Give it half an hour, then get up…’
Nearly there in twenty minutes,
…but not quite.
‘Give it another half hour.’
Then it’s, ‘Don’t try!’
But I try too hard not to try.

Then they softly tiptoe in, whispering!
‘Why did you…?’
and ‘Have you…?’ 
…until 2.30am!

I get pissed off with squirming and
shuffling and fling out of bed.
Curse back at the wife who curses me
and stumble downstairs.

Cool air and silence on the back step.
Smoke in my lungs, I relax.
Then the, ‘What is…’ and ‘What if…’
Start playing again.
‘Shut up, Barry,’ I shout to the darkness
and retreat to my chair, with a mug of tea…
…but they are still there.

Back on the step again, cig in hand.
‘What’s t’worst that’ll happen?
Appalled… ‘Bloody Hell!!’

Then it happens.
Something happens.
Dawn’s light separates tree from sky.
Tomorrow happens…
… ‘And I’m still here, alive!!

© Barry Fox

Bruise grey clouds hung threateningly,
Pushing the orange sunset over the horizon.
Thunder growled over the distant sea.
Lightening illuminated the horizon.

In the forest I waited.
Animals crouched attentively;
Stopped foraging;
glanced about them warily.
A blackbird’s melody pierced the electric silence.
I sat and waited.

A breeze whispered uneasily through the leaves.
A slow pitter-pat intensified the stressful whispered message.
A rising wind fitfully blew the complaining boughs.
The pitter-pat became a drumming.
I sat, engulfed by the cacophony,
And waited.

The bru-ha-ha gradually died away.
I still sat on, chilled and bruised.

At the edge of the forest, I stood on the wet grass
And bathed in the moon’s cold radiance.

© Barry Fox

Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice, a few by social pressures and a couple by habit. Did you ever wonder how mothers of children with Prada Willi are chosen?

Somehow I visualize God hovering over earth selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation. As he observes, he instructs his angels to make notes in a giant ledger.

"Armstrong, Beth, son. Patron Saint Matthew."
"Forrest, Marjorie, daughter, Patron Saint Cecilia."
"Rutledge, Carrie, twins. Patron Saint Gerard. He's used to profanity."

Finally, He passes a name to an angel and smiles, "Give her a child with Prada Willi".  The angel is curious. "Why this one, God? She's so happy."
"Exactly", smiles God. "Could I give child with Prada Willi to a mother who does not know laughter? That would be cruel."
"But has she the patience?" asks the angel.
"I don't want her to have too much patience, or she will drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wear off, she'll handle it. I watched her today. She has that feeling of self and independence that is so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child I am going to give her has his own world. She has to make it live in her world and that's not going to be easy."

"But, Lord, I don't think she even believes in You."
God smiles. "No matter. I can fix that. This one is perfect. She has just enough selfishness."
The angel gasps. "Selfishness? Is that a virtue?"
God nods. "If she cannot separate herself from the child occasionally, she will never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with less than perfect."
"She does not realize it yet, but she is to be envied. I will permit her to see clearly the things I see... ignorance, cruelty, prejudice... and allow her to rise above them. She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life because she is doing my work as surely as if she is here by my side. "And what about her patron saint?" asks the angel, his pen poised in mid air. God smiles. "A mirror will suffice."

© Erma Bombeck

Prada Willi association (UK registered charity)

If you would like any advice, to comment on this poem or Prada Willi please do so by way of posting a thread in the non arts section of our forum.

I’d invited Gaynor around for lunch and a catch-up and as always little Laura came round too, with her colouring book and crayons. Gaynor and I were gabbing for Britain all afternoon. Laura was happily colouring-in on the floor in the living room but after a while she got restless and began wandering around. I noticed she was walking in and out of the living room a lot with her crayons but she seemed like she was playing some sort of game, happy in her own little world.
Laura went out of sight again and then walked back into the room looking upset.
‘There’s a bad man watching me and Peter playing,’ she said. ‘He’s mad at us.’
Well, my mouth had never dropped as fast. 
'Who… who's Peter?' I asked.
'Peter's my friend,' she replied.
'Erm… come here, love,' Gaynor said, holding her arms out.
Laura walked over to her and Gaynor pulled her close. She gave her daughter a warm cuddle and looked over at me, worried. After a cuddle, she pulled Laura slightly away from her and looked her square in the eyes.
‘Is Peter a pretend friend from home?' she asked.
Laura shook her head then said: ‘He lives here, in there,’ pointing towards Louise and Sally’s room.
‘Who’s the bad man, honey?’ She asked softly.
Laura just shrugged.
'What does he look like?' she asked, running her fingers through her long brown hair.    
Laura put her fingers in her mouth and began shaking her upper body from side to side.
'Is he old like Granddad?'
Laura shook her head and looked at me with her big brown eyes, before nuzzling her head in her mother’s arm. Gaynor looked at me with concern etched in her face.
'Is there anything else you'd like to tell us?' I asked, rubbing her back with my hand.
'He doesn't have a face,' she said.