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Jamie F Nugent Mar 2016
She always dressed
In the saddest shades
Of gray upon darker
gray;
She only felt comfortable
In gray,
Sleepy and paralytic,

Scanning her life through
Black, white and the gray
Photographs
Of Marilyn,
Of Charlie,
Of John,
Of Paul,
Of George, and
The other one.

She kept her smile well hide
Under her gray scarf.
She, the gray coquelicot
Who bloomed in the arboretum,
Where the roses were gray,
And the violets too,
She felt at home and sweet.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jamie F Nugent Mar 2016
I wore the shoes of the old man,
Oh how my thoughts and feet ran,
All through the hallways, bottom to top,
Filling them with sound of clip and clop.

I wore the shoes of the old man,
But to fellow her was the best plan,
Walking for miles, the long way round,
A prettier stroll with the loves I've found.

I wore the shoes of the old man,
They go swiftly down the main street to catch a tram,
With her hand in mine, I took her aboard,
As the rain outside and our indoor hearts, poured.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Jamie F Nugent Mar 2016
In a little pub in London,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Night came, a ***** black night with rain.
Mid-December, nineteen hundred and thirty nine,
Just a few months before ****** turned London's
sky black with lead.
But for now,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Sat solemnly in the candle-lit corner.
He gazed ruefully into his drink,
Like a haggard old grey ghost.
He was tired and felt strange and lost
in this faraway disgusting place.
The whorey smell of the city.
He felt a million and one miles away
from his home.
He was born in a little white cottage,
straw roof, on a small tragic island
off the West of Ireland;
Just a few stone-trows away from
the sleepy fishing village of the
village of Kinsheenlan.
Moriarty had often written letters to
his lonesome mother dearest,
but instead of tossing the letters
into gloomy London post-boxes,
he would post them into
the pub's fireplace.
Fuel for his shame.
Alas, the curse of drink had taken
over his soul and mind.
The sweet poison was now
his only pleasure,
his only softness.

So there he sat, drinking the Devil's drop,
like a mop soaks up spills on the counter-top.
And blowing out sliver smoke rings
all through those long winter nights.
Give to Moriarty to drink mandragora,
until he becomes muddied and slow.
Those rose colored glasses that he had
on for so long now,
they were not going to shield him forever.
As he transfixed his eyes on his beer,
he heard a voice,
a wondrous voice,
at first he thought it lay alone in his mind,
but it was coming from down the hallway,
the sounds of a young maiden's song,
wild and free.
It made his heart feel the substance of his life.
That fabulous blue center-light delight of song.
Sounding so alike to his sister Betty.
It shook him to his core.

Moriarty, the poor lost soul,
had not seen his sister in twenty odd years.
He recalled their last meeting.

The ship has set sail into an ocean, black and calm.
Just that morning, Moriarty got the letter from his mother,
Handwritten in felt tip, slightly stained with a tear,
Telling him to keep warm and stay safe,
To fill his stomach and fill his pockets.

As his sister stood on Dublin's docks to see him off and wish him well
She shrinks with the distance growing between and
She looks twelve and three quarter years younger than she did that day,
The little girl who Moriarty fought with all the live long day over nothing.
Now, she was the women who put up a fight over his sailing away.
Sometimes, brothers and sisters never change.

She knew that this was for the best, but she would never admit that,
Not with words,
She felt her words, weightless would have just sailed right away with him.
Moriarty wondered what she will look like if he seen her again,
Will she have received wrinkles from worrying about mother?
Will her chestnut hair have turned white as the snow burying her bare feet?
And now
Betty was all Moriarty's mother had, after Moriarty's father,
a fisherman, drowned that awful November night.

Then, just as Moriarty thought of his ghostling past,
there came the question
'Are you going home for Christmas, dear?'
Asked the barmaid,
Her words dripping like honey into Moriarty's half-empty-glass.
'Sure, I have not been to Ireland in an age, but I know for certain
that my mother is waiting for me with arms open' Moriarty answered.
But he was unsure if his own poor mother would recognize him
for it had been so long.
But just then, Moriarty heard the Christmas-bell-like-voice of
the women standing, singing in the hallway.
The past came into consciousness like a flood.
And in the corner of his eye,
there glazed, the starting of a tear.
Moriarty pushed aside his beer glass-half-full and
said to himself
'I shall be home for Christmas day'.

After two weeks, long weeks
Gone drink nor smoke,
Moriarty have sharped up enough pounds and pennies
to bring him to his home of Ireland.
And while on that train through the lands, green and beautiful,
The deeper into the West Moriarty went
the stronger he felt it,
a beat, beat, beat that thumped and rang out in his chest.
Night fell by the time Moriarty set foot in Kinsheelan,
The church bells rang true and strong sixfold.
Moriarty was unrecognized by the sailor Tomas Bawn,
As he climbed into the little white boat
to sail home across the calm, blue, winter-waters,
to that same white cottage.
Tomas Bawn heard Moriarty as he said to himself
in little more then a whisper
'Thank God above, I shall be home for Christmas day'.


In a little pub in London,
Moriarty's abode,
By the hallway door,
A letter, unread,
Laid upon the floor, It read-

'Oh dear Danny,
Our poor mother has passed.
The funeral will take place
In Kinsheelan church
After mass
On Christmas day'.




-Jamie F. Nugent
Jamie F Nugent Mar 2016
The people in the café
Walk in and out
And in and out -
The lunchtime rush -

With black crosses on their foreheads;
Under their fringes,
Below their hats,
Above their glasses;
They forget they are even there,
The smudged little ash X's and +'s
Little kisses,
Adding it up.

The little ✞ so close to their brains
Makes the funny looks they give me
For eating meat somehow louder
And more meaningful -
Eating meaning for lunch? Today?!
Sacrilege! Surely!
Utter upsettment,
For utter disregard,
For their rules,
For His rules,
Because that is not
How the game works;

Do they stop for a second
In consideration
That I am not playing
The game?


-Jamie F. Nugent
Jamie F Nugent Mar 2016
The old town,
Oesophagus of Main Street,
I am swallowed down,
And for it, my chosen ode,
Let's do the time warp again,
The yellow paint eroding,
Peeling right off the courthouse walls;
Cobwebs cover the judge's gaval
Because there are no killers standing in the halls,
The trials just concern unpaid bills and tickets,
Because it is such a fine, lovely village,
Without any crime, trouble or pillage,
Tuesdays on Main Street -
Hear the pins drop
Or just listen to the sound of the crickets.


-Jamie F. Nugent
Jamie F Nugent Mar 2016
Oh my darling Ruth,
Now I just want some truth,
Will you be here in the morning
When I wake up?
Or will you go to Sunday school
And sit among the boys that drool
All over you;
Just like I do?
Because you're something else.

Listen to the preacher preach,
About footsteps on the beach,
Jesus Christ, when he carried you home,
But I just want to be alone with you.

Now, I know how you tire
From singing in the church choir,
So leave it to me,
I'll make coffee,
For you, when you get home.

And I'll clean up the house for you,
Be as quiet as a mouse for you,
I'll do the chores,
Like sweep the floors,
Before you get home.

And I'll tell how I missed you,
And I will hug and kiss,
And you'll kiss me,
And taste like coffee,
When you get home.

I rejoice at your voice,
Reading Hemingway or James Joyce,
Oscar Wilde or Sherlock Holmes,
When we are alone.

Star Wars or Harry Potter?
Which film would you rather
Watch tonight?
I'll turn off light,
I'm so glad you're home.


-Jamie F. Nugent
Jamie F Nugent Mar 2016
Where the sun is down
And the moon is pretty,
Out of town,
Away from the city,
The inside of your mouth tasted like milk,
And all of your skin felt of softest silk,
It wrapped around every bone in your body,
It said leave me alone everybody,
You circle around my soul,
A dead goldfish in a grimy bowl;
So after you blow out all of your candles,
Finished your drink
And slip off your sandals,
What do you think?
Won't you shut off your alarm-clock,
Won't you come see me,
You've got the impenetrable lock,
I have in my pocket, the skeleton key.


-Jamie F. Nugent
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