I am a really, really bad poet.  I think that maybe my mother was being kind when she used to sit and listen, either opposite me in a chair, or on the other end of a long distance telephone line, then laugh and say I had captured my victim (that’s probably what they really are, if they appear in one of my poems),  perfectly, then ask me to read it again.  It’s times like this, when you really realize the worth of your mother, someone who is always there, hopeful, expectant, warm, caring, always available, wanting you to call them, but realizing that your older and your life is full of things, so important, that the last thing on your mind is to call your mum!   Mother’s understand these things, I know I am one, I call my children and hear that hesitant hitch in their voice’s, (is this going to be a long one? is what is going through their minds) But I understand, keep it short, get straight to the point and try not to hold them up in their busy world of growing up.   Now I’m rambling on, this started off about my poetry, like I said, I am a really really bad poet, but because of my mother’s wonderful patience, I actually think I am quite good.  Lol!

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