Details |
Eamonn Hayes Poem
My Father at the head of the table, carving the meat,
My Mother brings the vegetables, wiping her brow from the heat.
Sunday Roast Dinner, the memories so clear,
A family together, every Sunday of the year.
All week I'd been looking forward to our Sunday together,
Brothers and Sisters turn up, no matter the weather.
Now I pass on this gift to my own family,
That they enjoy the ritual that's so important to me.
A time for conversation, to be counselled and grilled,
The laughter and humour where good banter is filled.
Dad's kind face, is crimson with mirth,
Tapping his belly and complaining of the girth.
Mother so interested in how we're getting on,
Teasing amongst the children, requests for a song.
The smell of the roasted bird fills up the room,
Anticipation of Mother's crumble, custard and spoon.
Family all together is so important to me,
Sitting round the table with such happy memories.
The wine it does flow and work forgotten for a day,
May the tradition continue, the love of a family stay.
Copyright © Eamonn Hayes | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Eamonn Hayes Poem
My eyes clouded over from the tears and the rain,
Heart speeding up, through emotion and pain,
She was gone forever, would I see her again,
Dear Lady, Dear Angel, Dear Lover, Dear Saint.
Throwing dirt on her casket I looked up to the sky,
This wonderful lady had left me to die,
All alone, without her, could I continue to breathe,
Begging for answers why my angel did leave.
I moved away from the crowd and towards the black car,
Numbness and guilt, my mind moving afar,
Memories of her dancing through the day and the night,
For a moment I see her, a trick of the light.
Copyright © Eamonn Hayes | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Eamonn Hayes Poem
What the hell was I thinking?
She didn't ask me here.
What the hell was I thinking?
Would this really...... get me near?
Her Mother lying there stiff, and dead in the bed,
I stand and stare past her daughter and then to the back of her head.
Watching her crying as she turns to look,
Still confused and haunted by that day at the brook.
So many years ago, but I cannot let go of the past,
Her dead mother in bed and my heart beats so fast.
I try to speak and my voice it just rips,
I walk slowly past her and plant a kiss...... on her dead mother's lips.
Copyright © Eamonn Hayes | Year Posted 2011
|