Mick never got any mail
he used to complain
and moan that he was
out of the loop
His parents had fled
for parts unknown
and his brother
was somewhere
east of Suez
Then one day at mail call
his name was called out loud
and he answered in kind
Mick was in luck he thought
no more a man bereft
of kith and kin most unkind
He danced a jig all the way
around the whirlagig
delighting his mates
with a frolic most Celtic
legs askew tapping heels
and barely touching
toes to ground!
Hold that happy thought. I think there is another shoe to dropp in this poem. 'Mick was in luck he thought' All this dancing around was before he opend the letter. Good poets chose their words carefully. You are good. Tom
When the only thing to connect you to loved ones is words then there is nothing better than receiving a handwritten letter - it carries with it a certain familiarity, it is something tangible, and is often something to treasure. You have conveyed the shear delight that this long awaited letter from home ignites. justine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
How terribly sometimes we want to listen or see something from home back, , , , , good one like a small scene, , , , , , , , , , from a big movie we call life, ,