Maureen

Maureen. pic

 

so many words came tumbling out

as if they had been uncorked from this little

Irish woman from Waterford

in front of her the river shone and curved around a weir

white water crashing on the rim of its soft flowing surface

and in the far distance her memories

a fugue set against the towpath with its runners, couples

and people ambling with dogs all unaware of her in her pool

an island on a bend of a fictional river with her husband

who passed away in 2014 – she lets us know of her childhood across

the water, one of nine from Waterford  “where the crystal comes from”

that last with a knowing twinkle in her eyes

of how long ago Edward came to her home town on holiday with friends

and quite by heavenly happenstance they struck up a dialogue

that developed and grew into marriage and a family of their own

he, being a dab hand at everything around the house left her with

a sturdy ship but how she misses him, his presence almost tangible

she sheds a tear and smiles thanking us for listening

 at the end when we make to leave she says

“you’ve made my day”

Marooned

Marooned.pic for poem.

 

sometimes I get visitors who say they are related

they seem to practice their kindness on me as if

I am some kind of experiment

other times I simply lie there in gauze

the light strained through filters so that I

seem to rest beneath a halo

a crescent of colour ready to blush in tune

with my biorhythms – it’s probably plugged-in

but then so am I

so we run in parallel, pointless orbits

and most of the time I dare the lights to go

out where silence at least would show respect

 

sometimes I get visitors who say; ” you look well today”

they must imagine their words will be a tonic

but then I hear them say ” how awful to be locked in”

as if I’m deaf

that’s when I wish I was dead

but I’m not and the voices won’t go away

I get this every day and when I’m gone

I look forward to that day

it will be as if I was never here

never in the remote kindness of strangers

in dread of their footsteps

and all their good intentions

A telling

A telling. pic. poem with words

 

the sound in an Irish voice last night

made me feel nostalgia for an ‘old’ place

on the coast of Donegal

that sentimental muscle in me loved

the lilting refrain

of men who remembered pain

and still

raised a smile and spoke with precision and wit

of times gone by, of dreams gone awry

with an evocation in the air they displaced of ancient associations

the heinous sins, the grief in troubled souls

of men and women who have known

the cling of pain

rising up through words to make

something solid in the air, something lasting

a flag to wave and tell of hope

another hospital visit

Another hospital visit. pic

 

love lies bleeding

yes, I’ve said that before

but the internal wounds

they slice at hope

shape misery, that growing thing

as it mutates – a lava lamp of swelling gloom

wherein light casts little

by way of illumination

and all the little things

others may say and try to do

amount to nought

because inside thoughts collide

with doom – an intractable slide away

into an awful fairground

where light and noise crackle and spit

dodgems bump, grind

internal organs slither

and laughter once evoked by the ride

inverts and spills

lays down a tear

reflected in psychedelic light

blood red

a premonition in an anti-septic room

before the lights go out

James

James and I. Collage 2019

 

a day looms in the near future

laden with unknown fears

it is, or it could be, a turning point

a signal, a way point. Certainly it marks

a departure

of our red-haired son with his given name

into the company of other men

other souls who seek solace in extremity

who will bawl his name and push him

to limits we, his parents, never could, never would

and in those moments of strain

where God may not be found but God invoked

this boy, this man, our progeny

will know that our love will not desert him

in that liminal state he finds between his youth and his future

and will he know what I have learnt

that he is powerless, yet as a child of love

he carries us, our love, our future seeds

and he is goodness if he so chooses

Old photograph

Old photograph. pic-001

 

curling as it dries

on the mantelpiece

a resurrection  of our bonds

with tear drops frozen in amber light

as the day closes around everything

I cannot lose

That photograph, a tied knot, endures

as we age and I reminisce

being lured into our shared past

by casual nostalgia

and a fondness for the look in their eyes

 

All this today we share,

built around the ambition to survive,

so now we erect monuments on shelves in our home

in praise of relics,

those souvenirs of love and loss

that betray us as creatures of faith

How bittersweet it is to acknowledge

that all of it is slipping away

unashamedly facing us but somehow,

if I view it right,

complicit in a kind way

that will allow me eventually

to simply surrender and fade away

Listening for rain

 

Listening to rain.pic for poem

 

nobody asks that I should write

so I go blind to words, those seedlings

in a field of dreams gone fallow

and my fingers get lazy

as they atrophy around the tools

that let my soul identify pain

 

 this sloth hangs heavy on its threads

raggedly denying the cold

but without a sense of cause

as everything within becomes forlorn

and travel, that feeling of impetus,  is second-class

slow and likely to be misplaced

 

softly drips spill against the glass

like diffident soldiers in a phoney war

knock knocking and asking for a doctor, who

will listen to my complaints

and earnestly look into my eyes and say

next please.

as such, perhaps, maybe

as such,perhaps,maybe pic for poem

 

invite me in

to your parade of words

let them shine and settle as motes

fairies in a time of gloom

on surfaces that shudder to the touch

let me not go blind to them

though they may be false prophets

let me indulge them

though sloth hangs heavy on it’s threads

 my fingers are lazy

as repentant soldiers that limp slowly

imparting  messages from brain to drain, HQ to sump

and dump everything around the curvature

of the earth

raggedly denying  the cold

that fringe of utterly knowing

and not knowing

the blessed rim, the circumference

of hope

Many happy returns

Watch face.jpg

 

last night a shower of beer rained down

over Bristol, London, Birmingham and far beyond

or at least that’s what I saw on the news

and out-performed any rainfall we have had for months

in a raucous tumult of emotion that echoed

the Roar of 66′

this morning, gingerly

blue skies are the blessing that meets

 those bleary eyes and broken hearts

that dared to dream and over-step the mark but

the grass will celebrate in the sweet ooze that was thrown away

and rise again

 so come home

young men and rub shoulders amongst your kith and kin

and know that we have shared your time abroad

been brought to our knees with you

so close, as ever, to that fervent wish.