Tag Archives: poem

1 October 2017

Middle-crossed symphony
agéd watcher, unmusic
undanced though
the talk abounds.

Absent smiling face, even if
he were here
it wouldn’t be grateful fate.

We danced to music this once;
he danced, and my followed eyes,
feet down below shackled to
the mind.

We never danced again,
nor he and me and then alone just me.
In front of mirrors closeted my feet
socked create minimal beat. Song, music
unlike this, repeat and arms flair, doing
justice to my two lame feet.

She in my preferred place.
No musician am I, thus redundant, replaced.
She stares not at my chosen lover’s face
and I wonder why she’s taken my place.

Her fingers do move, but then so do this hand’s
five. Pen is my fiddle, but the bitch
still took my place.

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Follies

The Prodigal Daughter’s Return.
Missing the last chapter.

_________________________________

Jealousy starts once more;
I’ll bash it down. If it’s
justified jealousy then off
my merry way I’ll go.

_________________________________

Finer is the tea tasted when not you who made…
Alternative is true for the
Guinness pint given freely to you.

An apology:

Make dirty a page of new.
My own design, my own to choose.
I know it’s a sin, it’s a wrong
to do. To bring the past upon a
page so new. There are no
conjunctions, there is no hope
of Christ redeem. There is none
of that when white becomes
unclean.

The fault is mine, all here
agree clear. The burden
of resurrection is one
that Pontius could understand.

The sin of woman outmatches
sin of man.

Wounds well sutured still
tear in time.

I don’t care to believe this,
the way I am.

But to die, to be true – the
larks of jealous tone colour
my name and actions of all.

To try my triumph,
to fail my past.

To colour anything so darling is
skill,
sharpened with my own mouth’s axe.

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My heart has beat
a thousand time, a space of minutes
on tomorrow’s eve – this night.

Jealous Amor, will I see him
tonight? Who inited that beast
with that ignoble heart.
The one whose presence
instant one knows.

Or shall my dancing companion
be one of Lust?
The girl with the eyes,
so large, no room for a heart.
To see her dance one could
assume so pure – but after
the midnight gong he ride
turns wicked, her ribbons down
twirl.

Shall I dine tonight with Monsieur
Grá? The one whose fluent tongue
entraps the public all?
Stare through candle light,
darling guest of the ball.
Who intervenes all the guests,
who urges mother to pull up
daughters’ shawls.
That feeds the embers of jealous rage,
The one whose wand turns men’s whispered
to quiet rage.

He’s great friends to all mentioned above,
though oft times, slandered
as well as by all.

If he sit across dining table,
I’ll treat him truly, and
honour him above all.