Poems for Douglas and Lulie (CTG)
My uncle, Douglas Matchett, ex of Bootle, Garston, and Mossley Hill, died Friday morning in Alderney Hospital, Poole, Dorset. He had lived in Dorset and Germany for many years and finally died age 92 after being admitted for pneumonia a few weeks ago, from which he had rallied and seemed better but then had a massive stroke late last week which put him in a coma. The following poems reference both Douglas and my mother, Yoria C. George, nicknamed "Lule" by a cousin as a child, who is now age 86 and becoming quite frail, herself ailing memorywise. . .
To My Uncle Douglas, in a Coma
Now they call to tell me you've suffered
a massive stroke, cocooned in a coma
at ninety-two, an ocean-width from me.
In the sea off the pine-filled chine
of Canford Cliffs, I will prepare
to scatter your ashes. We sat by
the bowling green, sipped tea; a magpie
floated down from the pines, strutted
among the shiny black bowling balls.
You will never write your life story.
Christopher T. George
Grieving
Isolated in my grief, I drive downtown
to pick up Mom's prescription, decide
not to say her brother passed yesterday,
don't wish to spoil tonight's wedding
of the granddaughter of a late friend,
in which Mom will stand in for grandma.
Now, I am driving home. I'm wearing two
red baseball caps, in honor of my uncle,
famous for wearing two ties to a funeral.
The world's shot; it's all bad news today.
Yet, on a streetcorner, a poet passes
out fresh copies of The Daily Word.
Christopher T. George
Bluebells for Lulie
I see a patch of bluebells in bloom,
am reminded of Mum's "Boo Bell Woods"
near her Garston, Liverpool council house.
On Saturday, I purposely delayed telling her
that her 92-year-old brother Douglas died
on Friday morning; we took her to a bayside
wedding. We heard sandpipers' high sounds
overhead; Chesapeake breeze cooled our cheeks.
The happy couple mixed sand, exchanged rings.
A white rose tied to my mother's thin wrist,
her brown and pink dress almost falling off:
I'd cut her shoe to fit her swollen foot.
Sunday morning, I break the news as I drive
for Royal Farms java and to view azaleas,
rhodos, dogwoods, and lakes of "duckies."
She's eighty-six years old but could be six;
Lulie, becoming the daughter I never had,
talks of "Christopher" as if I'm not there.
Christopher T. George
http://farm1.static.flickr.com/172/4...10305ac2f2.jpg
Here I am at age three months, being held by Uncle Douglas in the back garden of 76 Aigburth Hall Avenue, Mossley Hill, and my Mum holding me on the same occasion. Great hat!
