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!



A friend 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 realise 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 Kim F’s comment on 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!!!


11 Responses to Gone

  1. Seafarrwide says:

    its a strange thing but when our parents are old we know we cant even tell them the real truth then either as they couldn’t cope! Good on you going to the Caribbean!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Erika Kind says:

    Wow, she went through a truly tough time.


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  5. Marianne says:

    A very raw poem, Lance! As a mother, it breaks my heart to hear what you went through. Children should be protected and guided. There is no letting go of their hands in this day and age – it’s sad. But you seem to have become a remarkable man in spite of it, and I applaud you. Perhaps you have inherited your mother’s strong will more than you realize.


    Liked by 1 person

  6. JazzWood says:

    I promised you a comment my friend.
    I loved it.
    and no I will never look at you differently, and i am so glad you could share your story with me. can’t wait to meet you 🙂 COL COL

    Liked by 1 person

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