The wind across the lough is playful,
a fine mix of mirth and inversion;
diversion comes as a daily dose,
a closer walk with The One Being.
A cloud pocked horizon lays nestled
with beams of solar sweetness teeming.
I’ve been dreaming of a day like this
for a forthnight and now that it’s here
I take my pause to refesh, so blessed
in the dawning of every new day.
Each more precious than the next for sure.
A cure for the aches and pains of life.
Strife vacates and it’s never too late.
A glorious day to be alive!
A new poetic form developed by Marie Elena Good of Poetic Bloomings:
Poesia di Tema
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.
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.
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.
This journey to futility’s edge
became longer the minute your direction
became contrary to ours.
Hours spent in lock step kept
two hearts fighting for their last breath.
The depth of sorrow could fill tomorrows on end
and send all hope packing along with you.
But it was true to form; the norm for us
when trust and love were not enough.
Walking becomes a solitary excursion
on life’s diversion, my sides are exposed
and my arms hold nothing but the spectre of you.
The birth of me blessed this place,
but all traces of existence have vacated.
A noble home; a country cottage kept
amidst the hills and briars with room
to grow and learn. The stoop unswept
and remnants of window hangings clinging
steadfastly to the narrow rod, t’were hung.
Songs that mother had sung for father’s joy,
or to her infant boy, linger amongst the cobwebs.
In my possession, but no heart for disposition.
Dreams of restoration to her former glory
have long since vapourized as eyes mist
and a wisp of her spirit fills me.
Once a beauty as was mother, but now
the only remnant of her who gave life
to this sad and rampant storyteller.
This fellow knows all that filled this place
now fills my heart to overflowing,
always knowing mum’s house was home.
Haggard and worn,
she had sworn to remain
as faithful as she was
to her God, and the realm.
But all that remains are curses;
empty purses and a satchell
of dreams unfulfilled.
It had as much near killed her to admit
she had quit long ago, but
it had only started to show.
So, the emptiness surrounds
the heart and mind; a reality
for which I stood unprepared.
As she walked away, I only stared.
Aye, across the lough
to fields of heather,
breezes whisper their secrets;
matters of the heart left buried.
Deeply seated when first
the misty fogs lay clutched
to the barren shore. ‘Tis I
and your memory held fast,
a lasting marker upon souls
tethered and drawn nigh.
Nights spent with the softness
of your name upon my breath.
I sleep with lips of honeyed-kiss
pressed to my forehead.
Blessed lough of wonder you have brought me
here where I will keep eternity’s vow.