Poems

• Rolling News
• Playground of My Youth
• My Couch Says
• Aboard the Waits Train
• Hope
• Jar Heads
• The End
• Prime Time Guy
• The Procrastinator
• It's The Right Thing To Do
• Zoe
• Sifting for Gold
• She Is Everywhere
• What Can Be
• Sitcom Drops
• The Interface Principal

Rolling News

"Two shots each, even the children"

There was something in those words.

But what?

He must have been professional.

Focused, single-minded,

supported by an otherwise disassembling mind.

It must have been in haste

he couldn’t stay to check.

He took two shots each to be sure.

Not execution

but assassination.

There would be getting in

and getting out

to think about.

It was planned.

They were surprised.

They must have been a family

in movement, activity.

Are their souls sharing bread

while they rot in separate graves?

What else?

The bulletin was brief.

The scene painted first,

then "even the children"

appendaged to the end.

The reporter's voice was flat.

Not hushed as they can be –

employing a tone

respecting sensitivities.

In this case they must have deemed

the voice unnecessary.

The story was not new, then.

Our emotions safe –

used to the rat-tat-tat of death somewhere else.

Some extra tragedy

nearer to home, maybe

would need to occur

for the professional soft voice.

But for now,

we had a new norm.

Though I know some closed their eyes

during The Weather.

Rolling News was published in the National Poetry Competition Collection 2013, by ForwardPoetry - a poetry press that runs many competitions while also publishing anthologies. Click here to see their helpful guide on the publication timeline.

Playground of My Youth

The hill
Playground of my youth
An hour after school
The grass always damp
shadowed by oak trees

The stream
below a bank
of weeds and old rope
Mudslides in the rain
leave ridges to climb

The bridge
where boys on bikes
smile down
Too old for plasters
Too young for kissing

The bushes
A shared cigarette
There a man
with need to shock
means no harm

The old castle
A magic forest
An electric walk
A first kiss
The end of youth

I wrote Playground of My Youth when on a trip home to Dublin. Driving passed the parks where I used to play brought back memories. Tuck Magazine accepted the poem for their April 2015 issue.

Love Tuck Magazine. Check out my related blog post Two New Poems in Tuck Magazine! 


My Couch Says

My couch never asks
Are you winning
What have you done for me
Why not supersize?

Instead it calls me over
You're welcome any time
Have you met remote control?
He was lonely without you

My TV is a window
It fits the world inside
Life is great in pixels
Nothing lasts

Click, the window shows
A couch just like mine
With oversized coffee mugs
And oversized matters

My couch is not that busy
Should I have jumbo coffee?
Couch says not to worry
They're trapped in fact

Click to listless babies
With bodies inside-out
My couch says they're aliens
Keep switching. Quick.

Camp fires burning
Throughout the concrete jungle
Scavengers of justice
By night. Click

A human tide reclaims
The streets for its children
The picture keeps changing
But the monster stays the same

They don't look as comfy as me
Change your mind
Go inside
Find a couch

My couch says
You think too much
Here's a cushion
Have a rest

My Couch Says is published in Squawk Back. An online magazine publishing poetry and prose with beautiful illustration. Check out their archive going back to May 2011.

Aboard The Waits Train
(Listening to Tom Waits)

All aboard the Waits train!
It’s a lovely sound you make and I’m not the first to say it

Leave your bags and credit cards behind
Find a seat that slides
You move me

Let your soul take a ride
To an old world
Where everything is sepia and torn
Over gravel chords I can’t see home any more

Out the window to your left see the dark side of you
Out the right, as tight as night, it’s a belly-bound snake that knows the truth
The ruthless toothless chattering of fate
Cruelty makes the world go round for heaven’s sake!

There’s a tumbling that’s threatening to crash
Laughing at the entreat of the tracks

Allow the salve to take affect…

A melody beguiling like angels rising, there I’m free to wonder without words
Bursting at the lightness of the piano’s knowing

The refreshments cart is on its way
Outside the window my world is flashing by

Take something with you when you leave
Alight in your own time

I tried a few times to write an ode to Tom Waits and then finally came about the metaphor of going on a journey to another world. Aboard The Waits Train is published in Tuck Magazine, April 2015.

Click here for my related blog post Two New Poems in Tuck Magazine!

Hope

What if hope had a shape, she says

It would be nebulous, I say, like a cloud

Drifting, changing over things

Isn't that far away, she says

Yes, I say, and my hope is near

Inside me, hovering, staid...stale maybe...

Overused maybe, like a worn patch in a rug

Often visited but never infused

So you've given up, she says

Is that what it's called, I say

I'm looking inwards, seeing the calluses where I tried

Seeing the shape of the past, its length

I never looked before

What if fear had a shape, she says

It would be a small mark after a storm, I say

Sucking in everything around it

Changing the direction of things

Is that what happened to your hope, she says

Yes, I say, maybe you’re right

I smile, infusing bitterness with something sweet

Except, I say, maybe it is right

Not that hope should be eaten by the smallest mark of destruction

But that it should mist and disperse

And fall like rain back to the earth

For disappointment is only knowledge

And knowledge is always safe

Where do you go from here, she says

Back to the beginning, I say

To get my bearings

Hope is published in ForwardPoetry anthology, A Symphony of Life, January 2012. 

Jar Heads

Forgive me for this rant seduced me

Late in bed last night

But something on the TV

Made my stomach tight

Flags waved to the podium

As crowd became brigade

But I fear out of control

Were those applauding from the stage

Their egos have prevented them

From knowing who they are

So to sound like they know all

They shove the world into a jar

It’s a little jar that lives inside

Their fast-fed bloated minds

Makes reality black and white

And verdict easy to find

But not satisfied with slicing off

The complex and the subtle

They wield their jar for preaching

For argument and rebuttal

And they run about the world

With jar-peddling faces

Trying to tell the rest of us

How the human race is

Is it fear that drives them

To the rhetoric and the woe

Or the salve of power

That needs a phantom foe

Or is the devil in disguise

In glasses and a dress

As an ex-beauty queen

With a wink to impress

Well, if God said free your heart

And the answers come in time

Science said if you want answers

You have to free your mind

But the devil said don’t mind them

I’ve answers ready-made for you

They’re sugar-dipped, melt in the mouth

You don’t even have to chew

Forgive me for this fear increasing

To the morning glow

Perhaps it’s in a mirror

I see their paranoia grow

But I fear they shove that sugar

Into their sealed and fetid minds

So they will never reassess

What they’ve already misaligned

So here’s my two cents

To the world-wide convenient store

If might is right and there’s no catch

It’s probably not al-gore

And if the jar heads win the war

And their queen becomes head hen

Then I suggest we move to Mars

And start reality again

Jar Heads was published in The Interpreter's House, June 2011, and was my first published poem. An exciting moment! The Interpreter's House publishes 3 issues of shorts stories and poems per year.

The End

Sometimes I am ahead

Near the end of a railway track

I can taste dust, red and burnt

And there’s an old bench and a sign without letters

The picture is punctured only by tumble weed blowing through

And the shadow of a bird that snakes along the ground

There’s nothing for him here

What’s behind the faded hue of this picture?

What brought me to this place?

I look back over the track
And see I am standing there, invisible

And then I am back to now
 

*

And sometimes it's an old woman

Withering she reaches

With icy hands

She touches and whispers
Did you think this was a dream
That you would wake
Shake off the shackles you have made

She cackles as if it’s her only mirth

Her fingers grope at me

And I can feel her frailty

As if cobwebs make her skin

And stale water, her eyes

She is tired of living

But not tired of goading

*

And sometimes it’s a garden dressed in light

The leaves are bursting green

Below the table is warm

Dressed with fruit

Prepared with love

My eyes are closed and my hands are clasped

In rest at last

The quiet is scattered by children

They pick at the fruit and run

Careful children, I say

Corners are sharp

Decanto published The End in their December 2011 issue. They publish 6 issues of poetry per year. 

Click here to see my blog post 'The Making of The End'

Prime Time Guy

From the side of his mouth
Comes a cartoon slipstream
Animated history
With moronic overtones

But to those who have noticed
The prime time guy
With the square-jawed Hi
Has a serious soul

It’s the distances that bother him
Standing in the middle
Of American Pie
Playing a mirror’s role

Pulling in the corners
Showing each the other’s
Prejudice colors
Like flags, home grown

Oh, he is celebrated
For his comic timing
But the air is polarizing
Outside the T.V. zone

And disparity is deepening
As he seeks reaction
To subversive attractions
Once the anchor man goes home

Prime Time Guy was first published in Tuck Magazine, March 2012 issue. Tuck is a literary, music and art journal. Something for everyone. 

Click here to see my blog post 'Tuck March Issue has come but not gone'




Prime Time Guy was republished in Pif Magazine June 2012. Pif publishes fiction, poetry, interviews and reviews, mixing it up with established and emerging writers.

Also if you are interested, here is my loosely related blog post which links to this poem: Not So New Girl


The Procrastinator

The Procrastinator is published with WordJar anthology My Love 2, February 2012. 

WordJar asked for a dedication to accompany their poems. Click here to see my blog post, 'It was you who fell first'

The Procrastinator is republished in Forward Poetry anthology: Aspects of Love, September 2012

It's The Right Thing To Do

So beautiful
You cannot be seen
Cover up
It’s the right thing to do

Your eyes are not your eyes
But windows of desire
They must not be allowed
To call on others

Your skin is not just skin
But a burning flame
To engulf, corrupt
Lead astray

Your smile is not your smile
But a serpents tail
Her ways are too beguiling
To be free

It’s the right thing to do
For the world's sake
It’s nature’s way
Sound, words, veil

So beautiful
You could turn animal
Those who would otherwise be
Men of God

It's The Right Thing To Do is published in The Arab Review, July 2012, a culturally rich journal of Middle Eastern art and culture, including poetry, fiction, art, essays, reviews and more - current affairs through the arts.

Here's my related blog post: It's The Right Thing To Do

Zoe

We smoked cigarettes in the break room

And talked about books
Your hands manicured, expressive
Mine scruffy, hidden
We knew each other as old friends
But not for long

Your face is gone from that last image

But I remember your fingers neatly folded

They felt like candle wax

Your mum wrapped her arms around me

So that I couldn’t breathe

There’s a memory I have

Of sitting in your kitchen

We already knew

But talked about boys

Your eyes were really blue

Must be the sky was looking in

You were doing my nails

And we kept chuckling

What was his name again?

Zoe is published in issue 1 of Linden Avenue, June 2012. A cool new poetry and fiction magazine that brings us the literature of every day life.

Sifting For Gold

I’m circling this black box
Whose shape is still unknown
Adding in, taking out

I’m looking for the face
To fill the sculptors square
I know it’s in there hiding
But there is nowhere to hide

I chip away to reach it
Within the lions layer
Pacing patiently
And when it pounces

I shall say eureka
Because the piece will fit
The puzzle will be solved
And I can rest at last

But until then I sift the shale
And wait to see gold
On my large white writing pad

Tuck Magazine published Sifting For Gold along with Prime Time Guy in their April 2012 issue. Great to be a part of an arts magazine with a broad spectrum of articles and prose on offer.


She Is Everywhere


I entered a WordJar competition which led to the inclusion of my haiku in their latest anthology. The collection is beautiful with some striking haiku and each one accompanied by a poignant image.

Click here to see my related blog post.


What Can Be

Her body has stopped working
A time bomb came to rest
Freeing her of an ancient tie
That hadn't touched her yet

She didn’t see it coming
She was looking other ways
She thought she had more time
What more can she say?

Some things go in cycles
Some things start to end
Some things ebb and flow
Some things break to mend

But the sun will not be rising
Spring won’t come this year
Ashes won’t grow flowers
Love won’t dry a tear

She wouldn’t say it’s tragic
Worse things come to be
Like a flower nipped in the bud
Like a breath that’s not born free

Things happen for a reason
Or for no reason at all
How can there be a question
With no starting point to call?

So let wind sweep the trees
Let insects build the earth
Let the sun bestow the bedrock
With its gift of endless birth

The answer she believes
Is that as the path unfurls
What can be will find its way
In the cycle of the world

What Can Be was runner-up in Thynks Healing Poems Competition and was published in the anthology Little Book of Healing, 2014. Thynks publish a broad range of poetry and prose with a focus on compassion and healing.


Sitcom Drops

Etherise

Hypnotise

Sell me life

In lemon drops

The guitar riff

The one-line gags

The inside, on-side pops

The story safe

Safely bold

Kick out

Confront the force

Remorse

Relent

All friends again

It’s a boomerang, circle course

They neatly learn

And hug a lot

And nearly fall in love

And nub the broken awkward bits

So life fits like a glove

Cheering

Whooping

Smitten crowd

Hush for that first kiss

The music steers

And swells our hearts

To dream of wedded bliss

Glossy
Shiny
Perfect hair
And teeth and bags and shoes
I want it bad
Like lemon drops
Those plastic sitcom moves

If you are interested, here is my loosely related blog post which links to this poem: Not So New Girl


The Interface Principal

Some people say 'Oh, you're a programmer and you write poems - do you ever write poems about programming?' Thanks for the suggestion. Here's some pseudo C++ 

/**
  The Interface Principal
 */

class open bracket '{'
    font changes colour
           // outside the window
           // the sky is fogging up the morning sun

    public (interface) :
        encapsulated space
        of polymorphic accessors
        avoid default construction, as practice

        shall I overload an operator?
        undercut a stream?

        don't forget to destruct, virtually!

    protected (for inheritance) :
        // outside the window
        // the sky is closing in
        // the sun is trying from the other side

        enumerate a state
        add a helper template
        return a const result
        to a mutable

    private (implementation) :
        for loops do while
            functor-wrapped predicates of logic

        variables with underscores
        denoting membership
        if they start to grow
        consider pimpl'ing

to end, close bracket '}'

now for those overloads
in keeping with 
The Interface Principal

// outside the window
// the sky has turned dark blue
// but this is not a place for stars