THE STONE WARM IN THE PALM

the stone skips
across an ocean
shatters an horizon

the wounded sun's disc
day bleeds
into night

now the skinny dipping
now the excited shouts
we dive into the moon

the moon'******br>broken with our quick nakedness
the sharp knife of youth

ALL THESE PEOPLE CAN'T BE ME SURELY?

ha ha and
here I am
a plump baby

as ever there was
the sort
only a mother could love

grown now
into a sturdy toddler
to be sure

and now
a big boy
already

the spit of
my older self
in my young face

and in a snip
in another snap
my teenage self arrives

photo after photo
I grew out of the album
and there my name

written in violet ink
if evidence was needed
of me being me

summers and winters
come and go
as do the years

this surely 1945
this maybe
perhaps 1972

time passes
all in black and white until
there is my Kodachrome self

now I live
my life
in glorious colour

so many
Polaroid
mes to be

the photos change
and age
as time grows older

yet I remain
a man of many years
too many years

still the young boy
I was
trapped now in this old body

soon the album
will be thrown in a skip
along with all the years

the nice lady
who claims to be
my wife

sighs at my indifference
brushes a tear away
when she thinks I'm not looking

but I have run out
of people
to be

tired of
all this
living lark

Death will be
welcomed when
it comes

SEO GO DEO

a day so huge
it would take a lifetime
to get across

a time so vast
it couldn't be
squeezed into clocks or watches

an unseen bird
the bard of birds
telling me the poetry

of a world
coming into being
that very moment

only in a language
I could not understand
but somehow

know
without
knowing

at peace
with the mystery
of it all

happy to stay here
but time flew
through me taking me

to become
this old man
and the scrape of a pen

trying to hold  
in words
that one eternal moment

*

SEO GO DEO is the Irish for THIS FOREVER...go deo meaning forever or never

BEDCLOTHES

my favourite
faded shirt
my tired old
torn denim jeans

that
have aged
along with me

my second skins
as much me
as me

now sit crazily
mixed up stitched up
into a patchwork quilt

that you present to me:
“I went through your wardrobe
& used anything I thought you’d throw out!

.these pieces fitted perfectly!
“Do you like it?
...are you pleased with me? ”

I smile & lie
I am delighted
“It’s such... a lovely...surprise! ”

HIS VOICE IN WORDS

It was a sunny day
in Wales

as it can only be
in picture postcards.

It was pinned
above her bed

but with the picture side
facing the wall

as if she had turned away
from that scene a long long time ago.

I had only ever
seen it once

(when she was asleep
I took a peek)

a scrawl of words
told her that it loved her

in a fadey violet ink

that could now barely be
discerned.

The postcard itself
as fragile as a leaf.

“Don’t turn it! ”
she pleaded in panic.

“I like to see his voice
in words! ”

running her fingertips
over his I LOVE YOU!

letting it speak
to her

from the fragile fading past

letting it speak
to her

even from beyond
his death.

THE STATUE

'Dying is fun! ' you say
'...once you get the hang of it...'

'...& as long as
the pain stays away! '

Your face says ouch
without saying 'Ouch! '

'It adds an extra spice to life
knowing how many minutes there are left! '

'I calculated it  with my solar power
pocket calculator! '

'It seems like you live it twice
as fast...twice as intense

seeing everything
so precise

seeing even
what's.. not...there! '

The pain laughs at your puny efforts
to control it.

'Doc...says a year(at the most)  
maybe a matter of months...weeks! '

'It depends on what the cancer thinks! '
you laugh.

'And to think I'm a Cancerian! '
The pain has not got your sense of humour.

Already I can see it is bored by you
tries to wipe that grin off your face.

It almost...succeeds.

'Seems like I'm nothing now
but this cancer! '

'It's all that anybody can see! '

'Like it's been rubber stamped
on my forehead or something! '

'Well, Mrs. Cancer...'
I swore I heard the doctor say.

'And, all that my friends can see is...my death! '
'They annoy me with their crying! '

'Hello...hell.. o! I'm not dead yet! '
'This ****** cancer has taken on a life

of it's own

tells me what I can or can't do! '
'It's the boss! '

'Now...that there's a limit to it
Time...is precious
can't bear...to waste a minute.. of it! '

'It feels as if the cancer
is a famous sculptor

& labours to create
the shape of my death

bit
by
bit! '

'Seems like it's one of those
ugly modern abstract statues

you know

meaning nothing
with a hole in the middle! '

'And everyday the cancer
chiseling away at it

striving for perfection! '

'I tell the cancer
Oh...get on with it! '

'Get it over with! '

'See...I'm becoming quite the philosopher! '

'Now...get out of here! '

'Stop talking to a dying woman
get out in the sun don't waste
a min-
-ute
of
it! '

I laugh.

You're still so.. you!

You ask me for a favour
before I go.

I scratch your ***
(you can't reach it no more) .

You tell me
'That's the best scratch in all the world! '

I smile tell you
you always had the best *** in the world.

You laugh.
(It...hurts) .

I go

Close the door behind me
on your dying.

Step into brash sunlight
that feels like it's lying.

Two months later your death greets me
disguised as an airmail letter.

I missed your dying by a week ...it seems
I'm in a different country...crying.

A weak sun
shivers in the land

of the living.

From beyond
Death

you write me
a private letter

with handwriting
I wouldn't recognise as yours.

It just says:

'Donall Donall! '
on the envelope.

Inside
(a card)  

a wood engraving
by Eric Gill

the one with Mary Magdalene
covering a crucified Christ with her body

her hair like a river
covering them both.

The handwriting almost broken
only kept alive by your iron will.

'Guess the statue's done
&
Death is no Michelangelo

could have done better myself
but I wasn’t up to it! '

My tears
dissolving your words.

CLIMBING TREES IN HIGH HEELS

the swish of her
dress as
thigh crosses thigh

the static electricity of her
nylons laddered
from climbing trees in high heels

the rescued cat now
safely asleep by the fire
snoring not purring

the whiskey a jewel
in the cut-glass decanter
the glint in her eye

again the sigh
as thigh crosses thigh
she singing softly to her

self as if
she was the only one
left in existence

the clock leaving
a longer and longer
silence  between each tick

and tock

and tock

the clock now stopped

looking elegant
in a thin white vase
the yellow chrysanthemums

just stare and stared
as if they were frightened
of the silence

a shepherd carrying a lamb
in chipped china
looking out of place

without his companion piece
a ***** shepherdess
broken only last week

it was ten past 7
though the clock did not know
that

Time had abandoned
the room
outside the first snowflake falling

*

Do not attempt this at home children and always remove high heels if you should do so. Make sure you have a responsible child supervising you.

Martha suffered a snapped heel and torn tights due to her hasty action in saving her cat who came down when she came up( thus rescuing itself in reality)and had to be rescued by burly laughing firemen.