Frank
By ralph
- 919 reads
To be Frank,
and to tell you
about it.
On the night he died
I was in Leicester
performing poetry.
I exclaimed the word
‘Dad!’
and the
audience laughed.
As a child,
and with
those blue eyes
he was
my hero.
He could
make me howl
to dizziness
with funny faces.
Make me wonder
at the grace
of racehorses,
pigeons,
and George Best.
As a young man
he troubled me.
Like Thatcher
hurt me
with words
of discouragement.
His weakness.
But today.
In this earliness of mourning
I’m trying to love him.
Oh Frank.
When we last spoke.
It was of John Hegley,
and Man City’s
away form.
‘Dad.
Dad.
Dad!’
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Comments
7th 8th and 9th stanzas are
7th 8th and 9th stanzas are where this poetry finds its blood.
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Good poem Ralph. What is it
Good poem Ralph. What is it with Dads?. I remember as a child of ten a rare long walk to the newly built Wembley Central Shopping Centre and back with mine.I was so delighted to have him all to myself and pleased that I could keep up with his long strides. And, much like yours and I think I am probably in the same age bracket as yourself,when I was a young adult he could be so scathing towards me with his impulsively abrupt humour. These days the old man is 87 and I am 57 and we get along much better though I live over 200 miles away.
I am thinking of you, in what you demonstrate so clearly in your poem, to be a time of heartache Elsie
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