Dean Meredith Poems

My Mother is seventy-five today
And still alive thank God
We could have lost her many times
But she would never abandon us
...

On a dreary day too poor for a name,
He dragged himself down to the little café,
Flat white and a paper, always the same,
He fumbled for coins and something to say,
...

Her good eye
Saw me coming
Her bad eye
Saw something else
...

Just write
And it will be
Just right
Not for critics
...

We all break
In different ways
The stone chips
On our paintwork
...

The slow motion farce
It has me by the throat
All those mindless forms
Closed door meetings
...

And yes I smelled the paper
Of the letter that you wrote me
It started with a saying
That at first I couldn’t follow
...

The desperate midnight clawings
Laid me wasted, blue and black
The constant sand-paper gnawings
Exposing me bare, unclad, off track
...

There go those happy endings
There they go
All those lovely happy endings
There they go
...

What was that?
The wind said
As it breathed
… Death
...