Meet my Old P.A.

The curse for me of this disease,

too many hours with nowt to do;

a queue of things would do if could,

but balance lost, activities,

and drive towards expanded life

has into lockdown ways collapsed.

I know the guilt, as work beyond

days self-contained has been advice;

but now denied in my own style,

what I proposed, best medicine.

As little boy, could not construe

how medsin claimed a syllable,

or sweeps about the chimley breast

could charge for chimneys, Santa dropped.

There’s a distraction. Lonely fears

I cannot bare with those I love,

demand beyond the carers’ share -

so thank the lord for honest verse

that hurts anonymous far less.

I do not swear by priestly garb -

though in such rôle throughout my days -

but those within the company

of poets knowing scourge, PD.

It is a church, but less of creed,

more of the care, community,

which is, dare say, creed Galilee

before theology took charge,

complex religiosity.

I take the tablet - old term, pill,

which carries me when desperate,

and early hours, the ice clink glass,

which lets me free for franker codes.

With laptop and those online mates,

whoever thought - my own PA!

Though most would say it’s heresy,

’tis in this fellowship I find,

frustrations of my PD friends,

who sense where I too coming from.

Out on a limb, except with these,

who understand, commiserate,

dare far more than for physical,

as drivers of spirit’s demands.

I can let rip, though family,

the precious close, poor sympathy

with PD poets and their source -

an art form fear to grapple with.

The best maintained, typewritten words -

quick finger click, ’fore disappears -

though keys remain, the train of thought

just wanders off, AWOL again.

But all averse, unwritten verse,

poet’s obsession, flailing art,

when others busy to survive,

too many scares of world to bear.

Which adds to burden, making fuss,

when I should smith another’s voice.