Every day feels like another nail in the coffin lid
but almost like it doesn't have any point anymore.
There's no use in continuing to hammer it in
When I'm not dying fast enough.
I waste away slowly inside,
Chipping pieces away from my soul.
Such boring existence.
Repetitive and old.
Patterns that remain the same.
Around and around we go.
When the thinking ends
You can feel the wind
Brush against your feet
You can see the rain
Dripping from the apple tree
Its branches shaking outside the window
I remember now
The nights we walked drunk
On the road to Lewis' from the pub
As moonlight froze our skin
The wind instilled us with Irishness
Golden puddles pooled by the curb
Balancing on the pavement's edge
Swaying in the winter air
Sometimes she was there
Skipping to keep up
Shooting me in the heart unknowingly
Until we stumbled blindly in
Through the door to the cinema room
Smoking and finally falling into sleep
On the grey sofa
Where so much happened
And never happened again
the stream is a breeze of
blue stars, layered in sweet
melancholy, layered in
sadness and love.
the world revolves like
a wheel, burgeons like
a flower, weeps like a
i yearn for you, down
misty lanes and dreams of
dark seas, fall until
i can no longer fall,
fall until our love blossoms
and our hearts cry out.
i'm sorry if i have not returned a comment it is really down to time and trying to find the right balance in my life between poetry and loved ones.
O stony grey soil of Monaghan
The laugh from my love you thieved;
You took the gay child of my passion
And gave me your clod-conceived.
You clogged the feet of my boyhood
And I believed that my stumble
Had the poise and stride of Apollo
And his voice my thick tongued mumble.
You told me the plough was immortal!
O green-life conquering plough!
The mandril stained, your coulter blunted
In the smooth lea-field of my brow.
You sang on steaming dunghills
A song of cowards' brood,
You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,
You fed me on swinish food
You flung a ditch on my vision
Of beauty, love and truth.
O stony grey soil of Monaghan
You burgled my bank of youth!
Lost the long hours of pleasure
All the women that love young men.
O can I stilll stroke the monster's back
Or write with unpoisoned pen.
His name in these lonely verses
Or mention the dark fields where
The first gay flight of my lyric
Got caught in a peasant's prayer.
Mullahinsa, Drummeril, Black Shanco-
Wherever I turn I see
In the stony grey soil of Monaghan
Dead loves that were born for me.
They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
I am hearing rain for the first time
Like soft hurried footsteps,
The sounds of mice scuttering,
The creaking of an old house.
I am crying again in the darkness
Caressing my true self,
Feeling her ****** fur
As she flinches from my careful fingers
Her eyes are endless black pools
Her thin legs are injured
Curled up, she whimpers
And cowers in pain
I get too close and she scurries away
Into a shadow,
Leaving me alone with the rain