Cross the field scrabbling muddy from the brookwe run on oblivious to the painshooting bolts of electricityup and down the shattered tendons in our legsor the burning lungs that remind usto quit smoking next week. To the forest surging, a wave of sweating bodiesmoving forward on the tide of our
Poetry
I have been writing poetry since the 2nd grade. Why stop now?
Poetry
Beauty Inside – Áilleacht taobh istigh
Beauty insideglowinglike a radiofrom 1943cracklingthrough the etherlike a love songbehind barbed wirerebelcrazybeauty stampedlike a placardheld highproud to behuman……a herothe Pope hatedand left usshattered ml’23 (Listening to ‘Black Boys on Mopeds’ by the divine Sinead O’Connor)
Poetry
Wheels Turning
Wheels turning round and roundthe oval miles slippinginto an endless loopof smiles reflectedin the gleaming hardwoodand flashing lights. I stand and listenlaughter and musics’ universalblend of joy and lovebounced off the girdered wallsthat once held a newspaperfilled with MVA’s and tragedy. I close my eyesand I am back in ’65wheeling
Poetry
Temporary Beauty
I plucked a rose oncefrom a gardenwithout permissionslicing it quicklyfrom the stemwith my jacknifeand carried it all dayin my pocketslipping it outfrom time to timeto smell the summer tanguntil at days endit lay wiltedmaroon blotchedin my handand i lost interest ml’00
Poetry
Lightkeeper
Dirty sock – hanginglifeless from the hamper rail,redolent of touch footballon the lawn,or perhaps the lazinessof an 11 year old boy,scrabbling in the emptyrecess of the second drawer. Greasy dishes – strewnlike the victims of a trainwreck,no survivors,just the odd fry stuck spearlikein congealed Heinz,that called too soft for 911,now