After the parade, before the rain
The homeless reclaim their streets
Amonsgt the discarded plastic tri-colours
The sweet papers that fall at children's feet
You can feel the ghosts of ******* babies
From Tuams' religious care home
Dancing in some purgatory parade
No coffins ever granted to rest in peace
They rise from a decommissioned sewer pit
Free now to march as they eternally carry
The burden of a society's Christian sin
Look to today, why dwell on the past
An oft cried refrain as we do it again
Where the pubs overflow with national pride
For a fifth century Welsh missionary man
Who bestowed upon us an organised religion
From a politically divided Northern hill
Inside the boys make the noise in Celtic tops
Singing old rebel songs of English wrongs
Children outside, whose to seek, whose to hide
A national passage as another mother cries
She prays for the end and for morning again
To sweep through these fractured streets
To wash through these wretched sins
For after every parade once more must come
A forgiving frontal rain to make way for the sun

This icon was as noble as a king
in many ways as wise as solomon
but great was he like Chris Himself

His voice was as soft and touching as a fairy’s
in many ways he was as meek as a lamb
with garments as opulent as if made in heaven

His songs made the world tremble
and his sight made people fumble
in music, he was invincible

He danced beyond measure
his dancing style was unique
the way he arrayed his dresses on him was unique

He was as rich as solomon
for the gold he amassed was beyond measure
he could turn black to white

when he danced, what a sight!!!
and when he monwalked, it was a marvel
when he twisted people were mesmerised.

“King of pop” he earned the title
grammy amonsgt other awards bored him
MJ was a supernatural being

As humans we have flaws
he was no exception
for he was a human

At two scores and a half
our icon breathed his last
bringing sorrow to our world

He will forever dwell in our minds
for he was a man who knew no bounds
for his songs still thrill people

MICHAEL JACKSON, I LOVE YOU

In a Victorian train station,
Amonsgt a plowed tile floor
Of long brown benches,
I sat: a brass statue.

I stood in the waiting room
Watching the travelers scurry
About, keeping up in their own
Little rat race.

They would walk around
Through the rows of benches,
Looking at me, or the windows,
Or the clocks.

I would sit in my space amongst
The benches, in my shaft of light
That came down from the arches
In the ceiling, thinking I was content.

Minutes would turn to hours,
Hours to days, days to seasons
Time after time. And then --
You came.

You were so like me: an
Almost brass statue; a not-once
Person, gilded over in a
Seemingly perfect pose.

They sat you right next to
Me; we were like two sides
Of an old coin, spinning in
An empty space of the station.

Your silence was plenty for me.
I no longer looked at the
Scurriers and travelers, but
Instead on you, us, together.

In all the room in a vast station
I was fortunate enough to
Have you placed perfectly
Next to me. Me.

But it wasn't to last. The men
Came to haul to around: to
Kiosks and platforms and
Other waiting areas.

Then. . . I became the fidgeter.
The seasons broke down, to days
Minutes seconds moments,
Moments without you.

And when you came around
Again we both delighted in the
Sunlight through the arches and
Each others inevitable silence.

And when the station closed,
You never had to move again.
There was no where left to move you,
No more emptiness to fill.

So they set us in a park -- by black
Benches with pigeons instead of
Trains. Together we got to watch
The minutes turn to days, and in

Turn seasons.
I never waited again.