John F McCullagh Dec 2011

Two hands, one heart
a band of gold.
It was my mother's ring.
Redolent of emotion,
the last of all her things.

Two hands, one love
a heart of Gold.
A Mother's tender care.
Though parted in the present tense
in Memory, ever there.

"Maybe it's the way your Claddagh ring is still turned on its inside"
ivory rowes 

If I lose you after all, after this fall
After the leaves change and death fills the air
I'll just lie to myself and say you were just research for the secret book I'm narrating in my head
Internal observer, on the inside looking out
Taking notes somewhere in my cerebral cortex
Somehow without my consent the neurons fired them into my heart
And it was supposed to help me breathe but it has only become more difficult
A carefully executed experiment but apparently I have
Fallen victim to my own placebo effect
Is it real if I believe it is?
Is it like thinking happy thoughts in order to fly
What would prove as compelling evidence
I have to remain objective until
A positive correlation is made and solidified and
Thrown in my face
Maybe it's the way your Claddagh ring is still turned on its inside
And I don't know if that means you already belong to someone
Or if you think that means you belong to no one
Who understands all this fleeting symbolic shit anyway
Who really understands anything at all

© AlyssiaAnderson

Awkward reactions encouraged.
"and the little silver claddagh,"
violin witch 

i'm smaller now.

girls usually like to be smaller, but
not me. my rings,
the little silver pentacle
and the little silver claddagh,
slide off my fingers and clink on the ground,
like walt's wedding ring in the series finale of "breaking bad",
which i watched on your couch. when my rings fall off i have to
scramble to find them, have to look on the ground. i'm always
getting in people's way. i put them in my pockets where
they can't escape my little bones.

i fell asleep in my first period class.
it is US history.
i sit right next
to the teacher now (no coincidence i'm sure) so
he saw me falling over in my desk. another
boy was talking to a girl and the teacher questioned
what he was talking about and he told a story about
how he was falling asleep in his trig class. the teacher looks
at me and then back to the boy. i turn invisible and die.

during second period the
teacher is gone somewhere so we are
watching an HHMI lecture about malignant
cancers. i find it very interesting.
i take notes. i analyse diagrams.
i accidentally fall asleep through the second
half. it feels disrespectful even though
the lecturer is just on a projector screen.

in third period we are learning of cadmus and
his sad victory. i learn of his sister adorning a white
bull with flowers. then i learn of darkness and the
sickening taste of an accidental nap.

in fourth period she is there. i sleep
extremely minimally. i write her
a note with small five pointed stars drawn
on it. it is about how the veil between
living and dead is growing thinner. she
writes me one back but doesn't finish it.

in fifth period i fall asleep while drawing. i'm sitting
on the band room floor
looking at my reflection in the timpani
wishing i was reading battle royale.

in sixth period i fall asleep while equating things on graph paper.
the teacher's necklace looks just like the
snake in the canyon with the red and
black stripes. it is choking her. i am falling asleep.

this isnt even poetry
Aveline Mitchell May 2015

I wear my loneliness on the ring finger of my right hand, upside down.
A beautiful reminder of
Empty coffeehouse booths and
Cold bedsheets, imprinted only by one.

Someone asked me what his name was,
Noticed my confused glare,
And nodded quietly towards my hand.
I had slipped it on without looking that morning,
Right side up,
Wearing a fake lover upon my finger.
I stammered as I turned it around again,
Reassuring them of my loveless heart.

Any stranger, near or far,
Can see my loneliness.
The brilliant emerald embedded only proves
To be a distraction.

Molly Feb 2015

Your hand in mine, twiddling
the silver around my right
ring finger. The point
of the heart faced out,
in hope you'd turn it
toward my wrist. Your mouth
brushes mine. You take it off,
examine the stamp - "925."
Slide it back on, the crown faced up,
the hands mirror ours,
clasped
around my heart. I wonder
if my father knew
what it would mean to me
when he passed it on.
I wonder if he knew
I'd fall for a boy
and this ring would twist my mind in folds,
you're a menace, a silversmith
you solder my mouth shut.

— The End —