poems

 

11/9

(Morning, 2)

I’ll miss the mornings most.

 

Glimpses of a sleepy 6:30 sun

Ribbon the clouds –

slice my window into foggy satin strips,

wake me slowly,

run fabric

over my

eyelids, opening.

 

Quiet grey of my kitchen –

a whisking stillness,

sweeping,

holding furniture in place.

 

My canvas bag drapes over

the shoulder of my table chair,

exactly where I placed it

the night before.

 

I breathe,

boil my kettle for tea,

the familiarity tastes

like earl grey candles

and pancakes.

11/1

(Morning, 1)

When I start mornings like this,

the sweetness

of the berries I eat

seep deep into my clothes

and I wear raspberries throughout the day.

 

Green tea steam

rises from my mug,

sneaks between my curls

and whispers in my ear

to hold my head a little straighter,

a little stronger;

(at least until lunchtime comes around)

10/6

Artists

are connective tissue

across this city.

 

Atoms in attraction,

we hear the tuning of nylon-cell-strings

from the trad pub down the road,

 

stumble up, mince-pie drunk,

wired by cheap Chinese street food

and the promise of midnight music

at the next pub, pulling, pulling us in.

10/8

– “A Weekend in Enniskillen”

The bus bumbles

back past these

toy box towns that I remember.

 

Six hour stretches

of rainbow Jumbo Jenga,

apartment atop apartment

interspersed

with carpets of pastoral jade.

 

Sheep lift their heads to greet us passerby’s.

 

They streak by outside my window

as my poems repeat on my lips

to sink into memory,

reminding me

why I decided to come here

in the first place.

10/3

Peanut butter loneliness

spreads generous over my gums;

 

I keep my jaws shut

and roll my tongue around

the gooey solitude

oozing between my teeth –

a sticky snack for a silent mouth.

9/2

– “7- Galway”

My breath warms the air

beside Galway bay,

 

6 AM; I exhale fog.

 

It drifts from my bottom lip

like whispers to the morning as I run,

 

rushes from me

like the current when the wind raises its voice.

 

The bay shivers,

embraced by my breath –

waits for the sun to inch

above the lighthouse up ahead.

8/26

– “6- Dublin”

Here, histories mingle

like fingers meet at a palm.

 

Early mornings in the city, waking –

I run along that wrinkle between thumb and wrist,

cobblestone walkways

laying ground

to highrise McDonald’s signs

and German tour guides,

foreign sneakers pounce

to capture the city as it wakes –

with flash.

 

The valley between fingers

crinkle with littered paper –

sidewalks lined with the Irish Times

read,

yesterday’s stories crunch under

rushing business feet,

ink blotched from last night’s beer –

mâché carpets of crosswords

and local marriage announcements.

 

And Joyce orders a pint

at the base of my palm –

Wilde writes

on a stool beside my forefinger –

and Mr Kavanagh reminds

to inquire about him

in a hundred years’ time.

 

I keep them

cupped in my hand

for the drive back to my Galway.

8/23

“5- Dingle”

Today I tread the hem

of Ireland’s summer dress;

 

Inch Beach

billowing in breeze, brisk by seaside –

sly peaks beside a timid tide –

beige sand iridescent under

layers of saltwater and sun.

 

I ride on the hills of her overskirt,

fabric patched with emerald and brown,

spattered with a pattern of wildflowers

and herds of grazing sheep,

and hostels for the wanderers to sleep –

polka dotted along patches of jade tweed.

 

I breathe her in

and her crisp perfume

river-runs across me,

threads through my skin

until I’ve become stitched

in her fabric, countryside.

8/22

“4- Cliffs of Moher”

I’ve captured the cliff’s whistle in my curls.

 

That crash of the tide

against a shoreline of pebbles

histories below me –

the way it reverberates

between the cliff’s curled lips

and carries up

in gusts

to hum for me.

 

I’ve let my hair down

to embed that echo

and keep it caught near my ears,

to listen

when I climb back

down, down, down

from these wondrous heights.

8/22

“3- Ennis”

The toy box town

a couple hours’ drive down

can hear

echoes of the fiddles

busking street side –

 

Folk songs catch between

cobblestones

under tapping sean-nos toes –

slippery tunes

from splashing whiskey

and rain from the morning storm –

 

Fishermen anthems,

beer battered and caught

hook line and sinker.

 

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