P Hubbard’s Thoughts


Pump Up the Iron

An iron deficiency was revealed in my blood test.
Three tablets a day were prescribed to bring about change.
Fast forward the time capsule.
Two months on what’s the outcome?
No spinach reaction:
I haven’t developed bulging biceps like Popeye.
No noble blood runs through my veins,
so I can’t emulate the Iron Duke, Wellington.
No new energy reserves, so the Iron-Man Contests remain a no go!
No extra irony has found its way into my poetry.
There’s no additional willpower, so I’m unable to follow
in the footsteps of Brunel and construct lasting iron monuments.
At least I’ve incurred no costs.
Prescriptions are free for the over sixties.
But iron changes are no placebo,
one change is apparent.
So what do they do?
They give you black poo.

Chemical Reaction

Lying in this hospital bed I’m unable to relax.
It’s hard to chill out with al this heavy metal running through my veins.
Iron is for maidens, yet I’m still on it.
Calcium would be great, except that the sugary liquid tastes nothing like Blue Stilton.
Ten hours of magnesium pumped into you;
don’t go there, I wish I hadn’t.
And now they’ve gone bananas on the potassium.
Should any new metals be discovered overnight then bring it on.
I’m your guinea pig.
Come to think about it, I’ve had my fill of oxygen as well.
Why not do the whole periodic table and be done with it.

Radio-Active Iodine

Registered in on
Arrival, and
Directed to my rooms.
Iodine is brought in
Outsize containers for a single tablet.
Anti-sickness pill already in my system.
Carry tablet by tweezers and place it in a tube,
Told to hold head back’,
Insert tablet
Via a tube,
Entering the bloodstream.

I inhabit these seven walls for the next 72 hours.
Old metre rule placed against my stomach.
” Don’t forget to take plenty of fluids”,
I do as instructed.
Nuclear reading taken;
Exit staff. Barrier nursing now applies.

Operation Eve

Not a mission to rescue a damsel in distress.
Not the title of an Ian Fleming novel.
Embassies and espionage are both conspicuously absent.
Operation Eve is the day before surgery.
I am worried about losing my voice.
Will the vocal chord be severed?
A sinister scenario could follow,
with paper trails of post-it notes.
Fast forward a day.
Fears unfounded,
Prayers answered,
Mission accomplished.
Choir practice beckons!

Second Cut

Six months on,
the second cut resulted in a quicker recovery time;
however the symptoms were more apparent.
My singing voice now has the power of a Sinclair C5.
When it comes to holding notes,
I rapidly become bankrupt of any sound.
The range of my vocal output has also been curtailed;
I suddenly and unexpectedly find myself singing in
Norwegian because my bass notes sound like an horse.
( a Norse).

The Game of Life

In my left hand I held the five cards dealt me by the N.H.S.
The fist card was lumps discovered in my testicles;
it proved to be just cysts.
I’ll live with that.

My second, was found by a camera put down my throat;
it proved to be Barratt’s O.
Two tablets a day make it manageable.
I’ll live with that.

The third was a temporary blip.
A small kitchen fire led to smoke inhalation and a short hospital stay.
I’ll live with that.

My fourth was confirmed as a floater in my right eye.
It was with me all the time, but I never learnt to love it.
Strange but true, it disappeared when my cancerous thyroid was removed.

The fifth is the card which I really want to dispose of.
A lot has happened in the two weeks since lymphoma was diagnosed.
I don’t want this card to win the game.

Surely the cards in my right hand are more powerful.
The family and friends card won’t accept defeat without a fight.

The poetry card will provide sustenance,
I’ll continue writing and learn from other poets.

I want to carry on singing, so the choir card will give me motivation.
I want to do more than five concerts.

The football card provides countless memories,
but I want to see more matches.

Nature in all its glory will give me strength.
I want to hear the cuckoo in Spring,
and see the swallows in Summer.

I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet.
My 60th and Pam’s 50th were memorable events;
but we’re looking forward to a Silver Wedding Do.

The devil’s left hand is strong,
but let the right hand win the battle.