Poetry by Jeff Green

2865–But_Not_Forgotten.html

But Not Forgotten

by cricketjeff on August 5, 2010.  © Jeff Green, All rights reserved

There are Christmas cards and candles, and there’s mistletoe and more,
In the long unfocused Christmas of her dreams:
There is turkey with the trimmings and there’s holly on the door
And the world is not as lonely as it seems.
She’s surrounded by her children, and their children soon arrive,
But awake they rarely show her that they know she’s still alive.

She remembers, filled with laughter, every present every year,
When the house was not as silent as a tomb.
And the dreams still make her happy and they fight away the fear
Of the thought she’s stuck inside this soulless room.
Busy children can’t remember that they promised they would phone
So she wouldn’t feel forgotten when he left her on her own.

There is candy-floss and sunshine in the summers that she sees,
On those cold and sadly silent winter nights.
And a lover or a husband gives her slender waist a squeeze,
As her dreams relive a lifetime of delights.
Now her children come to see her with a bucket filled with fish,
That she’d still see in their rock-pools if the past would grant her wish.

Now she sees her daughter standing in a waterfall of lace,
With a posy full of roses in her hand,
Through a veil that’s only adding to the beauty of her face
Asks her mother if she’ll ever understand.
All her children know she loves them, and she knows they feel the same,
It’s their lives and growing older that must take their share of blame.

Now her sons, each looking sheepish in a suit that nearly fits,
Wait for girls who fill their minds with lust and dread;
And that awful “other mother” in a storm of teeth and tits,
Is a barely hidden giggle in her head.
All her children have their children, and they live their lives apart,
She is happy that they’re happy and she sees them in her heart.

But her reverie is shattered by the clamour of the bell
And cacophony explodes the world outside.
Are the armies of the demons breaking down the gates of Hell,
And has she half a chance to run and hide?
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY to you Grandma!” rips a tear-stream from her eyes
When a hoard of all she dreams of spring a sudden sweet surprise!