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Breast-pink cheeked
Wisps of

Gloved in
Globs of
­Truth in

January 26th 1990
Copyright WRF 1991
My mentor spoke to me of two rivals,
Once, they had been friends in some distant past.
But the years have eaten their love and made grudges manifest.
|The two shattered into broken glass

To my wise master I asked only one,
One question... In all my range.
One question I asked:
“What changed?”

In the outskirts, at the home of my daughter
Where you can stare at the stars or passing cars
None more brighter than the other,
We share memories of my grandmother.
In the photographs, she looks so much younger.
Not frail, but a fighter, lover and saintly|

To me, she asks plainly,
One question, and one question only.
Sifting through the ages of years past:
“What Changed?”

At the kitchen table, feeling inadequate,
My lover screaming and frustrated,
I recall memories when we had been intimate.
Times when movement was made for desire and not duty
|A calendar of nights left in confused abstinence

I interrupt.
She delays rage.
I beg,
“What Changed?”


In the last few hours of night
The dawn reaches me at last.
I had locked moments-
Literal seconds of time as the truth.
But it was always changing
In flux and morphing.
Turning into something new
Just for a moment, and then on again
“What Changed?”
And everyone's O'Toole
But in a bliss of ignorance
They fashion him the fool
For whoever saw an Irishman
Vesti-ing a luminous emerald hat
The size of a navvie's bucket
Upon a wirey titian mat
Or quaffing pints of soylent ale
for the Irish wine they can't abide
With phoney tears for the troubled years
whilst faking Irish pride

No, tis not O'Toole who is the fool
But every other class of twit
Who imagines that to dress in green
Bestows one charm and wit
For when Patrick's feast is over
And the clock past midnight ticks
your false fair weather Fenians
will disavow us '******* Micks'
Copyright 2015 WRF
Josiah Jack
never uttered a sound
when they dragged him away
from the scene.
when his poor body
was eventually found,
the treatment endured,
had been mean.

With no tongue in his head
they had left him for dead.

With a month
on his back,
he did indeed
Only sin
“he was black”
hence forth
this weary state.

They attacked in the night,
hooded and white.

All in all
he was
to be
breathing at all,
all because
he was plucky,
all because
he stood tall.

A ***** they said
should lower his head.

Were they hooded
for fear?
Were they hooded
in shame?
Most likely,
once covered,
they could hide
of their name.

If things were so right,
why hide out of sight?

Bravery isn't
a word for the ****,
this word comes to mind.
Bravery comes
when there's only one man,
not one
with ten more stood behind.

I will strike in a pack
with someone watching my back.

Their plan
was to ****,
this man
Josiah Jack.
Perhaps they
get a thrill
when someone
cannot fight back.

They get real loud
when they join with the crowd.

knew well
that if he
raised a hand
his kin folk
would feel hell
from this
unruly band.

So he did not fight
but gave in to his plight.

They think
they were hidden
beneath that
white hood,
Josiah's hearing
is sound
and his
memory is good.

So when things are forgot,
he will take of his lot.

That's exactly
what happened,
as they lay
in their bed.
The flames hurled
with fury
the sky
filled with red.

This man barbequed them like fish on a rack
and no one put it down to Josiah Jack.
13th July 2015
© Copyright Christopher K Bayliss 2014
 Jul 2015 Clodagh
 Jul 2015 Clodagh
I am but willing prey to the wiles of the full grown moon.
She guards the night sky...
While I patrol these grounds...
Grieving over the seconds that have gone too soon.

I am a vessel... all emptied and barren.
what once was full,
now echoes faint
the glories of yesteryears.
Afloat still, adrift upon the currents... aimless and sullen.

I am a ghost... haunting no one but my own.
to a body of mist and haze...
Occupying this space where worthy wind had once blown...

I am a beggar offering nothing but my open palms.
Hope etched tight
into my knackered knuckles
and calloused digits.
Please... take them in yours...
soothe them...
grant me your touch, your coveted balm.
 Jul 2015 Clodagh
Ann M Johnson
I like to take a dip in the poetry well
when my life seems to be dry
I like to take a dip in the poetry well
when I question why
I like to take a dip in the poetry well
when I lost the courage to try something new
I like to take a dip in the poetry well
when I need encouragement then I get it from you
I like to take a dip in the poetry well
to ease some anxiety
I like to take a dip in the poetry well
let my emotions swell
I take to take a dip in the poetry well
while holding paper and a pen
I like to take a dip in the poetry well
where inspiration never ends
I like to take a dip in the poetry well
where I can gather with my friends
This is for All My Hello Poetry Friends!!!!
Thank You so much for your friendship and encouragement!!!
 Jul 2015 Clodagh
High art briefly glimpsed be thou
Oh waving, wispish blossom bough
All pink your precious petals preen
Through nature's narrow window seen
Come April sun, thy tresses flush
For we to scent all in a rush
By May thy garlands too soon strewn
Do fade to pale below cold moon
From gaiety to frailty,
'Tis surely nature's cruelty
Why must the wind so urgently
Deflower the gentle blossom tree?
 Jul 2015 Clodagh
I resist the temptation to concede that I am all at sea…since the end of you and me.
No, not me…
**** it up and be strong I cry. And cry.
You cannot know how I once trusted us to go swimmingly, not to sink beneath your wave goodbye...
After all the effort and energy of loving you – before so disappointing you.
Once I was alone and petrified rings in my head. Can I? I’m the man here. Am I?
I can’t believe you’re leavin' me – different tune now – stay with me baby. Please.
But hey, it’s already happened….now I must lie awake in your wake.
And even if the tide were to one day bring you back to my shore….
I know we could never be sure again….
Wow -- a month later! Nearly 100 readings and not a single like. This one must be a turkey. But I wrote it from the heart. Ah well, I'm not changing it. Not one ****** word. Actually, I think I might now be a little proud of it. (Though by no means proud that my heart is still broken.)

Ha! This is an add-on (and it's almost St. Valentine's Day, so different to the Tiffany diamond euphoria of 2013!) It's been exactly 20 weeks to the day since we parted, and now I have 200 views and still not a single like -- once again I must not be too ******* myself for not being popular.....the words may be the pulp of a B-movie script, but they are still loaded with meaning for me....that's the funny thing about "poems"....tonight I read someone else's poem and I couldn't find a single line of it with which to resonate, yet the writer had dozens of *** doesn't necessarily mean I'm a BAD writer.....but please -- don't let me be misunderstood!
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