Beneath the broad columns of Herculean Pillar,
Weeps the springtime feather dance
Of freezing frothing blanket.
He lies on Irving’s rocks across the Henry,
Painting words of Freedom’s March across a furrowed brow,
Till tiredness creeps it’s feet on lonely eyes,
Counting mountains
As they frown down from above.
On the first crack of the distant Bell
A teary head raises from a bloody pillow,
And sings out the count, to defiant beats.
Flakes drift softly round a faraway moon,
As drizzle melts the lines of morning strollers,
With the hoofs their companions, embossed upon the heather.
His eyes close as he settles to dreams of futures possible,
Picturing rows of steaming turrets, sharpened blades
And crumbling fear, as they draw known faces on fancy paper.
He hears whispered talk of sagging brows and lobbing smiles,
Scribbling and Scripting our morning news where
New artisans paint Headlines in his head,
“Work, save, and Beg.
Make ends meet,
Work those streets,
Bare them writers, debaters,
Leaders, loiters,
Teeming with poor lice“.
Upset now, he straightens, filled with sculpted fear,
And flagging hope,
Devouring ideals of painful labour,
Darkened evenings and prose.
The Narrow Alleys echo his comrades screams,
‘They are Flogging the undesirables‘.
Cries of the deserted ring out
As sweat now pores on dirtied boots.
On A One page of women Jubilant,
Black Coffins swim across the oceans, and the Singing corpses chant the Voters Slogan
‘The great appear great,
Only because we are on our Knees’
The Parisians have embraced the soul of his youth, stole his heart,
Hardened his resolve,
And emancipated the print of the newest chapters.
He’ll fall upon the lords great will,
The ‘Singers’ and ‘Wobblies’ will call and cheer,
While unrest leaves lanes of torn and listed books.
It’s a world only make believe could make so real.
Locked in, Locked out,
Fattened Guerrillas stalking shadows,
In concrete jungles of law and lands.
Their people Long since, Ner’ forgotten,
For He hears their whispers in his sleep.
This Farmers land, had workers lead their kin to the gates of Slaughter,
Then scavenged, begged and stowed to the cloudy Hill
Of Overlooking
To remorse or return, is a question beyond the door of the living.
He must Shed not for the defiant butcher,
But more for the life now gone,
Since sold to an aging critic.
He was Born in to the Poor mans world,
But now freed from it’s chains,
Must help make what‘s fallow ripen.
On the streets where rubble were once great walls,
Where mounted high, the heavenly stag did Breed,
In fields where blight had starved their plates,
He would toil and drive and Dig and Build.
That day, That day in May,
Upon a hazy heather pillow,
A life of history filled a lonely man.
As He lay and held the hand of glories past,
He raised a fist to salute the one which had just begun.
He shakes hands in his dreams with the men of the mist,
Along hills,
And at the edge of great towns.
James Fitzpatrick
Seamus Mac Giolla Phadraig
James Fitzpatrick is an Irish Poet based in Dublin.
I have mastered the act of looking calm,
When my brain floods with dopamine,
And the sensors in my head transmit messages
To the other parts of my body, particularly my heart
To beat wildly and fast like an out of control drum
That it hurts so badly, but it will never show in my face.
I am the master of disguise,
That every time you’d look into my eyes, or touch my hand,
Or say my name – I’d look as neutral as I could.
Even though my chest screams in pain
Because, hey, this little acts of affection can make my heart beat faster,
So fast it forgets the rhythm that it should be beating in.
And somewhere inside my head, a loud sigh and an audible
“Here we go again,”
I can’t afford to be overjoyed and so I try not to think too much
On how beautiful you look when you laugh at that not-so-funny joke that I’ve
made,
Or how you tease me when I become childishly stubborn;
I can’t feel too excited, looking at you walk towards me
Because believe it or not, this dysfunctional heart can kill me.
But no matter how I try to suppress,
Fighting back with thoughts of dying,
That every time you lean your head on my shoulder,
Or look into my eyes, or touch my hand,
Or say my name – I’d risk skipping a beat,
If that’s what it takes for me to show how you make me happy.
If that’s what it takes for me to show how I love you.
The Dance of Sensual Sensation.
Given to US to break daily Frustration…
A rushing of Hot Blood
As the Waters of a Flood…
Through our veins, until She
Intoxicates, Bending rational thought,
In Our Brain… All along feeling shame…
Sometimes causes Erotic Complications
To Our Worldly Self Declaration…
Is This Emotional Feeling Overrated..?
And to Our Lives make more Complicated?
Rocking, Rolling or Midnight Strolling,
Looking for another Dance,
With the Dizzy Thought of Sweet Romance…
Not the Hot Feeling in Your Pants…
Please.., Don’t hesitate for Your chance…
Taste the fruit as You Dance,
All brought to You by, Yes
Aaaaaahhhhhhh, Sweet
Romance….
You will love me and I will not
understand how you can see worth
in eighty pounds of cuts and scars
engraved like small, secret tattoos.
wrong art hidden even from you,
like that picture you took of me,
my polystyrene face and hair,
a plastic gaze and rubber smile:
the painting of an amateur,
a sad, empty imitation.
So, forget about morning texts.
Do not flinch if I break away.
Never you mind to wait for me.
Forget and go about your day.
I think that I’m starting to move on
It’s not easy but just carry on
I’ve done all the things that could distract me from thinking about him
But I just really could not get rid of my feelings towards him
My heart was broken like a glass that fell from a table
At first I thought we were unbreakable
Everything that I think about you was wrong
Didn’t know that loving you could turn out wrong
We were once so happy
When I haven’t tell you yet this kind of feelings that makes me giddy
Everytime you sit and talk to me
There’s still no awkward feeling you get when you’re with me
I now regret all the wrong decisions I made
All of the things you said cuts like a blade
You won’t even care when you see me bleed
If there’s a bidding to save me you wont bid
But hey, guess what?
Thanks for all of that
Now I know what I really want
Not a guy that would just taste a gum and spit it out
You wasted your chance
You already got me in your hands
But you still chose to break my heart
Now, goodbye,I wont be chasing a guy that has a cold stone heart
HEART-ROBBER by Glory Emmanuel, aka glow grandeur.
In the gloom of the night
When all was asleep and quiet
He came and broke into my heart
Using his burglary tools and might
His charm was the key, when that did not work
He bashed out his slanting look
With this he smacked in pieces my gate
Trembling, I spelt my fate
With his seductive tongue, he genteelly opened the door
And dragged me out of my fur of fear
He searched me, and took away everything
Walked and left me with nothing
I try to call the police, maybe shout out for help
But my voice had lost its leap
There and then it dawned on me, I have no heart
The robber have stolen it
In that blink moment of lustful romance
I lost a lifetime of faith in Terrence
I must admit, I admire my heart-robber
I think he was stewed with the onion of Napoleon
It takes a lot of tactics and grit to rob my heart
And only few men can
For it takes a general with many years of conquest
To have the guts to make an attempt.
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