The fact that cannot be known until the time is ripe.....................................

When you reach the end, turn around

and start back.

More slowly now, more deliberate,

less wasteful.

There is little time, none to be wasted,

not one second.

And for those facing you, be considerate,

they don’t know.

You Asleep

I am watching you sleeping;

withdrawn to that room, your nightly retreat,

where you will go at the end

to nurse the petering flame of your life,

accompanied by yourself alone and, perhaps,

 manifestations of you that have been.

But now your face is quiet.

Out here, ignorant of all that’s stirring within,

I can only wish for your peace and comfort.

The prospect of you, in that room in the future, clumps

                                                                     through my mind;

I turn away, haul myself back to the present,

but my eyes remain open, headlights into the future.

My Head's Full Of

My head’s full of scrap, the clanking mass of.

A full-tide of worries shifting uneasily in the attic

has the feet of my stomach pedalling frantic.

Prostate and thyroid every dis way and dat dodging

the darts, and fool of a brain flopping with the derring-do

of a body that never had an egg-cup  of bravery,

asking which way all the errant arrows are pointing,

and my head this minute with hair-net on the inside.

Nightlife

Fox is a streak, an orange flame,

pulled by the snout, a meteorite tail behind him.

Slinking across the street, he stops dead centre

to consider his options.

Like money just clinked in his head, he continues,

through the bars into the darkness of the park.

With eyes, steak knives, through the blackness,

he hurries to where a  spine-chilling scream occurs at 3am.

The Day Passing

In the hospital,

Mary Byrne has not spoken

for almost three hours.

All afternoon she has been following

the progress of three rectangles of sunlight

over the floor and onto the walls of the ward;

her eyes flooded with swallowed past,

blank future,

pointless present.

Cruelty

After rubbing his hands vigorously,

Paul presented his right to the teacher,

who smashed the bamboo down on it,

then hit his knuckles on the upswing.

Each slap was met with a yelp of pain;

six in quick succession, and more almost daily;

more with each new year;

with each new teacher.

Paul was from a poor family,

the least academic in the class,

he left school early; was sent away;
he ended his life when it was supposed to begin.

.

In This Mood

Sometimes,  perfect renderings of still life might signify a state of mind.

In this mood,

things become more defined, absolute, more themselves.

The silver sugar bowl is not just reflective,

but a collection of the objects around it.

The shadows between the soaking peas are as dark

and mysterious as those between trees in a forest;

scale is immaterial, the detail is precise.

Colours become experiences: I look into red,

as I’d search inside the flow a river; browns

take on the richness of mahogany,

a grain inside the colour, a dynamic.

I reach for the sugar and watch my hand, from mid-arm,

travelling over the table like a boat heading out to sea.

It seems that my eyes suck the energy that is in me;

build this crisp perception from my concrete,

leave me in darkness amongst the brilliance of things.

Christmas Song

I wrote this as a song a number of years ago. I wanted to write another Fairytale of New York............okay, okay, no harm trying or wishing. I gave it to a singer who insisted that it was a poem; I still see it as a song (albeit with an alternative beat) waiting for a melody.      

              Christmas Song

I remember frosted trees,

sugary sunlight on rotted leaves,

winter hedges crisp and still,

high above a blackbird’s trill.

And you with ice blue eyes

and brilliant smile

singing Silent Night and all the while

wishing

that Christmas was gone.

I remember frosted trees,

collecting cones for festive wreaths,

carols wafted on the air,

we stopped awhile to wonder where.

And you with ice blue eyes

and brilliant smile

singing Silent Night and all the while

wishing

that Christmas was gone.

I remember frosted trees,

crunching across the frozen fields,

two plaited trails that we made,

promise of  the life we’d braid.

And you with ice blue eyes

and brilliant smile

singing Silent Night and all the while

wishing

that Christmas was gone.

I remember frosted trees,

a bracelet made with holly beads,

I placed it in your hand,

said it would be our wedding band.

And you with ice blue eyes

and brilliant smile

singing Silent Night and all the while

wishing

that Christmas was gone.

            I remember frosted trees,

            how they’ve haunted me all these years;

            oh to have been half so wise

           I would have seen through your disguise.

.           

           

And you with ice blue eyes

and brilliant smile

singing Silent Night and all the while

wishing

that Christmas was gone.

            

Visit Issue 4 of ​AvantAppal(achia)

Visit http://www.avantappalachia.com/,  if only to read Gabriel Rosenstock's gorgeous submission. It's very fine; beautifully presented in Irish and English, it's  inspiring; the kind of poetry I'm always hoping to find. 

The Terrorist

I’m exploring a village in County Roscommon, a quaint little place

on the banks of the Shannon. I’m strolling around, trying to catch

the atmosphere like I’d try to catch a tan. It’s  Summer, there’s no traffic,  

a few boats on the river, some hall doors are open, the shops are quiet,

if a bee stirred that would be the height of it.

It doesn’t take long to get around the whole village.Countryside laps

to every backdoor, the church on its ground is silent  as a tombstone,

the Shannon drags itself painstakingly by, and the sun’s heat has settled itself down

among the clouds. In the fields the hay is saved, somewhere a cow is yawning;

and an old man drives past in a tractor, going three miles an hour.

I know this, because he is half way to the shop, when I decide to make a race of it.

There is quarter of a mile at most, straight road, and, walking, I’m already gaining

on him. He’s past half way, moving incredibly slowly. I’ve covered half the distance

 between us.  He’s three quarters way, I’m over half way.  I’m almost level, almost level

when I reach the shop.Later I discover, locals call him The Terrorist.

Armani stops at our house

The ethics around photography are more than a bit grainy. The professional photographer is one thing, often questionable, but at least, he/she would appear to have a reason to be there, but the amateur is a different ball-game.

This flashy customer caught my eye; privileged materially, and with very expensive camera, he gave himself license to pry.

Armani stops at our house

  

Ferrari

sunbathing on the verge,

Armani

surveyed from the wall.

Rolex

grinning up a cuff,

Nikon

stole granddad’s gappy smile.

Ray-bans

snapping the moment shut,

Gucci

stepped from the grass;

Pirelli 

spat dust into our gateway.

gentle as rain,

as petals,

as snow,

you 

were,

always.

Failing Light

In the failing light of a November evening,

among the rotting leaves on a suburban path,

I remember you, digging the garden ridges, shaking out

the groundsel, tossing the stones under the hedge.

Great events in your kingdom were scurryings in the grass,

a thrush feeding on a worm, raindrops falling from the apple trees.

Far from inspectors and reports, you held sway over

the straightening of ridges, regiments of onions and lettuces.

With each passing year, you settle deeper into memory,

becoming ever more intangible, like these rotting leaves

that leave only their scent hanging in the dank November air;

after all this time, you have become more like a conversation 

                                                                                I never had.

The Wind Claps The Slates

The wind claps the slates;

all night they are hooves running berserk,

all night the wind is inciting them;

all night.

At twenty past two and twenty past three

and twenty past four I am looking at you;

how I would love to have hooves to come

crashing through your sleep, to burst into

your solitude.

And there I would, for better or worse,

demolish the muzzled years with as much

violence as reverberates beneath iron shoes,

as  causes such a frenzy in stone that slates

stampede.

Granny

Granny in woollen cardigans, bespectacled,

smooth-cheeked, sitting at the stove end

of the kitchen table, stockings rolled down,

wanting the dog to lick the ulcers on her legs.

Cups of tea coming and going like seasons,

showers of sunlight canonizing her fitfully,

switching on the light of her soft white hair,

the wild rose that bloomed free in her face.

The comfortable plumpness of her body

always shaped to her generous curiosity;

her old voice gentle as seaweed on a wave,

chatting life back into the bones of the dead.