Category Archives: Winter 2016

18 October 2017

I can’t wait to see you again.
I can’t wait to see you again.
I sure hope I can see you again.

When I welcome Love in
it just wants to leave again.
What’s the point of living
outside these nunneries?
Is this the pain of ageing or
the ageing of pain?

What’s that invisible sin
that stains my welcome
mat? I’m too good
of a loser now to now
take it personally.

Wave Love goodbye;
it was never a guest
to stay.
Just when I welcomed you
in you decided to leave
again.

And what do I do with
these ticket for you + I? I didn’t
think you’d be able to go anyway.
Planning
Advancing
Scares me more than things that fly.

Oh how I hate those birds + bees
but oh how I hate the anxiety of
thinking long from this moment.

I thought perhaps, at last + at least
you could be my moment.

I can’t wait to see you again.
I can’t wait to meet you again.
I sure hope we meet again.

O’doubt Banish this grief!
It weights me down like gravity.
Flight-full the wisps of love that
I could use with the landing down to
facts.

When things were going right
I needed this left + Love
to leave.

Reminding me of my
place + fate, where
I thought I was
planning my escape.

I listened to the Blues before you
and I’ll still listen now. You
showed me nothing too new
but I think I showed you
a thing, one or two.

I can’t wait to see you again.
I’m afraid to see you again.
Will we ever meet again?

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Watching Violin and Viola Play

He touched her left shoulder with
his right arm. And I’m not sure of where
I stand versus where I stood.
Some things advance +
others lag the same old
different speed.

Some things never will change
Some things I never will understand.
The speed of the day ages
the week and unsure
will garner me a grey man.

Violinist + viola
flirt with music close.
Nothing I’ll never know. I write
with ink + mutterers I’ll sing.
Nothing like a musician’s promise
that keeps these vocal poets
away.

He bought me
a drink. He bought her
none at all.

Some things advance +
others lag the same old
different seed.

The violin + viola
swap strings. I’ll call that
euphemism + leave the
reader to think.

I’ll drink his bought drink
for me + wonder how

Some things never will change
some things I never will understand.
The speed of the day ages the
week + this unsure will
garner me away from
the person present will I be.

The violinist was supposed to leave
a time ago. The viola causes him to stay +
together they’ll play
until this bar closes +
forces them away.

But continue I’ll sit and gently
sip his bought drink.
Wondering how old will I be
how grey my hair’ll grow
before I lose this unsure
ground and the lag speeds will
become no more.

22 September 2016

Love unrequited once more
Here
at least, we meet again
to love your touch.
I would give everything
save my mind
Unkissed dreams
unsaid words.
Is this the pain of being alive?

Unburnt by your touch
Untasted by your face
Unhappy + unsolved am I
hat one again, haunts my mind

Are you decided +
belonged to her from
last Sunday?

Is she yours

Heretic heart
mine eyes
wish to see
my flesh burnt
by touch +
lust and
pressure that
doesn’t last long
but lasts long enough.

To ask you anything more
would be too much.

In the tune of ‘Blow The Man Down’ with a slight divergence into ‘The Wild Rover’

They touched and they fucked
all the men down
they touched and fucked
when i ain’t around
they touched and they fucked
when i left alone

Blow all the men down
blow all the men down

For touching and fucking when I ain’t around

and it’s all more whiskey
until tonight dies down

of them touching and fucking since
i been around.

Burnt as a moth to a flame am I to Eire’s name.

What a fool am I to
be burnt
again by Joyce’s
Sirens’ cries.

To the core
burnt am I
and to the
core of
unbridled hopes
have I let my hopes
burn dreams once so bright.

Held hope high
from another of my kind

Hope held high
from another of my kind

from one
unasked touch that
led to another
wanted more.

Dreams of Eire though now died
lie away on the shore
of Holyhead
and never will I
travel there again.

Burnt as a moth
to a flame am I to Eire’s name.
Browned wings limping away
unable to fly,
lost my right to when found that
my love was no love
of mine.

What a fool am I to
be burnt again by
Joyce’s Sirens’ cries.