Nearly fifty years ago
His life came to its end
And I lost a much loved
And respected old friend.
Born cruelly disabled,
Paralysed by surgical knife,
A calculated risk in the hope
Of a more normal life.
Enjoy your life
The surgeon had said,
It won’t be for long,
And you’re a long time dead.
A bon viveur and raconteur
He spun many a fine tale
Enthroned in his wheel chair
Clasping his pint of real ale.
At first on foot, taxi or train
Latterly in the car of the day
We wandered and forged
Our merrily desperate way.
A sudden blink of fate
And Old Hawkins was gone
Still only in his thirties
As time, uncaring, moved on.
I cried at his funeral.
His loss twisting like a knife,
Celebrating the memory of
His short but well lived life.
Categories:
viveur, death of a friend,
Form: Rhyme
Oh, happy are the people who
have loads of chums, both old and new,
who stop and pass the time of day,
or join them when they dine and play.
And yet the luckiest, by far,
are those who know this real star;
a noble friend, a real mate;
whom friends and neighbours highly rate.
With head held high, a noble pose,
the keenest ear, the sharpest nose,
his curly hair, a lustrous brown,
snipped at the best salon in town.
Likewise, he’s known, both far and wide,
for all the love he can provide.
A ‘foodie’? Yes. But I prefer
the sobriquet, a connoisseur.
Sophisticated, debonair,
a certain style, with real flair,
a bon viveur, a social cog …..
But that’s enough about my dog!
And me? There’s not a lot to say,
I trundle on, the usual way,
from here to there, with grunt and groans,
supported by these creaking bones.
~
For Frank's 'Self Portrait' Competition.
Categories:
viveur, character, self,
Form: Verse