By Augustine Cerf
Got Drunk & Wrote A Poem
O fairest Clare,
I won’t just speak to make a rhyme,
Yet life feels horribly unfair,
When we must bid goodbye,
To someone who so deeply cares.
Like all the greats who, lacking the time
To dedicate themselves to others,
Did it anyway,
The over-worked, hard-hearted mothers,
Who knew there was a better way,
Putting notes in lunch-boxes to make it a better day.
Who, when the kids had chicken-pox,
Found the time to play and pray,
To stay home to speak much-needed words,
Who, even when away, on business trips,
Found a stray minute to put a smile on their child’s lips.
The ones who stick out of the herd,
Proverbial sore thumbs,
The outward-facing quiet ones,
Who think to leave behind breadcrumbs,
To open up the paths
In sorrow’s aftermath
That let our tired lips recover laughs.
The ones who never ever give half,
The ones who graft,
Too sensible for overdrafts,
Making everything feel choreographed,
Who stick their necks out for you like giraffes.
The greats who find the strength to make things better,
Put pen to paper and write a letter
Sometimes down, but never bitter,
Discerning citizens who rarely litter.
The kind who never make you feel dumb,
Even if you are some,
The kind who goes down to the slums,
To look after sick children who don’t have mums.
The unsung champions of the extra mile,
Who birthed worlds out of a smile.
Setting the fierce foundations
Out of which men build nations,
Providing life’s narration
Out of which we lift quotation.
The who we’ll see, on reflection,
Crafted beauty from affection,
Gave us cloaks of fortification,
And the fearlessness of aspiration,
Making the ever-needed Translation
From desperation to celebration.
The ones who, like our departing Clare,
Deeply, deeply care