Alan Bruce Thompson Poems

It sounds so fine, so delicate, so rare,
But to me it's so loud, like elephants coming up for air.

What's delicate for one, is breaking the sound barrier for another,
...

Even allowing for delays, the bus did not come,
I planned each step carefully, to appointment from home.

I hate to be late, and hate latecomers too,
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She saw him and wanted to meet,
So she stumbled as she crossed the street.

He picked her up and gazed into her eyes,
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Soaring up, caught by a draught,
Up more, up again, as I soared I laughed.
There I am down there, the other one of me.
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'My God how the Jones's have aged',
said Mrs. to Mr. Smith, both a little dazed.
'My God how the Smith's have gotten older',
said Mr. to Mrs. Jones, trying to be a little bolder.
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We should put mother in the home without much fuss,
Move her across country to be close to us.

Nearer to us would be better for her,
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To stop the children swearing we invented our own talk.
To throw out a derogatory curse or an expletive as we walk.

To stand and proclaim, or self righteously blaspheme,
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Some mornings I wake and feel so mad,
And feel angry at someone, who looks quite glad,
The hatred smoulders, and I get quite sad,
When I realise that this problem is the greatest I’ve ever had.
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I was very busy all the time, and the years slipped past,
Then I got very sick and thought that day would be my last.

Those endless items filling up the time,
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I’m sorry, but I must now go,
“Oh! please don’t, don’t leave me just so”.

We’ve all those times together, those wondrous days,
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