Ominous

There is a blue box on the hall table.

A cube, transparent plastic, maybe three inches high.

It capsules twilight,

and there are objects drowned in it.

Sitting there,

it’s like something is going to happen. 

Scarecrows.

We are two scarecrows: rags and string;

what the rain softens the wind picks clean.

We are two scarecrows: sticks and straw;

crows fly out from underneath our jackets.

We are two scarecrows: nails and wire;

each day drowning as the corn grows higher.

We are two scarecrows: sacks and hay;

nodding toward eternity, we tip toward clay.

Your Crying

Your crying:

The silver streams

Of your eyes,

The radiant red cheeks,

The choking on words,

The gullish.

Somehow

I think of a voice

Curling up

From inside a hollow oak. 

Bones

(in response to this week's awful discovery in Tuam)

Bones in the soil,

broken bones.

Bones that sheltered a mind,

and a heart.

That had a name,

that rested on a pillow,

that might have run a race,

maybe won if they were fast-

moving bones.

That might have grown

to adulthood,

crooked around a lover’s neck

and been happy then.

Might  have aged to venerability,

or been fond old bones

carrying liver spots,

showering gappy smiles

on grandchildren.

Bones,

those bones in the soil.

In The Park

      

I met an old man

with seawater eyes

sweeping together

the leaves of his life.          

Into a sack they went,

each golden one.

Child

         

Where are you.

Where are you child.

Among the spring green leaves

Naked as a lizard;

I hear your airy lilt,

Why are you humming.

From what remote well

Do these grotesque sounds come;

Dispatched, bleak cirrus

In the high skies of a child's voice,

Freezing all the forest

Into fairy-tale stillness.

Where are you,

Where are you child.

In what empty paradise;

Where's the tower that emits your eccentric song;

Against the frozen wings of which birds of paradise

Do you rub.

The way of the world

I came across a written piece in which it said that you can be very friendly with a person. The friendliness grows towards a sexual relationship.  A time comes when that  relationship might be consumated, but if the moment passes, the relationship  unravels, even appears somewhat sordid to the other person. 

It always surprises me when I see the closest relationships break up, only to descend into a version of open warfare.

You see it, often in families: is it because there's a sense of betrayal? Closeness turns to outright hostility.

The Way of It

I can't fit you into my scheme of things  

nor you me,

now that we've finally become ourselves.

I turn on you sharper than a scalpel,

spit words chiselled to wound.

Out from beneath the quilt of affection,

our naked selves so vicious,

we bruise each other with the same fervour

that once marked our love.

She Swept into the Sky

That day Maggie Allen,

propped up in her bed,

was staring at the bedspread.

Snow, melting in her eyes,

fell, tiny bells,

into the valley far below.

Suddenly, arms spread wide,

a blizzard of hair,

she swept outward

off her ledge,

into the sky

across the room.

We stared at her

nonplussed face,

the four pillows tucked behind her.

Reflection

The sunlight on the back of your neck,

ear-lobes, hair.

A page-reflected glow onto your chin,

dimming upward towards your eyes,

and all else darkness around you.

If I’d never seen that you are beautiful;

that day, as the light chose to steal up behind you,

to settle on you  so gently, but dazzlingly;

that light would have been light enough

to reflect forever in my mind.

Lost in Adulthood

Explorers

Poem for Elaine

Then, I was the explorer

with that pedal happiness in my feet;

down a tunnel of laurels

or wellington-deep in water.

Now I have to be reminded:

there are furze trails to be charted,

tracking to be done in the tall grass,

and we should be deadly quiet

in the hedge caverns after dark.

Still waiting for Enlightenment

Cruise Missiles          

Jesus, the padre prayed,

direct these missiles onto the heads

of our enemies.

Except that’s not what he said. He said

we pray that these missiles will be efficient

in their function.

Then. Up Jesus,

ride them clean down their throats.

Except, of course, he didn’t say that either;

but blessed them with holy water.

After that, the missiles were dispatched,

American missionaries to Europe.

(I saw this religious ceremony on the main evening news when the first cruise missiles were being deployed in Europe.)

One of the Most Beautiful Places in Ireland

This poem, The Green Road, refers to one of the most beautiful and very walkable walks in Ireland; the green road skirts around the north-western corner of the Burren in county Clare. A karst limestone landscape with unique fauna, herds of wild goats, and the most stunning views of Galway Bay, the mountains of Connemara and the Aran Islands. A lot of people will drive on to the Cliffs of Moher, but if you've got 2 working legs beneath you and a couple of free hours this is an unbeatable pleasure.

The poem was included in the anthology, Fermata: Writings inspired by Music (Artisan House, 2016) which was edited by Eva Bourke and Vincent Woods. It's a magnificent collection, featuring writers such as Thomas Kinsella,Vona Groarke, James Joyce, Seamus Heaney, Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, Paul Durcan, Derek Mahon, Pearse Hutchinson, Paula Meehan among a host of others and a foreword by composer/musician Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin. These writings sing to the music that inspired them; be good to yourself and buy it.

The Green Road.© Copyright David Purchase and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

The Green Road

The blackthorns above Fenore
are flight rooted;
they are folklore’s skeletons,
beggars of the green road.

Scoured to the knuckle,
stunted on burren karst,
they are the hags on the mountain
hunched from Atlantic gales.

Yet even this stone-weary day,
with hunger perched on their throats,
a robin is singing in each
notes that singe the February air.

Beneath the huddling sky,
into the ear of the green road
it pours, clear as water,
the music of tin whistlers’ dreams.

The Donald’s Personality Traits

Anger: has he got anger issues! When  riled, he’ll fight with anyone or anything at the drop of a hat, without thinking it through. Doesn't matter how absurd, sense departs and it doesn't help that he’s temperamental and stubborn too. He’s selfish, often rude and is obsessed with money, gold. Not exactly humble either, he craves fame and popularity, he brags and shows off. To say he doesn't see himself clearly would be an understatement.

It’s quite hard to know what the Donald’s saying a lot of the time, that’s to say his meaning can be hard to get at.
Donald is white with a great splash of orange around his gob, and he’s great box office. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.”

Don't we all know one?

Angry

Among the blocks of the establishment;

a flawless rise bolted your trust;

 

success was cement,

all loose notions were pebble-dashed.

Now you revise:

the establishment, its self-righteous system:

how many bodies like you

have fallen from the sides to point the pyramid ?

And how many times did you skate over principles,

that I remember, you once held dearly?  

Let's Face It, There are Times.........................

Slips on ice.

Prim, haughty Christine

takes to the air.

What a moment:

Christine,

the unabridged version.

What a manoeuvre:

haughtiness to bashfulness

in the widening of an eye.