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Changing of a Bed

When my 4 year old recently kicked me in the head whilst lying in my bed, I got to thinking about how the place where we sleep changes through the years. As so often, this generated the guts of a poem and the following ensued. Usually these rough starts are where my poetry comes from.

Bed

From encompassing arms, I was laid into a flat bed
Bars that protected my roaming urge, left me void of the caress
That would be obtained when I later wandered
Across the landing to reach the space between
My mother and father, disturbing their peace.

A larger bed left me wondering when,
My legs would grow to touch the air beyond the duvet
Which had to be thrown in moments of heat,
Attacked with a vengeance by arms too small,
To control such obstacles to receiving a cuddle.

As testosterone raged and limbs expanded,
I treasured the space that truly was mine
To control and decorate, to relax on and linger
Surveying the posters of dreams that fought
To lay an impression on the journey’s start.

Then in different rooms, I took refuge in beds,
That were not my own but hired for a time.
Homeless but happy, breaking new grounds abroad.
An abode so petite, so cramped and basic
But owned periodically to give it some worth.

Then the bed grew, doubled in size,
To allow for manoeuvre of multiple occupants
Who fumbled and loved, learnt new emotions.
For some the tenants changed but I grew fortunate
In keeping the lodger within the house walls.

Feet in my head, an occupying force,
Takes ground in my bed, with the cutest attack
Which left this dreamer awake most nights.
So strong the attack that more followed on
And all hopes of ownership went off to the wall.

Then she spent longer in that slumbering bastion
Before they suggested a different abode.
But she troubled them not long, never lingered,
And she made her way to a different home,
Parting with tears and eyes ever so tired.

Too much room in this bed nowadays
And no flesh to tell me my feet are cold.
A room that was filled with noise and laughter,
Passions fulfilled and children rampaging
Has become a tomb with orthopaedic pillows.

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G R Jordan author, poet, and top Dad apparently!

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This is a little piece that came to me over lunch. With so many refugees, it set me wondering to how I respond to them, and more so, how offensive my thinking can be.

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I wondered which rooms we could put them in,
Planned the beds, with that smug little grin
That says I am helping you, doing good.
We could share meals and show you good food,
Cut out the spices as our meat is pure,
Not rancid or left lying in heat.
Would you need some space for your queer little customs?
Maybe a car but it’s the left from now on.
And your children, we’d dress in uniforms neat
They would still stand out but their clothes would match.
After a time we’d show you how to fit in
Take up our ways, civilised things.

When I look back at the thoughts that ran riot,
I thank Him that at least we were willing.

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G R Jordan author, poet, and top Dad apparently!