Tag Archives: children

The Mourning of the Children

There are towers, tall and round, no
windows and, at the ground, simply one
slender doorless entrance where I find
wide shallow multicoloured steps girdle
the wall, spiral up, up and up. Lens shaped
fat floors hover at random heights, can
be accessed by leaping across a sweeping
chasm. I leapt and slid across the silky slippy surface
of a convex floor last night and am
still falling down and down, watching
the floor rise to devour me. Yet here
I stand waiting to ascend once more.

A voice asks:
What pecks now at the bleached bones
of your ideology and who weighs
the sins that you will not repent?

I do not know but must climb anew
until I locate an answer in each crying smile
of the many small children that gather around
each tower, hands pressed to the walls.

Copyright © 2022 Kim Whysall-Hammond

This is (almost) a blow by blow account of a dream I had several months ago. It
filled my mind as I woke up and haunted me for most of the day. I get weird
dreams sometimes…

Tonight, Ingrid is hosting dVerse Poetics, where she asks for poetry inspired by dreams or visions. This poem was first published in Ink Drinkers Poetry, Issue 6, June 2022.

On giving birth to my now adult son

I’m in love.
As in love as the wind and trees.
The Earth and the Sun.
I don’t want to die but I don’t care if I die this minute.
Except I must live for you my son.
The world is round. My eyes weep.
I could run to the ends of the Earth. But I cannot
for the world is round.
My soul expands like bread as it proves.

Copyright © 2022 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Comfort Food

We drove back exhausted
you resting that nearly blind eye
me trying to focus on the road ahead
clinging to my steering wheel

This morning the optician had taken one look and
sent us hell for leather to a local hospital
where the consultant quailed, sent us
even faster to a top specialist

Several hours driving from town to town
then to the big port city
hurry up and wait, and again
Like at an airport, but worse

Finally, a laser welded your eye together
and we made the last call home
to our anxious schoolboy son
who fretfully asked how long we would be

Finally at home, we opened the front door
to the smell of baking breads
sizzling Halloumi, grilled Aubergines
fresh made hummous

A dining table laid with the best plates and cutlery
crystal glasses and

Copyright © 2022 Kim Whysall-Hammond

My Poem ( and response) at the Skeptics Kaddish

David, who blogs over at the Skeptics Kaddish, has an ongoing project called Poetry Partners where bloggers give him one of their poems, and he writes one of his own in response.

My poem, The Poem of your Life, (which is about my now adult youngest son) is published there with Davids response:

(Oh, and David goes by the nom de plume of ben Alexander on his blog)

Merry Christmas!

As children, we would go carolling around the neighbourhood. This carol was always a favourite:

O little town of Bethlehem,
how still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
the silent stars go by;
yet in thy dark streets shineth
the everlasting light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
are met in thee tonight.

For Christ is born of Mary,
and, gathered all above
while mortals sleep, the angels keep
their watch of wond’ring love.
O morning stars, together
proclaim the holy birth,
and praises sing to God the King
and peace to all the earth.

How silently, how silently,
the wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
the blessings of his heav’n.
No ear may hear his coming,
but in this world of sin,
where meek souls will receive him, still
the dear Christ enters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem,
descend to us, we pray,
cast out our sin and enter in,
be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels
the great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us,
our Lord Immanuel!

Author: Phillips Brooks

Phillips Brooks was born at Boston, Dec. 13, 1835, graduated at Harvard College 1855, and was ordained in 1859. Successively Rector of the Church of the Advent, Philadelphia, and Trinity Church, Boston, he became Bishop of Mass. in 1891, and died at Boston in Jan., 1893. His Carol, “O little town of Bethlehem,” was written for his Sunday School in 1868, the author having spent Christmas, 1866, at Bethlehem.


You cuddle up to me in your sleep, comforted by mother warmth
What do you dream little man, my child full of wonder
You exhaust  me by day and then enthrall me at your time of sleeping
Always asking for more, lifting my soul and life
Every day is an  adventure for us
As I discover the world in and through your eyes

  Copyright © 2017  Kim Whysall-Hammond

I wrote this poem when my sons were much much younger….they are both adults now!

The Teenage Years

All bets are off in the teenage years
You still share your child’s hopes and fears
But they are a child no more –Can you hear that slammed door?
It’s a bumpy ride–Sometimes Jekyll, sometimes Hyde
You love them to bits, you can’t stand them anymore
And there again is that slamming door
You glimpse a young woman, you glimpse a young man –Try to catch them if you can
Sometimes it seems they’re a toddler again –Needing to share some of the pain
Do you remember when this was you?
Now you know what your parents went through……

Copyright © 2015 Kim Whysall-Hammond

I thought this would resonate with all those living with Teeenagers in Lockdown…..


Here in a new box, old coins
we spill them onto the carpet
and small fingers pick out treasures.
A farthing, worn smooth
once the price of a meal
Indian rupees, Iraqi drachma
souvenirs of imperial service
I think of my Grampee
young and splendid in uniform.
My sons make pirate cries.

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

‘Foundlings’ was first published by Allegro in the September 2020 issue: https://www.allegropoetry.org/p/issue-25-september-2020.html