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Speak of her with a lowered tone
A face that honours, respects and restores
Her memory.

Your gratitude can be seen in the glimmer in the tear
That sits on your lid, never daring to fall.
Your quiver remembers her kindness and relays the stories she used to tell you at your bedside.
Stories of past, of necessities and the way things were.
At the foot of her bed, you sat cross legged for hours, sinking into the warmth of each other’s company; reading, sewing, nurturing, feeding.

You feel the softness of her shawl, the modesty in each stitch.
The humble life of Irish poetry, song and stews on a Sunday.
She allowed your nature to embark on a beginning so fruitful, giving courage and strength with each act thereafter.
Protected in a tender part of your memory, she sits waiting for you to return. Safeguarded in your thoughts, she becomes the beacon that you use to guide you through trying hours.

Your gratitude can be seen in the transformation in your expression, the beautiful surrender that succumbs in her honour.
This poem is about the relationship my mother had with her grandmother, the woman who raised her and was so quickly taken from her at the tender age of 10.
Trying to suppress the hurricane
That expands inside
My core.
It rises and plummets without notice,
Nips me in the ear and pushes me sideways.

My guard slowly loosens its chain, opens its pores and slowly filters and trickles through.
A ball of excitement, a fiery mass that ignites a smile
It darts into my subconscious and when I am low it strikes fear
When I am weakened it rises doubt -
and disguises itself as a cloud
Not a celebration.

The past has sharpened its edges and draped it in animosity
No need.
No need for confusion or destruction.
It is good, it is real.
Knocking on my exterior, my wall.
Do not ******* it, it does not shake.
Your knuckles aren’t hard or clammering
They nudge.
They ease and they test.
Your presence has allowed me to be.
You draw it out like maple from a tree.
You allow it to pour, and flow, and feel.

You set a red path in front of me, it shines.
Glazed over.
Not sweet.

Brighten up your day with my smile, a hug of greeting may travel through your organs and reach the emotions swimming in each flow of blood and pulse. Never before has my liver and lungs and heart and kidney and bones and veins been so close to yours. A magnet of understanding, of the words you could not see through my face.

Is it true?

Is it worth it?

What is it for?

All that surrounds us, assumptions, suspicions. Pressures to convey, portray, display.
Display. Expose.

I fulfill my worth with attempts and acts of noble redemption, original thoughts. But utterly replaceable, each one, to all.
A need for strangers, to start again. To make impressions anew. Craving gratification, physical and not. To see that look that sees me in a light that has not faded yet.
They do not know, they are still new.

Count on me to interest you and help you redeem all that is inside. Peak your best attributes and justify the less than perfect world you speak of, live and endure. Compliment your loneliness with mine.

Defy your expectations of me, fresh faced with a crooked smile. Let you think that for parts, I may be a voice of complete reason and logic, yet unable to compile my own notions into sense, worth or relevance.


A reason, an excuse, a justification. Just for being.


In it’s absence, who are we but mumbling, bumbling beings, searching, hovering, gasping, clasping, grasping?

Just be.

Who said it would have to be with the most heroic breath you take? All wrapped up in a flurry of your own thoughts and preoccupations, who said you need to bow to a person not yours?
Why do you need to feel so urgently needed?

A presence I once was, so unique to one, two, too many.
Now so mediocre it seems that fire is now embers,
and bellows now murmur.

This is it. Sure, this is it.

— The End —