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 Mar 2017 J Ames
David Noonan
If i wore an elastic red band taut on my wrist
And snapped it often would it help me recall
The first day that i saw you from a distant past
The only face for me in a crowded lecture hall

Or if i was to pull that old instant photograph
Sequined black dress of another graduation dance
Monkey suit, pressed shirt and paisley bow tie
Two who never believed in a need of second chance

If I retook a trip to the wild Atlantic coast
Flew a kite of a deserted evening on Lahinch beach
Standing laughing at another baltic Irish summer
Would i just feel the cold whilst you remained out of reach

Or if i dropped the needle to our favourite record
A glass of Italian red wine and Waits' Blue Valentine
Would i feel you again where so often we lay
Or just hear the Blue as it drowns all reason, all rhyme

Yet wherever i go or whatever i do
I will never be able to recapture that glory of you
They say to move on, don't you ever look back...

Maybe tomorrow those same truths fade to black
 Mar 2017 J Ames
Ciel De Verre
You burn
So softly, almost
As if your light
Flickered and fought
But dimmed,
And bled towards the night,
Amidst the broken undertones
Of burning plumes  
Puffing
Lost desires.
To burn, to shine, to flicker, to die.
 Mar 2017 J Ames
Traveler
BREATHE
 Mar 2017 J Ames
Traveler
And so here we are
Page after page
Hearts on fire
Exposing parts unseen
Beneath harden surfaces
Wounds unclean
Broken still we dream
On and on we pen
And so we breathe again
 Feb 2017 J Ames
Busbar Dancer
I've never read The Torah, but
I'm reasonably sure
it is a travel guide
for a desert getaway.

I've never dreamed of
red headed priestesses
who can move their hips
like cement mixers.
They probably have sharp teeth and
slender fingers.

I always thought that
the cosmos would bend down
to give me a dap.
It still may.

I'm full of dark and weird judgement.
All for you.
Sometimes the darkness wanes
while the weirdness lingers.
Atomic quatrain explosion. Kaboom. **** it English!
 Feb 2017 J Ames
Busbar Dancer
There’s a menacing chill
on the air
this evening.
“Had I the wherewithal
I’d leave this place,”
I think to myself
as the first warning is issued
by that unfriendly cloud
hanging low and dark
over the mountain.
While once I thought that
the rain would fall with purpose,
I’ve come to understand
that floodwater has no manifesto
except to place the scumline as high as it can.
We can stack these sandbags tall
around our hearts
without regard for what’s on either side of the dam.
They’re only transient monuments to ineffectiveness anyway.


An assassin stands at the corner
wondering if I’ll ever leave my house
and its warmth.
I have news for him, though…
There’s nowhere to go, and
the weatherman thinks we’ll have a storm.
Hoping your gutters are clean.
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