By Jayne Venables, living with PH
My lungs have gone on strike again,
Refused to work past half past ten.
“Too much pressure,” they declare,
While I’m stood bargaining for air.
Tried jogging once – well, more a trot,
Made it 10 steps. Gave it a shot.
A passing Nan sped briskly by –
I waved her on… too knackered to try.
Climbed the stairs like “right, be brave,”
Halfway up, I saw my grave.
Sat on step three, texted a mate:
“If I don’t make it, tell them I was… late.”
The GP says, “Keep active, please,”
I laughed so hard I had to wheeze.
“Define ‘active,’ doc, be fair –
Blinking fast or standing there?”
They’ve got me on Sildenafil – cheeky name,
“Not that kind of help,” I must explain.
And Epo’ in a pump I lug about all day,
Like a dodgy handbag I can’t put away.
Went to Tesco for a loaf of bread,
Came back looking freshly dead.
Self-checkout beeped – “Unexpected item!”
Mate, it’s me. Please don’t excite ‘em.
Still, I joke – what else is there?
Can’t sprint, can’t dance, can barely ‘stair’.
If life’s a race, I’ve cracked the art –
I’m not slow… I’m just queueing for air.
JUDGES COMMENTS:
“A wonderfully humorous poem, using creativity to find light and humour, making you smile and helping life more bearable when debilitating health takes its toll.”
“The funniest entry and one of the truest, with the line the whole community will want on a T-shirt: “I’m not slow, I’m just queueing for air.” Grief, grief and laughter, which is about the right proportion.”
