I don't believe in an interventionist God
But I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
I don't believe in an interventionist God
But I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
  5d  David Noonan
5 days ago

She knew well
the manner of giving,
knew not to ask
and how to survive on smiles
amid the indebtedness,
an affliction from a childhood obligated
to some person, preacher or other
And with not a kind hand among them
she found duty bred fear in its resistance.

Love always ended like the rains
that turned the pavements black
where she'd run
all plimsolls and pearls
wearing pain like purple
undergarments that caught on fickle winds.
She wondered if they
ever noticed the off-notes
like when her legs moved out of tune
and did they feel her bristle
on their faces of expected gratitude
or see how daubing her
with their concrete greys of added responsibility
only sheathed her
in a pin stiff frost of non-negotiable.

All she ever wanted
was to be receptive  
and (not just) responsive
but just got lost in the  doing,
feeling her way
through sex and vice
with words that didn't suffice,
losing sight in the toughs
of their what was and wasn't enoughs,
where bitter losses were lonely
and negotiating on her knees
never did feel good.
that neither their sunshine nor rain
would quench her thirst,
she reasoned that she'd always struggle to
accept their claims to her Love
while she still owed it to herself.


After the parade, before the rain
The homeless reclaim their streets
Amonsgt the discarded plastic tri-colours
The sweet papers that fall at children's feet
You can feel the ghosts of bastard babies
From Tuams' religious care home
Dancing in some purgatory parade
No coffins ever granted to rest in peace
They rise from a decommissioned sewer pit
Free now to march as they eternally carry
The burden of a society's Christian sin
Look to today, why dwell on the past
An oft cried refrain as we do it again
Where the pubs overflow with national pride
For a fifth century Welsh missionary man
Who bestowed upon us an organised religion
From a politically divided Northern hill
Inside the boys make the noise in Celtic tops
Singing old rebel songs of English wrongs
Children outside, whose to seek, whose to hide
A national passage as another mother cries
She prays for the end and for morning again
To sweep through these fractured streets
To wash through these wretched sins
For after every parade once more must come
A forgiving frontal rain to make way for the sun

Where the river meets the sea
Behind a walled office of a harbour estate
A motivational picture hangs with dust
"Chart your own course", it patiently pleads
But surely knows little of these things
You called to me there once more today
Even sweeter than i ever could say
It had seemed so long in many ways
Yet you were opening up like yesterday
Whilst the world still spins around us
And painted ponies dream of ferris wheels
The early April sun breaking through  
Is at best a mere coincidence
For I never believed in anything more
Than people and what they choose to bring
Like the honesty that flows of a simple smile
Slow reveals all your intrinsic gold
We celebrate how we can never say goodbye
In a place where sad songs no longer reply
For I've sang too many of those of late
Hold'til tomorrow to reminisce about today
Pause and realise real beauty resides
For eternity in a true friends eyes

  Mar 13  David Noonan
Lora Lee
Lora Lee
Mar 12

last night
as I soaked my feet
       in hot water and fragrant oils
           put on some
              Bollywood tunes
           and let my hips
         start to sway
my head began
to swoon
and the binding
threads holding me so tight
inside myself
      began to fray
          my chest opening in
             rips and starts
                 to reveal its valves
             in engorged release
       of dark magenta shadows
of teasing, gnashing inner beasts
while this was going on
the moon lit up
around me
      in its eight different phases
its halves and crescents
in incense-scented cadence
my fingers reached out
to stroke each one,
          unique in its own heated glow              
                          as I realized that
               they will never cease,
these sequined
streams of joy
in embroidered flow
as long as we are connected
            to the root point of self
the love pumps quiet fire
                         in our veins
           even when trapped    
in slamming undertow
     pressed tornado slab
                              of pain
and I have had my face
pressed under watery surfaces
for such a long time
that suffocation
almost feels like
so it's time to
move these hips and thighs
                and get this soulspark
so much fun
  Mar 9  David Noonan
Jamadhi Verse

I feel you as a ghost -- deeply close,
wed somewhere far within.
I feel you living, shimmering along
the static edge of my enduring spirit
in electric phosphorescence.
Where tender muscle and flesh
tether and mesh, latch and connect
with bone to construct a home --
create a fleeting vehicle for my soul
to navigate this immense cathedral of life.
To filter in perceptions and feel the power
of the physical light that pierces through
the colorful windows of the mandala of my mind.

It blooms into ceaseless fractals –
repetitive, reactive patterns built upon
the complex fragments of both you and I
combined, slicing through time, reverberating
outwards through expansive space.
We are an exalted eternity of opening
and collapsing gates to the never-ending
center of this unfathomable plane.

I feel you as a ghost -- so deeply close.
Where all philosophy fails to breach.
Resting secretly where neither brain
nor name could ever truly reach.
Where heart and instinct ultimately meet
and give their gifts blissfully to
the soft sheets of nothingness.
It is there that we rest as
bated, staggered breath.
That holy jewel in hidden chest --
so lustrous in its loveliness
it completely outshines the beautiful,
dividing, shapeless outlines of each other.

Unified, we become a godly, static shudder --
a vibration that contracts, begets like mother—
delivering dreaming worlds that spin away, asunder,
blinded with joy as they find themselves born.

J.M. 2017

Thanks to all for the tremendously kind and enthusiastic comments and the endless support you have shown my work through your reads. You bestow my pieces a life and depth that they cannot hold on their own. Thank you for being such reactive and beautiful elements within this Jamadhiverse. As we all expand, so does it. I am ever grateful.<3
#love   #life   #passion   #eternal   #soul   #spirit   #creation   #bliss   #connection   #unity  

One fleeting chance to catch you between trapezes
Yet my head was bowed, my thoughts immersed
In another dream of another life that i longed to live
A moments lapse careers you to that downward spiral
Through all those safety nets, all those webs we wove
Once so secure borne from our labour, love and toil
Exposed now like a promise of night through a civil dawn
As you fall through each of my declarations of trust
You blow out the candles and knock out the lights
Of celebrations and occasions now shattered like glass

Blackness descending through this never blinking eye
As those moments and time perpetually relive yet resist
The blood still refusing to flow freely through my veins
As i sit and wait for this evening coffee to run cold
That i may embrace the sanctuary of night once more
For I was one that could never dream in the dark
No more than one who could ever make amends
Between those two trapezes that signaled our end

To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment