Room 205
What could walls tell now of Dylan Thomas
speak to me of love and death
of madness of a kind he sometimes knew
beneath the paper cracks of genius
nothing left in his decay only
ghostly words once played so well
on an old typewriter with some letters lost
and he blunted by another whisky
embraced a welcome rush to die
and cut the loss
as floor boards squeak in vain
little drama left to fit
the bill in Hotel Chelsea.
poem by Alan Halford
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Beneath the Christmas tree
Once beneath the Christmas tree
Granddad told to me
Santa left what was to see
His Teddy bear Henri.
Once beneath the Christmas tree
Granny told me too
Santa left what was to see
Her China doll of Blue.
Once beneath the Christmas tree
my sister held me tight
Santa left what was to see
My Pop gun and a kite
Now beneath the Christmas tree
my daughters stand by me
Santa left what was to see
An ipad, phone and Wii.
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poem by Alan Halford
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Rosary
Ring a Ring no Rosary
Standing in a row
Waiting for the hand to fall
God's children take a bow.
Ring a Ring no rosary
Shadow at the door
Sweat around his puffed up neck
Pain upon the floor.
Ring a Ring no Rosary
A whispered word to God
Judies, where's your mercy
From the stripping and the rod.
Ring a Ring no Rosary
Wipe away the tear.
Stained and dirty fingers
Garbing at my years.
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poem by Alan Halford
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Hospice
She placed it down-
Something you can leave behind she thought but wouldn't say
A green plant in a tub rested next to the bed
A lead laden hand stretched to touch its broken soil
Small thing in the way of things and wondered why.
She thought-
New white walls prepare you best for heaven
While darkness only lingers in the mind
Time the only fight in our possession
Death the only kindness left behind..
She saw-
A fanlight directs the sun across his sad face
The way they said it would the day he came
Hands grasped to find hers beneath the table
And tangled like a vine around the veins
She felt-
A twinge of loneliness that evening in the soft light
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poem by Alan Halford
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Holding on
I do not want to die on a Monday with rain raging down on my pain
my mind drifting back through a lather of dreams and fear grabbing hold of my name.
I do not want to die on a Tuesday it's the least of my favourite days
like the start of New Year there's little to cheer unless I change my ways.
I do not want to die on a Wednesday in sight of the weekend fair
too much to remember and much more to do - would be easier to finish off there.
I do not want to die on a Thursday for it's my favourite day of the week
the cheque in the door the wine on the floor - do not want to go anymore.
I do not want to die on a Friday because my father did
fallen, alone, by a railway line just as I started to live.
I do not want to die on a Saturday with people rushing around
voices that laugh in the sun in the park and footballers pounding the ground.
I think I'll go on a Sunday when my summers have no more to give and children play by the Great Lucan weir unaware that I ever had lived.
poem by Alan Halford
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