I don’t often attempt to write poetry. It is a beautiful craft, and I am but a novice. I admire, and envy, the skill and passion of great poets such as Elizabeth Barrett Browning. But occasional life events inspire me to try my hand at this enviable craft. Such was the death of my mother in early 1999. I wrote this the day after she died and I never shared it with anyone until ten years later.

Originally, it was called Gone!, but now I think that perhaps the title should be

Mum – The Last Time

You’ve left me again.
You’ve left me again.
Why do you keep doing this?
Expect me to follow?
Not this time.
I‘m staying.

When I was seven you left me.
That was the first time.
I was dragged away,
kicking and screaming.
I hated that school, but
you left me there, and went.

That nurse dragged me in.
Bastard Bison abused me.
Yes! You should be shocked!
Bastard Bison abused me,
but you’d left me and gone.

When I was ten you took me away.
I’d begun to enjoy myself,
but you dragged me away.
I hated that Bison, but liked the school.
That was the time to leave me alone.
But, no!

How many times did I leave you?
Many times, but it really hurt.
No. You thought I was leaving
somebody else,
but it was all of you.

Then you left me again.
I was a big man,
and all of fourteen.
At a naval cadet school.
You left me again.

That was the last time,
or so I thought.
You never came to see me again,
Not in my own domain.
But now you’re in Heaven, and
you’ve left me again.

I came to see you,
wherever you were.
Over and over again.
But you’ve left me forever.
Now you’ve left me again,

You’ve left me again.
You’ve left me again.
Why do you keep doing this?
Expect me to follow?
Not this time.
I’m staying.
You’ve Gone!



Some friends have asked who Bastard Bison was. This is my response:

Bison was the nickname of a teacher at my boarding school who serially sexually abused me for three years, from the age of seven. I didn’t even realize that I had been abused until I was in my thirties, would you believe?!

On a lighter note, I have added the following to a response to another private comment that has been made to me about the raw emotion of my poem……..

When my Mum was dying, she told me that I looked stressed. I felt like saying that anyone whose Mum was dying would be stressed, but restrained myself. She told me that she’d left me a bit of money and I could use it to either pay a chunk off the mortgage, or go for the holiday of a lifetime to de-stress. Well, I am never one to be accused of going for the boring option, so I took myself and my wife off for an all inclusive holiday in a top Caribbean resort (in Grenada), for Christmas and the millennium.

So, there I was, at midnight, wearing my kilt and regalia less the socks and brogues, standing in the tropical sea, with fireworks and ocean liners behind me, tears streaming down my cheeks, raising a glass of single malt whisky to the memory of my Mum!

Crazy man!!!

About Lance Greenfield

Blog: lancegreenfield.wordpress.com email: lancegmitchell@outlook.com I published my debut novel in December 2014: Eleven Miles. My second novel went live in February 2016: Knitting Can Walk!
This entry was posted in Personal, Poetry, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Gone!

  1. Pingback: June’s Epitaph | Lance Greenfield

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