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I'll Start by Remembering

I’ll start by remembering, Something I don’t often do, Trying to draw back the veil, And bring back memories of you. I’m sad there’s little good I find, Not much light I can see, When I search back through my mind For what used to be. I did my best for your sake, But you were never grateful. I tried my best to keep you safe, Yet in return—you’ve been hateful. I carried your burdens for years, Though none of them were mine. You taught me silence and fear, Then called it “doing fine.” I learned to smile through sorrow, To mend what you would break, To dream of kinder tomorrows For everyone’s sake. But love can’t bloom in shadows, Or in a house of blame. You burned the bridges we needed— And still, I took the flame. Now I stand in the ashes, Breathing, scarred, but free. Your ghosts can’t chain me anymore— They have no claim on me. So let the distance stand between, A mercy, cold and true. No bridge, no bond, no beckoning Just silence left of you. I’ve made my peace with parting, No wish,...
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Anniversary

Anniversary I still scream in nightmares that nothing can heal. I still scream— I still scream inside— because those nightmares were real. I wake, and it wasn’t a dream. So I scream, and I scream, but no one ever hears me. Then one day, God was kind. He reached out in poetic justice and eased my hurting mind. I still carry the horror, the shattered parts, but there is more peace in my heart. For Brendan, Ger and Leah, with thanks. 
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So I let go

So I let go.  So I let go— after holding on so tight, so long. Remembering you in memory, in word, in song. I turned back toward you one more time, took your dear hand in mine. Wished I could see that smile, keep it with me for a while. But I held your hands one last time— love and tears overflowing— and walked away.
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'In your arms' and 'Cold Streets'

In your arms.  I wake up thinking of you, and drag through the day... through dull routines and boring speeches, wishing I were in your arms. I walk home in the evening, thinking of you. I get the shopping, do the chores, sit staring at the screen, and I was...I was...in your arms. I stand and watch the water flow, I walk down the quay, I go to my café for tea, still wishing I were in your arms. Cold Streets There’s no escape, no shelter. The rain falls relentlessly. I’m hungry, someone please feed me before I perish on the cold streets. The rain makes me want to die. There’s no one to hear; everyone hurries by, hidden by rain gear. I sit in a doorway, watching Garda vans go by. There’s been a stabbing down the road. I sit alone and cry.
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He's Gone

 I heard today that my friend had died, and I wrote this.  He’s gone— the news arrived today. He’s gone, so far away. His voice, his smile, his gentle grace, live only now in memory’s space. No more upon the clifftop high, laughing as the seabirds fly, watching basking sharks below, his joy a light, a steady glow. No longer at the front he’ll stand, words of comfort close at hand; that smile we cherished, kind and true, a gift the world no longer knew. He’s gone— and none can take his place. He walks in heaven, face to face with our Lord, his journey done— no longer bound, but home, at one.
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198

  A year has gone, and the turmoil remains   That white penthouse, and the hope you smashed—   Shattered dreams that were never reality,   Yet you scattered them with impunity.   I wake sometimes thinking I’m there,   That you’ll soon be around.   I wake again—you're gone forever,   And my bed is the cold, hard ground.   I never stop thinking: Why? Why me?   But all I hear is silence, and your denial.   You broke my back, tore my hope away,   And left nothing of me, day after day.   You emptied my hope, my heart, my life,   And ran off with the lot.   And now what is left—what have I got?   We’ve got your number: 198. And again: A year’s gone.   The turmoil still gnaws.   That white penthouse—   hope in shards.   Dreams that were never real,   but you threw them anyway,   lik...
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Lanzarote

  Lanzarote It’s not hard to see why they hate the tourists here— The show-offs, the painted women on the arms of men who bought their names in bricks and sea views, the louts, slurring through nights on streets they’ll never care to know. They come for the name. To say  Lanzarote  like a trophy over tapas they butcher in English. To tag a sunset, to prove they were here. To wear the island like a hat they’ll toss aside. Yes— it’s beautiful. But it’s more than an alcohol destination. It’s home. Not a backdrop. Not your budget Eden. You’re tolerated— your laughter swallowed, your presence smiled at for pay. But they don’t love you. They remember the island before you filmed it. They live here still after you’ve gone.
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