Brain and braun and a mean streak
a mile long, with hands and a stronger head.
He could have been anything,
but he chose to be a pugilist instead.
A mighty upper-cut has he,
and a jab to keep his foe at bay.
In a way, a choreographer in this
ringed dance. Fighting for his life.
One more concussion and
all discussion of his future will include
warnings of permanancy. It is he
who chooses his fate;
who is to say if it’s not too late?
And the longer that he waits,
the gong will eventually ring his finality.
The banal refusal to concede with words
unheeded, will kill him. Boxing is all he knows;
it is all that thrills him. Life’s battered heavyweight.
Bound to the life we’ve created
and not necessarily the one planned,
each woman and man has a choice.
We can use our voices to call out the
unfairness that abounds, or remain
the prisoners we have prescribed to be.
Our enslavement can be nothing
from which good can be extricated.
Chained to these walls of self-doubt
and indecision, our mission is clear.
Shout out for all to hear and cheer
for the hero who escapes from the
tretchery of the villianous and destructive.
The only way to be productive
is to set yourself free and flee.
Grief, she’s a loyal mistress
to a fault, but not hers.
Colm MacNish has been
both suitor and antagonist,
an anarchist in the ways
of a fond and common heart.
A quiet alcove, a point where
rendezvous met passion,
fashioned from a molted overhang.
But interludes of his romantic
crassness, served no purpose
of self or otherwise. Her eyes
Haunt him: pleading, beckoning,
luring him to despair’s crumbled edge.
Her melody plays within him,
a din whose volume rises
with each sordid thought of her.
Her hands, no longer caressing,
lay resting acrost her still chest.
Gentility abandoned in stark reality.
And grief has replaced her.
Colm longs for her countenance,
a remembrance most sad,
had he paid heed to her supplicant
cries, she may have averted
deaths forceful grasp. But alas,
gone she was. Colm MacNish
had an eternal wish. A projectile
befitting a man of his caliber
burst from its chambered rest.
Their bench sits now, vacant and decrepit,
worm meal in their absence.
We carried a vision jointly.
We wanted a cottage in the countryside.
We wanted children and a dog.
We wanted to travel to far off places,
we wanted our faces to meet with every fleeting moment.
We wanted to grow old together and
we wanted our matching rocking chairs side by side.
But inside, a different story emerged.
I wanted the freedom to write my weary heart.
She wanted independence to placate hers.
I wanted to purchase more of a footprint on this old sod.
She wanted to wait and see how we worked out.
I wanted her to be happy,
she wanted that too.
She wanted the cottage in the countryside.
She wanted the children and the dog.
She wanted to travel far away from our union,
She wanted my face to meet her barrister.
We wanted to grow old together but
she wanted to keep her youthful arse far from that rocking chair.
I wanted to work things out.
She wanted to divorce.
She received the cottage in the countryside.
She took custody of the children and the dog.
She bannished me to a place far from her,
she wanted my face to suffer in pain.
She got everything she wanted.
Anyone wishing to purchase twin rocking chairs?
Away from the grind,
a mind at rest and loving
It is rejuvenation I am after,
and so walking off in the pursuit
of mystic pipes and a search
to debunk the dreaded
Lough McIllwain Monster
seems to be my solitary quest.
A journey unplanned
but well taken, forsaking
and social kinship
for a sip of whiskey and
nothing else over which
to concern myself.
Holidays always end.
How unfortunate this is so.
Tossed aside and another round.
Is the ground tilted?
Feeling jilted and quite
unstable. Unable to keep
my feet. Any more malt
and whatever happens
won’t be my fault.
Walking a fine line
although not a strait one.
What a party! A great one
as empty bottles and tins can attest.
in a flat notebook shape,
you take a licking
but keep on clicking
when I press your tabs.
Portable and functional,
on the road you are my pal,
my only means of community.
In unity with my mind and muse,
I can use you all day, for
I’ve a lot to say. Out of the corner
of my eye your warning flashes,
five percent power. I had better
find a receptacle in which to plug
before my cell is drai
What does one take away from moments like this?
Memories of warm embraces on a chilled winter’s day?
Recollections of times spent madly wrapped in
emotions that left your heart forever altered?
Do you count your experiences as worthy additions
to a life’s resume still left unfinished?
In the end, all we have is our dignity,
for that is the hardest earned prize for which
we could ever hope. A life well lived has its own reward.
Nothing else can compare; we all leave empty handed.
250 kilometres from home,
enjoyimg the countryside
and the Summer breeze
along this much travelled road.
The auto cruises until it
loses the fuel to motor.
I ought to have gone earlier.
Next petrol 27 km.
The countryside is overrated.
Silence in wonderment;
beauty of reflection
in glinting sparkles
of light and dark.
Slack-jawed with no words
forthcoming. Just the drumming
of the reptilian life
and the cricket’s chirp.
Night inspires, but I am
not enticed. I contribute
to nature’s hush. In the rushes
my muse remains mindless,
I guess I can accept this
without words to obstruct.