Tag Archives: children

Apart

To be so many miles away
unable to travel
no breakfast  hug for me
no cards sent
(you said you would not use your mailbox
in case of infection)
no gifts given as yet
you are where you want
and need to be
loved and loving

My tall dark haired
generously bearded
kind thoughtful son
clever and daft in a single
wonderful package
you have  laughed and talked your way
through life
garnered so many friends
loved learning, but not school
blossomed at university
now deeply in love

Happy Birthday

and
keep washing those hands……..

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

One of my sons is away for his birthday. Not so awful, but we woud have usually got the family and his beloved Dutch Godfather together for a celebration — which cannot happen in lockdown. And I miss my hugs…..

Among goats

Tom
forking hay into an old wheelbarrow
as goats
long eared Nubians all
hustle him
nudging affectionately
their new friend

I was stretching my legs
after a long car ride
while you input the code
to access our cheese
had walked around the barn’s corner and seen
Tom

Apprenticed to the cheese makers
feeding their goats
he paused to introduce us
to half grown kids
butting and bouncing
talked of his deep joy
at tending animals

The same joy I see
in our youngest son
apprenticed engineer
loving the machining
mathematics
and camaraderie

Later we sent him a photo
of happy goats
and a happy Tom
and received a picture
of aircraft undercarriage
and a wish for a pet goat

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

For Tom and Paul, at the start of adult life. Light in our darkness.

It’s all geek to you

Sixty six thousand miles an hour she spins us around her
yet a layer of grey moistness
stops the Sun’s nuclear furnace from warming my bones
as I lie here on the garden deck
wrapped old lady like in fleece blanket
and suburban birdsong

Five hundred thousand miles an hour we all turn around
the black maw at galactic central
that swallows worlds and never enough
lunching on stellar archipelagoes
leading me to think of  Schwartzchild radii
and equations I once manipulated.

Faster than both, you fall through the front door
laughing over the factorisation error you made
in today’s school test.
Functionally innumerate, mathematically gifted,
golden, green eyed geek son of mine.

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

For my youngest son, 19 today, still a geek, soon to be an aerospace engineer.

This poem was written when he was still at school.

Going to school

We are all three children
ready for school at last.
But who can go this morning?
Mum sits on the stairs crying
railing against our tardy ways.
She complains of our constant
losing of gloves and hats
not to mention sports kit
and of how hard it is to get us all ready.
My little brothers stand open-mouthed
frightened by this collapse of motherhood.
Older, I am far more worried about not
getting to school on time.
I’m still not allowed to walk there on my own
although the neighbour’s girl my age can,
and I’m wary of shepherding two
wayward little boys across the road to the school.
But, as Mum raises her voice in yet another wailing moan
I decide this must be done.

I pat her on the hand, and tell her
that I’ll do it today, then
I open the door.
Suddenly, I’m slapped, shouted at
called a little madam.
Suddenly, it’s fine for Mum to take us.
Crying, I hop from foot to foot
impatiently as she gets ready,
her ‘face’ needs to be put on which
always takes forever.

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Rain on the Roof

He sleeps on while I awake
to hear rain on the roof
lie snug listening to a
long familiar sound
pattering, gathering strength
and force until
it pounds
and the roof resounds.

Gasping with sudden
shattering realisation
I grab for the breathers,
the suits,
scream for the children.
It does not rain
here on Mars.

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

This poem was published as ‘Rain’  Star*Line Volume 42, Issue 2 –the in-house print  journal of the Science Fiction Poetry Association.

http://sfpoetry.com/sl/issues/starline42.2.html

Fun fair

Turning spinning in a giant Teacup
Flying in chairs round and round
Surrealism rampant on a hot summer night
Sliding whooping skeltering heltering into the dusk
Bumping thumping crashing the cars
Shrieking with gleeful joy
Candy coloured lights flash into the near dark
Illuminating lovers and overexcited children
Tell me, is the coconut shy?

 

Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Friday Poem: Come On In, The Senility Is Fine

People live forever in Jacksonville and St. Petersburg and Tampa,
But you don’t have to live forever to become a grampa.
The entrance requirements for grampahood are comparatively mild,
You only have to live until your child has a child.
From that point on you start looking both ways over your shoulder,
Because sometimes you feel thirty years younger and sometimes
thirty years older.
Now you begin to realize who it was that reached the height of
imbecility,
It was whoever said that grandparents have all the fun and none of
the responsibility.
This is the most enticing spiderwebs of a tarradiddle ever spun,
Because everybody would love to have a baby around who was no
responsibility and lots of fun,
But I can think of no one but a mooncalf or a gaby
Who would trust their own child to raise a baby.
So you have to personally superintend your grandchild from diapers
to pants and from bottle to spoon,
Because you know that your own child hasn’t sense enough to come
in out of a typhoon.
You don’t have to live forever to become a grampa, but if you do
want to live forever,
Don’t try to be clever;
If you wish to reach the end of the trail with an uncut throat,
Don’t go around saying Quote I don’t mind being a grampa but I
hate being married to a gramma Unquote.

A surprisingly long poem by the great Ogden Nash.

My sons tower over me

My sons tower over me
making me feel like I have shrunk
the eldest shares stories  of University
some I’d rather not hear

Spontaneous hugs envelop  me
protective and loving
we smile over stories of their boyhood
adventures while walking to school
playing at Orcs  in the woods
chasing waves on a North Sea beach
then travelling home soaked through
that time in the fountain…

I  am grateful for the gifts of love and joy
that they bring me
many times unknowingly
am happy when the house
fills with the deep laughter of young men

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond