Looking again at some of my poems I am sorry to have burdened you with such raw material. As you know the queen has been reigning for seventy years which is quite a remarkable feat and I felt a poem bubbling up inside for this special time. Here is my contribution and it is very personal. However, I am open to comments and thoughts about it, even about its style and if I should cut certain lines or re-arrange the verses.
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Crossing his palm with silver He placed his hand on my Little bap. My cursed pa, With a penchant for Dressing in ma's clothes. In my winning pink silk crown Adorned with ermine and jewels, Turquoise, rubies and pearls, I served up ice-cream As mum stoked the barbeque And dad pulled the pints, Sister Candy was the queen. And now my son has been hot-crossed with silver, Toch'd by persons unknown in 'the home'. I feel like Non's silver tea pot, Pretty but useless. And my silvered son's body has been intricately engraved With (XXX). The dad had a hole burning in his pocket from the hot gloves. The coins came back to cross us in gold. And guilded nurse babe fled to New Guinea To avoid excessive scrutiny in '99, When champagne uncle's corks were popping everywhere. But my guilt burnt a hole so deep It was like hell as Freddie Mercury Looked down on the roof tops from above As my sweet child and I had a party In the blue room. That guilt that I can't quite forget or forgive Was it the caretaker? The circle was tight and The watcher over the wall snatched my son. Through the gap up to the caravan, And I could tell but no-one believed. We fled never to return to Devon and Cornwall. And Non's platinum ring is unworn, unused, mislaid. The family has been seen off by A first platinum crown. Son officially, rest unofficially. Now I lift my pen to scribble my truth, And tap and type 'til Kingdom come, Leaving a blank inch - return, return; For the 'X marks the spot'. (Dad, Malcolm, Tony). It's not an assent It's a complaint your honour, Mum, A silver disloyal royal representative. And Non's silver cake knives are waiting Somewhere for my son to inherit. by Patricia Goldberg
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