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David Noonan Feb 2017
Yet i stay

Recalling all the regrets of life
As they fuse to hazy memories of all i didn't do
Just like those defining mistakes
Were ones that I  never knew

And yet

I never asked to be a God
Or hold someone's fate in my hand
To be responsible for a heart, a life, a love
That was more than i could ever withstand

Should I now

Feel jealous, or some remorseful envy
Is it possible or would it as you said
Involve consideration for someones feelings
Other than my own instead

And yet

I long to feel, to make me seem alive
So come shatter this heart, break me
Let me writhe in anger, bitterness or futile rage
Desecrate this unkept grave and set me free

Yet i stay

Bleak in the shadows of a time since passed
Alone with this unrelenting sorrow
Save for the faint thud through the chambers
Of this heart empty and hollow
David Noonan Jan 2017
End of a terraced wall
Atop of Hungry Hill
Three of us, two thirteen
Smoking John Player Blue
**** all else to do
This council estate
All we knew
From there i could see
My Da's own family home
Where he grew
How far he'd come
Could retrace his journey
While the ash still hung
Council estate to council estate
Old Ballynanty Beg
To this shiny and new
No boarded up houses yet
But stifled with bags of glue
Yet we were no dreamers
Just a three minute pop tune
A wish to run wild and free
No thoughts of  breaking through
Red brick, grey skies, hollow minds
To town we'd go
Dunnes, Boyds, Roches Stores
Robbing what we could
Batteries, perfumes and tackies
The thrill of the chase
A need to feel alive
Over Sarsfield Bridge
Where we could belong
Hearts pounding, legs racing
Back to Hungry Hill
And yes we were young
Of course we were young
But we'd still be there now
Smacked up on those bags of glue
If not for our Ma's and our Da's
For they knew how far they'd come
They knew
David Noonan Jan 2017
In the name of the Father,
the Son and the Holy Ghost
This Catholic education offered no hope
A religious nationalism their only concern
How righteous men must make our land
A nation once again we were foretold
They died in my name
died in my name

This is not now Nineteen Sixteen
Nor from the pages of your history text
This is now my weeping TV screen
A Saturday in a small market town
And twenty nine dead
Twelve kids and a mother pregnant with twins
Not done in my name
not in my name

Heroes don't just rise at Easter
But appear on a Saturday Night Live
Like a mystical phoenix from the flames
Like a newborn filled with indignant rage
Signing of another War
Of fighting the real enemy within
You sing in my name
sing in my name

Aged 25, twenty five years ago
They nailed you to an American cross
As you ripped up that page
Broke their silence, tore down their walls
Who would count the children you saved
If history could recognise heroism in this way
Yet it does in your name
it does in your name
sinead
  Jan 2017 David Noonan
Ma Cherie
Broken wings don't serve much purpose,
except for in their beauty alone,
with constant reminders that linger in air,
of days an nights that have flown,

All gone so quickly to notice,
the value of passing minutes,
it's hard to see the forest ahead,
when you find you are within it,

Death for some a gift of life,
reborn to see it anew,
to finally know all the answers you had,
of times when you hadn't a clue,
why do song birds sing so sweet,
and why is the sky so blue?

Innocence is often lost,
to many back in youth,
except for the enlightened few,
who fear not in the truth,

When for you a peace would come,
to take away all the worry,
your feet will finally get a rest,
from living amid the hurry,

It seems I have a few years left,
or decades for all I know,
perhaps I must endure the pain,
for seeds I've left to sow,

I wish that I could see you again,
in all your earthly glory,
though I tell of you,
in the words that I cry,
of our poetic story,

Tears they hit a barren page,
they flood my very being,
releasing for me the poet within,
a gift for me in freeing,
opening up my eyes to the world,
in all that I am seeing,

I hope ahead for clearer skies,
an at night for a peaceful sleep,
I hope for no more fatal days,
of lost souls in the deep,

I am unafraid of death by now,
I've seen her up close before,
she didn't come wearing,
a cloak this time,
as she took you away from my door,

Death is there for everyone,
just as is our birth,
I hope one day that I will know,
what every second,
is worth.

Ma Cherie © 2017
Just reflecting on suicide of a very close person awhile ago and a few other things. Thank you for reading ❤
David Noonan Jan 2017
Taking two words to describe yourself
You just smiled "Annie Hall"
I had only seen Manhatten but somehow
Knew, knew how hard i'd fall
As for my turn
Well you just placed a finger on my lips
And then so softly whispered
Sentimental boy

That was then, as for now
Maybe the final credits have rolled
Our picturehouse now in ruins
No more screenings nor stories to be told
Like that derelict Ballroom of Romance
We visited at the edge of town
Summer nights, flagons of cider and your  
Sentimental boy

Recreating it's history
By it's broken down and boarded up wall
Slow dancing in the moonlight
Stopping only to swear we'd heard a call
Rising from the paupers graveyard
Dancing silhouetted in the stars
Ghosts of dead lovers to an old fashioned tune
Sentimental boy

This town now has changed so much
But none so more than we
Yet so often on a warm summers night
By that paupers graveyard you'd still meet me
Humming some half remembered melody
Whilst wishing on the brightest star
Please oh please, won't you just let me be....

                                                      ­               your
                                                sentimental boy
* Rural Ireland in the 1950s/1960s offered little in entertainment or socializing, save for dance halls. These became known as Ballrooms of Romance but were little more than large sheds and most lay unused and derelict by the late 80s/90s

** In modern Ireland a flagon usually refers to a two-litre bottle of cider. Very popular for underage bush  (street) drinking due to its relative low cost per quantity

*** Paupers Graveyards were a field of unmarked and unkept graves of the poor and destitute . Originating from Famine times  (1844-1849) they were common sites all over the country. 150 years later the only signs that remained were often a single cross on a mound of the field
  Jan 2017 David Noonan
SassyJ
You left me with the a bid
a bigger slice of my best
a wish me well that lingers
even longer without your love

Your unformed abrubt reasons
of tainted unsainted failed logic
a wish you well, no hesitations
on the table of untouched melodies

My walls are a brighter emerlard
with stripes of the unmissed kisses
matted with peace and liberation
of torn risks and control measures

My sad blues were washed by the rains
above the moon and over skies above
scouring, soaring, scrapping, summing
in another forever of amaizing lines
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