then do that as fast as possible.

But enough about me in my lycra swim shorts! On to this week’s poem.

This poem is based on true events that happened only last week. I had a bit of a scare on Sunday morning, but thankfully it all worked out alright. This poem tells the epic story….

I hope you like it.

Wallet, Bonnet, Dog, Shop

The wallet.

I forgot it.

It wasn’t very far

Left on top of my car

While I carefully closed the bonnet.

Car battery had died

No power no lights

With work just two days away

My car had to stay

In my garage

Trickle charging overnight.

But now the charging was done

My car lived –  what fun!

I needed to know that life still possessed it

So chose a nice long drive just to test it

And give the battery a healthy good run.

So I duly closed bonnet

Got in car – wallet still on it

And reversed out and round

Shut garage door (pulled it down)

And pulled away in my car

With my wallet still on it.

Except that I just didn’t know

As on my way I did go

That above me, Street surfing

Remnants of earnings

Sat windswept and forgotten

The seed of thought that had failed to grow.

So I drove, drove for miles

All snugness and smiles

Feeling proud of myself

With my car  back to health

While my wallet waited: 

Vanished a while.

Of course I was, unaware.

I assumed wallet was there

Having memorial proof

Recalling placing on roof

I saw it; I stared.

Back home, a brief stop

Chocolate from the shop.

Small bar – nothing great

A wee bite to celebrate

Having resurrected my car

Once again to drive far

I could have just a little – why not?

It was when I got to the till

That realisation ran chill

Through the course of my veins

From my toes to my brain

My wallet – was gone

Left on top as I drove on

I staggered and sweated as if ill.

I mumbled goodbye

Left my confectionery prize

Staggered back to my car

My wallet now a scar

By it’s absence and existence now far

When a voice from behind cried out ‘hi!’

Then once more they said ‘hi!’

And ‘I think this is yours?’

So I turned, and in the door

Of the shop where I’d stopped

Stood a woman with the wallet that’s mine.

Friends, I very nearly wept;

My wallet had kept

Clinging on like mud in a bog.

Until I reached the road junction

When momentum’s great function

Had displaced it – until found by a dog

Which was a scenario I did not expect.

The clever dog’s person

Who has my admiration

Handed my wallet back into the shop.

So when I wandered in

Then back out pale and thin

They realised and shouted at me to stop.

So all’s well that ends well

And quite a story to tell

With removal of my common sense lapse 

How wallet was lost is hearsay

The facts, gone far away

But Human Kindness is alive and very well!

 

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  The Friday Poems Vol. 1

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  The Friday Poems Vol. 2

Friday Poem #156: He Sleeps

Hello, and welcome to the first Friday Poem of 2020! How was your New Year? I hope that wherever you are in the world, you saw in this new year (and decade) safely and enjoyably. I saw the New Year in, in the company of friends and loved ones. We ate, we drank, we danced, and we laughed. I always have a lovely time at New Year, and indeed this year my whole Christmas and New Year period has been a really nice one.

But now it’s a New Year, and a new decade. A time to look forward not back, and see what the future holds. I haven’t made any new year resolutions, but will be making some changes to certain aspects of my life, and in general try to be a bit better at some things.

I’ve decided to keep on writing on my Poems. It’s three years since I started doing my Friday Poems, and after a little crisis of confidence recently, I’m determined to continue, as I believe there is greater poetry in me. I’m continually grateful to you my followers, and those who stumble across my poems just once. Taking the time to actually read what I’m writing means an awful lot to me, so thank you

And so, on to the first poem of the year. As regular followers of my blog will know, I have a cat called Toby. He’s a rescue, and whilst being the most talkative cat I have ever known, he is always aloof and never sits on a lap for a cuddle. Well, that is – until now. In the past two weeks, we have noticed a definite change in his behaivour. Not only has Toby started sitting on our laps for a cuddle, he will do so two or three times a day. Both my fiancee and I have enjoyed at leasr daily cuddles with Toby, and we are loving it. I am especially pleased, as Toby was very wary of me from the beginning – possibly he was mistreated previously by a male, and so was justifiably cautious. But now, he appears to be more than happy to snuggle down on my lap, which makes me happy too.

So this week’s Friday Poem is all about the change in my relationship with Toby.

I hope you like it.

He Sleeps

He sleeps;
Where once his velvet paws
Passed only in indifference,
Now does he willingly,
Indeed by choice, Pause
Then circle, and ultimately descend.
Curled in slumber, both he and I are content.
The rise and fall of his fur,
The most luxurious balm
Soothes my own humble heart as he rests.
I gently run my fingers across his fur
And watch in envy as my prince dreams
Of a life without care.
What change occurred in him, I cannot tell:
Four years it’s taken to build this bond we share.
Perhaps time and old age has worn away his resistance
As the ocean steadily wears away the shore.
Of the reason and the wait, I do not complain:
I’m grateful for the chance to be this close.
How long this bond will last I cannot tell,
But while he sleeps, I am not inclined to ask.