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John Weaver Poem
John Weaver 2000 (Emily has cerebral palsy)
Her room is not the sort of room you’d quite expect to find
For a little girl whose love of life is clear
No toys or games or bats or balls, or fun things of that kind
No bicycle or skateboard will appear
But the little piece of crumpled silver paper
It's very cheerful and bright with pictures everywhere
A pump to feed her through the night and a big adapted chair
Though pretty dolls sit on the shelf and teddies on her bed
She cannot play with them herself so she holds them tight instead
And the little piece of crumpled silver paper
It was Christmas day some years ago with excitement in the air
When we opened her presents and then found
That she couldn’t play with them and it didn’t seem quite fair
That she would always be so cruelly bound
To a life without the toys that all children adore
And then we heard a new sound that meant so much more
A crackle from the little piece of crumpled silver paper
The expensive gifts didn’t matter to this special little girl
Her joy came from quite another caper
As the parcels and the packaging slowly started to unfurl
All she wanted was the silver wrapping paper
You see, she could grasp it tight to make a funny noise instead
And so it fast became a dear friend
And she holds it close beside her even when she goes to bed
And the lesson to be learned is, in the end…
Happiness is not always found in gifts so big and costly
And often simple things can bring the joy you need
Contentment is a state of mind and the choice is yours mostly
To be content with what you’ve got and with every little deed
Or, to always be in want and never satisfied
And so for me the real belief will never taper
That the truth of life is clear and very closely tied
To the little piece of crumpled silver paper.
Copyright © John Weaver | Year Posted 2014
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John Weaver Poem
By John Weaver & Dedicated to Liz
Who cares for the carer? is the question that I ask.
Who is helping them help another with their overwhelming task
Who is trying to ensure they remain healthy, fit and strong
As they nurse and feed the one in need all day and all night long?
Who thinks about the carer? is the thought that comes to me
When all thought is for the needy and that’s the way it ought to be
But just a little bit of thoughtfulness would not go astray
For the one who works and struggles without a thought for pay.
Who worries about the carer? is my other great concern
If they should fall to sickness where would the needy turn?
The one they love is the one they want and on whom they depend
To wash and feed and dress them and to be with them to the end
Who would care for the needy? is the fact we have to face
If something happened to the carer then who would replace
That committed and devoted, caring loving soul
Who gave their all without complaint in a hard and stressful role.
But we know who will care for the carer
When their mortal coil is through
When all their earthly labours get the recognition that is due
When at last they can rest eternal with no further demands
In peace and joy and secure in the Greatest Carer’s hands.
Copyright © John Weaver | Year Posted 2014
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John Weaver Poem
By John Weaver
At school I learned to read and write, to add and take away,
Of geography and history and sports I learned to play
They taught me all about the world and even outer space
And how to beat another as competition I would face
I learned of lands and cultures that had a different cause
And so we fought and beat them in many different wars
They said that strength and power was the thing I needed most
That I should learn to conquer others, no matter what the cost
They taught me how to be a winner at my work and play
And never mind the loser who may fall along the way
Through all those years of learning the plan was plain to see,
The only thing that mattered was what I could do for ME
Then I met my teacher who taught me something new
That all those things I’d learned had nothing at all to do
With living life with purpose and thought for our fellow man
By showing care and love to others as often as we can
My teacher taught me that life is a level playing field
That we’re all in it together sharing wounds that must be healed
There simply is no difference between you and me
We’re all God’s own children and one big family
My teacher taught the needs of others and the hardships they have to face
May well have been my own, if not for God’s good grace
That handicaps and weaknesses are really there to prove
How fortunate I am to see and talk and hear and move
My teacher showed that happiness is just a case of choice
Instead of choosing sadness we simply choose rejoice
Rejoice that we are able to experience every day
The beauty that the blind can’t see and words the mute can’t say
To walk and talk and feed yourself are gifts you should embrace
It’s the taking part that matters and not who wins the race
And as each and every one of us is taking part in life
What matters most is our gratitude regardless of our strife
To be grateful for the gifts you have and not those you desire
Is the secret to your happiness and to which you should aspire
To show your love to others with help, support and care
To let them know if needed that you are always there
My teacher taught me lessons I never will forget; and I know it sounds absurd
But she taught me all of this and yet…SHE NEVER SPOKE A WORD.
(I call Emily my teacher because although she cannot speak and can do so little, she has taught me so much).
Copyright © John Weaver | Year Posted 2014
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John Weaver Poem
By John Weaver
Whenever I dream of my little girl she runs and shouts and plays
Like all the other children in all their boisterous ways
I see her skip, I see her trip; I hear her laugh and cry
Then when she’s had her fun, home she’ll run and into my arms she’ll fly
With a great big hug and a teasing tug, she’ll cuddle me close and say
‘Daddy I love you heaps and heaps’ in her cheeky little way.
Whenever I dream of my little girl, she’s healthy, fit and well
With eyes alight and a smile so bright it’s really hard to tell
That my dream is a wish and a longing, a hope for something new
For her life to be one that is normal and able-bodied too.
But then I awake and I have to forsake my dream for what is true
That she cannot walk and she cannot talk like the other children do
That she cannot shout and skip about and cuddle me close and say
The things she desperately wants to, yet in her own special way…
Instead she talks to me with her eyes and reassures me with her smile
That all is well and I can tell that she’s happy all the while
Knowing that one day in some magical way, we’ll play together and scheme
And sing and shout and skip about…in an everlasting dream.
Copyright © John Weaver | Year Posted 2014
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John Weaver Poem
By John Weaver
‘What right has she got to be happy?’ said a friend to me one day,
With people at war and wanting and suffering in every way.
What right has she got to be happy with taxes as high as the sky,
And with the cost of living still rising, why is she so happy, why?
What right has she got to be happy when the weather’s so miserably bleak,
When the sun shines for a day and then goes away and it’s wet for the rest of the week?
What right has she got be happy when she can’t walk or talk or see,
Why is she smiling so brightly, it’s truly a mystery to me?
‘What right have you got to be moaning;’ came my eventual reply.
You should be glad to be fit and able and grateful, not to decry
What right have you got to be moaning, just look at her and you’ll see
That the only reason she’s happy is – she’s simply decided to be.
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Copyright © John Weaver | Year Posted 2014
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