Tag Archives: original content

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

And what do I do with
these ticket for you + I? I didn’t
think you’d be able to go anyway.
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

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?

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

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.

1916 ended 100 years later with an English kiss

Low and behold a week well spent
hidden and celebrating ol’
connolly’s deaths. The
dominoes’ effect.

Eye met mind on my
supposed last night,
already delayed to hear
the Proclamation ring
on ex-Sackville street.

And when Eyes met mind
on celebration night,
I knew that my supposed
last night might
rest. That’s when I knew –

When he stared at me and I
stared right back.
‘Cause never could I miss a sight like that
which is how I found my heart
in a Dublin man.

With all those numbered
dead which brought
us to meet, it’s crass
to celebrate my ’16 rising night
with a centenary kiss.

No need for Grace,
and no need for James.
Redmond and Padraig can go ahead
and wait.

If this is what true love is,
I have those rebels to thank.
And if living in the past
brought me to this present,
I never want to go back.

And that’s how I’ll
remember him staring at me. And how I stared
right back. Never could
I survive without witnessing
a sight like that. And that’s
when I knew I found a
soul in a Dubliner true.

Constance, Sheehy
and gunfire Tones.
When we kiss it’s
the blood of Collins + Rest
from way back when those
that carried the green and
pikes. Because of them,
their dreams,
will have me in his bed tonight.

Now I’ll remember always
how he stared at me.
And how I stared right back.
Never could I fault a fate like that,
and that’s how I found my heart
in a Dublin man on that
centenary night.

And that’s how I
won an Irishman over
with an English girl’s kiss
on 1916’s centenary night.

A Song of Sorrow

A song of sorrow,
simple, that you’re not with me.
And yet, perhaps, the fault is mine because
your name always comes first in line.

This isn’t what I wanted, I didn’t know how,
how to allow myself to ask for what I dreamt
so close.

When I saved all my bad words to serve
as a first to yours,
they dissolved as sugar in water in a swift

But was it you or I that stirred it first?