Hands, I have a name and, Gates of Freedom. Three poems by Patricia Baitson Phelan


The Pandemic is here: it’s changing our world.
We are all cocooning. Locked up indoors.
People are dying, left all alone
Wash, wash your hands. I’m crying out loud
Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday,
Soap is drying up our palms, people are isolating
Masks and gloves are the order of the day. Wash,
Wash your hands; send the demon on its way
Young hands, held my children, thought them how to play .
Hug a mother on a rainy day, wave to friends as they passed by.
Blessed myself a thousand times, masses shut, where is God?
Wash your hands wash your hands. I hear them cry

I have a name

I have a name I am not a number
I, have hair I have blue eyes. I am skin and bone
I am alive; don’t write of me as being old
I am of an age where I must cocoon,
I do it for my children and grandchildren
Don’t write me off I don’t feel old
Your time will come if you are as lucky as me
And you will see and feel just like I
Here my voice it is part of me listen to my plea
It likes to sing and laugh and sometimes cry
I have feelings, my brain still works
Look at me beyond my looks
Open your eyes and see beyond the lines
A life that lived through rough and happy times
Don’t write me off but let me live
The child in me forever loves and gives
I am not a statistic I am I
Don’t bury me before my time I have dignity
My life is mine.

Gates of Freedom

I woke up this morning; a fog was filling my mind
I looked out of the window, looking for sunshine
The sky was grey and dark; there was no sigh of the lark
The cherry blossom. was shaking, falling like snow on the dark drive
I feel a shiver it’s creeping up my spine
And I wonder and wonder if tomorrow will still be mine
The virus is still raging, still taking many lives,
People are still crying and asking why… oh why oh why?
I hear banging on my gate and run to see whose there
I see a plastic bag shaking in the wind; the sky is crying
The day is somber; I must make my way down the stairs
Passing by the windowpane I hear voices come from the gate
Nana Nana are you there, we wait and wait and wait
We want you to come out to play, open up the gate it’s in our way.


Member of Scribblers in Newbridge.

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