Saturday, February 15, 2014

P.J.Bermingham


First published in Madrush 

Alzheimers  robs us of our loved ones, a little at a time, and still we can recognise what is left behind as the individual we have known and loved. . . .


Ageing solar flares,
rusting dark bullet holes, 
in a chamber piss pot
that is an alzhiemers riddled brain.

This mourning, 
washing hands and face,
fresh spring water memories, 
mixed with taste of toilet bowl.

In my father's wallet, there is a picture;
28 year old hurler, 
bow-tensed to strike,
flying head of blonde hair, 
Hermes' wings. New York 1962.

I asked, '’Do you know who that is?'
“Lovely, lovely,”— the fading, farewell response



©Niall OConnor    2014

7 comments:

  1. Barbara Boyd-AndersonFebruary 15, 2014 at 11:51 AM

    Tragic, but so well written here...Niall...a privilege to share..

    ReplyDelete
  2. Sad but beautifully crafted. Tq for sharing, Niall O Connor.

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  3. Patrick Joseph DorrianFebruary 15, 2014 at 11:54 AM

    a lovely poem

    ReplyDelete
  4. Beautiful despite its sadness

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  5. Helen Farrell SimcoxFebruary 15, 2014 at 6:39 PM

    A beautiful poem, so sad. Thanks for sharing.

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  6. Very touching.

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Comments are welcome . . .