I love my daughter: but

I know, I know the exact word
I use it very frequently.
Then suddenly, it’s quite absurd.
I cannot trust my memory.

I’ve always trusted it before
and it has never let me down.
But that’s is not true anymore
and forms a reason for my frown.

My daughter says it just might be
because I’m getting on a bit.
I cannot possibly agree.
I’m aghast at the cheek of it.

I’m not old just eighty three.
I do not doubt that I will be
the first one of my family
to reach my own centenary.

What does it matter I forget
some little things occasionally
I know what’s getting me upset
Her lack of sensitivity.

The word will come if I just wait
That is a racing certainty
But I do not appreciate
a recaltricant memory.

There must be something I can do,
to stimulate my memory.
I think I’ll take up something new
Some thing active probably.

I may be old but I’m still fit
to think and act competently
My daughter talks a load of bull
I won’t forgive her easily.

Thursday,12 November 2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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