Walk a while with me my friends, walk with me today,Come and see what I see, and listen to what I say,Yes I have dementia, and sometimes I get worse,Please be very grateful, that you dont have this curse,But are we all that different, the likes of you and me?We breathe the same; we feel the same, the same things we do seeThe only different my friends, I dont feel that well,When I cant remember, everything you tell,My heart beats just as quickly as yours, my blood runs just as fast,But because of my dementia, my shadow, it is cast,Its the shadow cast by others, that takes away my light,Turns my life to darkness, my pleasure to frightFor when you cast that shadow, and it comes my way,It drains me of my energy, makes me hide, or run away,Sometimes I do different things, my mind is not my own,But do YOU never talk to yourself, when you are alone?So am I all that different? Brother when you weep for me, remember that it was meant to be,Lay me down and when you leave, remember Ill be at your sleeveIn every dark and choking hall, Ill be there as you slowly crawlOn every roof in driving snow; Ill hold your coat and you will know.In cellars hot with searing heat; at windows where at a gate you meet;In closets where young children hide: you know Ill be there at your side.The house from which I now respond is overstaffed with heroes gone;Men who answered one last bell did the job and did it well.As firemen we understand that deaths a card dealt in our hand,A card we hope we never play but one we hold there anyway.That card is something we ignore as we crawl across a weakened floor,For we know that were the only prayer for anyone that might be thereSo remember, as you wipe your tears, the joy I knew throughout the yearsAs I did the job I loved to do I pray that thought will see you through. Rest there on the mossWhere the soft zephyrs tossThough circlet of beauty and prideWith thy invisible wingsAttached to thy stringsAre folded in peace at thy side. Poems about the wonderful aunts that were always there for us, through thick and thin. In our hearts there is a placeThat only you can hold;Filled with loving memoriesMore precious than gold. Take my ash, and let it fly,Oer the land of ShimanoBut save some for Italia fairAnd the fields of Campagno(lo). Our lager, which art in barrels,Hallowed be Thy drink,Thy will be drunk, (I will be drunk),At home as I am in the tavern.Give us this day our foamy head,And forgive us our spillages,As we forgive those who spill against us,And lead us not to incarceration,But deliver us from hangovers,For thine is the beer, the bitter and the lager,Forever and ever,Barmen. Spaces fillwith a kind ofsoothing electric vibration.Our senses, restored, neverto be the same, whisper to us.They existed. Our Alley,who art in BowlingHallowed by thy lanesThy strikes will comeThy will be doneOn approach as it is on releaseGive us this game our weekly bowling nightAnd forgive us our splitsAs we forgive thoseWho excessively celebrate against us.Lead us not into the gutterBut deliver us from the ten pin.For ever and EverBowl Men. Roy Harpers When an old Cricketer leaves the crease has been mentioned. Would you volunteer to be Captain, Lord?To ensure there is fair play?For if you draw the cards, and measure,I hope to play for you someday. Kazmierczak A light-hearted poem about trying (and often failing) to get a strike.The End Of The Alley Mark Gregory A poem filled with bowling terminology about what we hope for when we die.A Ten-Pin Bowlers Prayer anon An adaptation of the Lords Prayer, but for ten-pin-bowlers. Poems for those who lived their life in rural areas, or simply shared a passion for rolling hills and sprawling fields. From the first time that you hold em,Through every time you scold em,And every soiled nappy that youve changed,From all the crap you saw,They will always dish out more,Its just the way that children are arranged. all is alive,all dances on through time and space,so find the highest tastein all thingson your journeyinto love. Do you have a pavilion Lord?Where we could sit and talk?Can you give me lots of energySo that I am never short? We must dig in and get through to tea. Your lines and curves and perfection of shapeTransport my soul and take hold of my gaze.Your lines of your chest oer shoulder and napeTransport my soul to see beauty and praise. The earth provides the musicTo set your spirit freeYou only need to trust yourselfFly! Any crosses, any shotsI will simply stop the lotI am always in demandThe goalie with expanding handsVolleys, blasters, scissor kicksI am safe between the sticksAll attacks I will withstandThe goalie with expanding handsFree kicks or a penaltyNo-one ever scores past meStrong and bold and safe Ill standThe goalie with expanding handsLet their strikers be immenseIm the last line of defenceAlert, on duty, all posts mannedThe goalie with expanding handsPalms as long as arms expandThumbs and fingers ready fannedYou may as well shoot in the standNot a chance! Hes got speed and endurance.But if you sign to fight him, increase your insurance.This kids got a left, this kids got a right,If he hit you once, youre asleep for the night.And as you lie on the floor while the ref counts 10,You pray that you wont have to fight me again. For untying the strings that held them,when they grew up and left home.I give you this one for courage.Then the Lord added a garnet stone. Theres a picture I cant look away fromWith simplicity of your innocence.Theres a picture of what love can becomeWith simplicity, strength and elegance. Poems about grandmothers, grandmas, nannies and grans. Of round . The instruments played this salutationTo amusicianof note and much moreAt the end, everyone stamped their feetEncore, Encore, Encore! When yesterday we thought about tomorrow; The professional on TV at the moment are women, so that's a very welcome change at least. He picked up bricks, mortar and trowel to craftBarbies and walls, buildings and homes that lastAn arch or a curve, all his work set apart,Because each brick he placed, was a work of art. But then, like sunshine, here and goneYou left us in the mournful dark.The time we shared was full of warmthOur flame sustained us through the yearsAnd now it lights the path aheadBetween the silence and the tears. Fly, fly precious oneYour endless journey has begunTake your gentle happinessFar too beautiful for thisCross over to the other shoreThere is peace forevermoreBut hold this memry bittersweetUntil we meet. Hello there, Granddad.Its me, your little man,I couldnt find you yesterday,When I came to visit Nan. This upbeat tune was used as the theme for the BBC's Test Cricket Highlights for many years, making it popular funeral music for lifelong cricket fans. I see through different eyes.I see a bigger picture when others see grey skies.Though many cant conceive it, I stand facing the wind.My bravery, not from fighting, but from my strength within. Without any doubt or fearmy favourite drink is surely beer,anything from pale, to brown alein fact any beer thats on sale,never halves, only pints or largerstout, bitter, smooth or golden lager,wonderful taste of malt and hopsproduced from ripe natural crops,must be drunk cold never warmdrinking good beer will do no harm,beer surely doesnt cause a beer bellydrink too much makes you very silly,you can keep your spirits and winea good pint of beer to me is just fine,beer is drunk north, south, east and westevery country thinks their beers the best. I know I caused you sadness,I know caused you pain,But I was captured by these demons,They wouldnt set me free again. He wanted someone to hold usAnd show respect for others.He wanted someone whod be gentle,So he created mothers. Are the fire exits clear?Id really like to keep you safeWhile youre all sitting here, I do hope some practical jokerDidnt dress me up in my fireproof gearIf Im at a crematoriumWe might be a long time here, The graveyard would be a safer betWith gods sprinklers shedding a tearNow to end my last shiftI dont want to waste your precious time, My deepest love to dearest familyColleagues and friends of mineSo please send me off in a blaze of gloryA fitting end to a firefighters story. The only reason these days,that I ever get down on one knee,Is to view the World the way,that only a Bowler gets to see,Upon that velvet turf,looking down along the level green,Studying the Kittys spread,and where the Jack is on the scene.Will my final bowl be cunning,or just drive to win the end?I know Ill find theres Bowls in Heaven,so worry not my friend. Poems for those who had a passion for wearing jewellery, or dedicated a lifetime to crafting it themselves. A Dad is a person, who is loving and kind,And often he knows what you have on your mind.Hes someone who listens, suggests, and defendsA dad can be one of your very best friends!Hes proud of your triumphs, but when things go wrong,A dad can be patient and helpful and strong.In all that you do, a dads love plays a partTheres always a place for him deep in your heartAnd each year that passes, youre even more glad,More grateful and proud just to call him your dad!Thank you Dad, for listening and caring,for giving and sharing, but, especially, for just being you! That apron dusted tablesAnd shooed away the fliesIt did just fine as oven mittsTo take out bubbling pies. Your fingerprints are on my heart.Fingerprints that teach me about caring.Fingerprints that teach me about love.Fingerprints that teach me about courage.Fingerprints that teach me about hope.Fingerprints that bring me closer to my loved ones.Fingerprints that bring me closer to myself.In the time I cared for you my whole life changed never to be the same againAll this from tiny fingerprints that touch my heart.You will live in my heart forever never to be forgotten.I will always love you.You are my child. Your angels share is there to be asked forOf the malt whisky escaped from oak casksYou can savour a peaty Macallan 46For a drink that will forever last. Poems for those who enjoyed filling in those tantalising blanks across and down. Into some other thing. The boxer stands with his gloves at the readyHis gait sure and steadyHis eyes aware and to the foreHis mind on the bout and nothing more, But deep within, and on his face writtenAre the many scars of a life hard-bittenAnd while neer shy of a hard-fought fightThere is no longer within the feeling of delight, His face has too oft been made to payBy an opponent better on the dayAnd though within beats the heart of a lionHis poor pummelled body has given up tryin, And while a fighter to his very coreJust the smell of gloves now he does abhorYet, still he stands, eyes puffed and blood galoreStill ready to wage a pugilists war. He will hold you in his arms and the angels will sing. For though from out our bourn of Time and PlaceThe flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crossed the bar. If you want fame for yourself, go play an individual game. Gods Garden D. W. McConway A slightly religious poem about God calling a tired person home.God Saw Him Getting Tired / God Saw Her Getting Tired Frances and Kathleen Coelho A poem similar to the above.I Am At Peace Jennifer Alderton A short poem urging mourners to remember a terminally ill person at their best. Its everything you sacrificedand choices you made.Its all the problems that you solved,your lessons from mistakes. Fossils Peter Cullen A thought-provoking poem perhaps equating physical fossils to memories of the dead.Old Bones and Stones Mark Gregory A first-person poem about a passion for fossils and an acceptance of death.A Story Of The Past Charles Sternberg The first four stanzas of Sternbergs poem about finding God in fossil-hunting.