"ballinasloe" poems
Monday Morning, I must speak.
I must liberate my mind and speak to the trusted adult.
I shall be probed and questioned by an understanding man
on the surface
but should I trust him?
Will I be locked up in Ballinasloe
or put on course after course of mystery capsules?
But, alas, I must speak.
I must speak for myself,
for my own benefit.
I must banish the doubts.
I must echo my name.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC
On the road just passed Ballinasloe,
with tyres hugging tight
to tarmac's staccato white stripes,
the stone walls of Aran seem so long ago.
Bu that is only the distance,
And she is more than the proof.
The island's sun has tinted her face,
Its sand has clung tight to salted skin,
The cliffs have sped the pace of her chest,
And now it's the Atlantic that floats within.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC