Sometimes you come across a wee gem from times long past.

Yesterday when going through a drawer looking for a random item I had been discussing with my father, I came across two old diaries that belonged to my Papa (Grandfather), Jimmy Dunn. I actually remember being given them, it was April 1984, a week or so after my Papa passed away. My cousin Gary and I were given a couple of diaries and we were told it would be nice if we sat and wrote something in our ‘wee books’ about our Papa.

And write we did, it’s funny looking back at the scribbles of a 10 year old trying to write what he thought was required. My scribbles were in the diary marked 1982. To be honest I think we must have been getting under our mother’s feet and they were looking for a distraction for us.

1981’s Diary however, had the wee bit of gold, the wee gem I referred to, a poem, here it was penned by Jimmy himself, my Papa. I know that he often wrote poetry, as did many of his peers Most likely, it was a way to express their feelings. The generation of the deep, no emotions to see here, certainly nothing like the stock of today. 

Back to the poem, it was quintet, a poem of five lines. I believe my Papa had written this circa 1970 and this was just a rework, either that or it was penned in’81 and he was reminiscing on times past.

The poem itself was untitled, I have therefore took the liberty to name it, ‘Untitled, a fathers poem’.

Untitled… A fathers poem.
Our last child will be leaving the home, we made with love,
I look at all our blessings and I thank dear God above,
For she’s got another love now, I’m pleased and yet I’m sad,
For the days that come, will have less sun,
With no “Good Morning Dad”.
                                                        Jimmy Dunn

The last to leave home was my Aunt Henny, the youngest of the three girls, Agnes, Margaret (my mother) and then Henny. 

It turns out there must be some ‘poetic ode in the genetic codes’ for around 10 years after my Papa’s passing, I started on my own journey with the pen.

I thought it would be nice to follow on from my find, with one of my own poems, so here it is my latest scribble;

What is the poetry all about?
Should it speak about, an endless love?
Or pray to a deity or a God above?
Written, spoken, should the words be mine?
Or what others expect, in the current time?
There’s many wrongs when trying to do right,
For all and sundry shout; “It’s my Human Right!”
Should it be anglicised for the world to read?
Ur in ma mither tongue, wid they tak’ ony heid!
Bit whit if it’s Doric, Gaelic ur Scots?
Would the learned gentlemen, connect all the dots?
Could my words paint a picture, for all to see?
For even the blind man, could I paint a tree?
Will my ditty consider a racial divide?
Or the cultural differences, in the land that I bide?
My words will they cut through the sands of time?
Will the future see the past, in these words of mine?
Should I put it to music, for a song to be sung?
Or roll like a lullaby from a mothers tongue?
A limerick, an epic, a fourteen line sonnet,
Do I dare let the critics lay their eyes upon it?
To consume it, interpret, then fill me with doubt,
So! What is the poetry all about?