The road to Shannon

I'm up at Shannon airport, my favourite place, watching the planes in and out. This is a poem I debated on quality for poetry contests for some time, it's not really contest material, so I thought I'd share it now:

Road to Shannon

I know the road to Shannon blindfold,
easy enough on the 343, I’m told.
“Learn it blindfold,” he said that night,
in the rain before the coup took flight.

I know that road to Shannon well,
so many adventures, stories to tell.
I remember Bunratty, mishaps and blunders,
and Two Mile Inn, home to old wanderers.

Everyone met their spouse at Two Mile,
and now they retire there, resting a while.
Shannon Town Centre, grit teeth and smile,
giant baubles returning year after year in style.

All the tales of Newtown Shannon,
friends, legends, losses, joys unplanned,
you are a part of every story spun,
each memory shining like the sun.

The Shannon marshes guide to the airfield,
where I have waited, hope unrevealed.
And in the end, redemption came,
the promised answer, earned by name.

So remember, children, heed this mention,
the road to Shannon is paved with good intention.

A place called memory

 This isn't great work but it's musing. It is both a place and not a place, and it crosses memories and unresolved situations.

I walk in silence down these halls

the night and rain have me in thrall

I think about masks and how we hide

what's real here, what shows outside

I think about her, she saw through 

the delusion which fools many, harms few

we do it for the greater good he says

but I look at who goes, who stays

This building is a mind I'm reading

the memories in my mind bleeding

 these dark thoughts of mine 

about things long since lost in time

I see the winter's night in the rain

someone grieving, trapped in pain

They walk these corridors still

their footsteps, water drips on a sill

In these walls the explosions of anger

someone running from terrible danger

the darkness of a condemned life

the accusations sharp as a knife

The building deserted, I am alone, 

the polished floors, wood and stone

I walk alone through my mind, 

seeking, hoping not to find, 

Who was wrong and who was right?

was there need for fight or flight?

It's time to leave, follow the star

and never look back, however far, 

In my dreams I'll walk here again,

always alone and without sound

walk the halls of time gone by

whispered questions asking why. 

The dark road

I remember a dark road long ago,
headlights shining through the rain.
My memories, usually buried,
have risen from sleep again.

This was my home, everything I loved,
but life sweeps us away on endless roads —
like that road in the dark long ago,
when you were alive and life flowed.

What tragedy leaves me here,
without you, alone, dreaming of that highway,
forgetting, living another life day by day,
and remembering you only when dreams turn to light.

I remember that dark road;
it runs through my heart and sleep.
We only know what we know at the time,
and I thought forever was ours to keep.

I wouldn't go back to the graveyard
of the life we lived and the days we spent.
I am here now, and here forever;
the past sleeps, with all its sentiment.

Get off that phone Michael!

He's sitting there in the coffee shop,
every day, alone, solitary, absorbed,
making love to that wretched phone.
Get off that phone, Michael!

He's never fully with those he greets,
hands glued to that thing,
no matter who he meets.
Get off that phone, Michael!

The phone is his whole life -
emails, news, messages, everything.
He married it, made it his wife.
Get off that phone, Michael!

When he cared more for the phone than the street,
he shot up to his heavenly home,
and God said, "You're welcome, but -
Get off that phone, Michael!"

My view of Poetry

 I've been writing poetry since I was a child. It wasn't always good or appreciated. I have taken years to get to a point last year where I started this blog specifically for poetry, because I felt that at last I had something to share and of a standard to share. Previously I published poems here and there on blogs, but last year this blog and the real momentum started and then this year I started competing. 
I've competed in short fiction and non-fiction contests before, but this is my first year in poetry contests.

Do I have any qualification to write poetry? Qualifications aren't really needed. I did A215 Creative Writing with the Open University, where they tried to teach me 'the rules' and I did my own thing and still passed. Poetry is like music, the best of it isn't about rules but inspiration. 

Poetry, the best of it, is a story in fewer words, a crafted tale with a rhythm. My idea of a good poem is one with a bit of mystery perhaps, a tale, evocative, an atmosphere captured. My poems tend to tell a story of places, times or people or all three. I do a lot of poetry about places. The poem has to hit that secret key, to tell a story, historic or current, in a way that people can relate to, or even feel emotion from. 

I consider my best poems at present to be Lough Foyle, Galtymore, Monaleen Church, and The Cold Institution. These are all about places. None are on this blog as they are competition poems. 

I don't publish all my poems on here as some are for competitions, and I store a lot of poems unpublished in the blog archives, for safekeeping, and to publish or not, when the time is right. I will keep adding poems because once you really start writing poetry and start to build skill, it's impossible not to write poetry. It's another bad habit.

Lost Beings

Antisocial and a Hazard

They stare at their rectangles
and expect others to move,
as if they are royalty.

You wonder why someone creeps along,
one inch behind you,
and when you turn, they expect you to step aside.

They no longer see the sky, the sea;
they only feel the need to be validated
by a cold, lifeless rectangle,
an all-consuming obsession.

They stop suddenly in your path;
the rectangle is more important than your comfort,
or the real world, or real life.

I sometimes wonder if they know
that their behavior is bad,
and that people still in the real world
are not impressed,
or whether they’re too far gone
to care about anything
other than the rectangle controlling them.

Some shout into their rectangles;
they seem to need an audience,
a captive audience,
such as people trying to sit peacefully on a bus.

Many of these beings, once human,
also put chemicals in their mouths and lungs
and blow them across others,
making strangers cough and grimace.

These beings, once human,
are now lost beings.

The Whereareyoufrom

The Whereareyourfrom

It’s uniquely Irish.
No other country would dare.

No polite how are you?
No what do you do?

It’s the where are you from?
Straight away —
to put you in your place,
to tell you they don’t consider this your home,
even if you do.

Where are you from?

“South Dublin.”
Not with that accent, you’re not.

And with that,
they dismiss you —
for your skin, your accent, your faith, your culture —
as not belonging,
not welcome.

Think

It’s bleached and bare as skeletal remains,
the creed they give us for our own good.
Those who learn to rely on direction without question
accept it with thanks,
keep their heads down,
and comply.

Many times they tried to press their will onto me,
but I think — sharp and clear —
and I don’t submit.

It’s easy enough to be led by others,
to stop thinking for yourself.
But when the party’s over,
you realise you’re alone
and have no direction at all:
a grown child searching for the adult to guide them,
when they are long of age
to make their own way.

So think before your brain absconds.
Question.
Challenge.
Never mind the cost.

Life only comes around once —
don’t spend it captive.

ka haere tonu te ora

 Kei te haere tonu te ora, āe, kei te haere tonu te ora, kei te mātakitaki tonu ahau i a koe, e aroha ana ki a koe, kāore i tino ngaro, nā te mea ko te hunga i roto i ō tātou ngākau kāore e whakarērea i a tātou,

Life goes on, ah, life goes on, I remain watching over you, loving you, never truly gone, for those in our hearts never leave us, 

Maxime dit à Yaku : « Ceux que nous aimons sont dans nos cœurs, c'est là qu'ils sont, ils ne sont pas séparés de nous. »

Maxime says to Yaku, those we love are in our hearts, so that is where they are, they are not apart from us, 

Ní chuirtear grá ná muinín amú choíche, mar shaibhríonn sé sinn, tógann sé sinn agus athnuachanann sé sinn, níl náire orm gur ghráigh mé thú, tá grá agam fós.

Love and trust are never wasted, because it enriches us, builds us and renews us, I am not ashamed that I loved you, I still love you.

Leenane

Leenane

I recall stumbling down the mountain at dawn.
On the road, sheep scattered as I walked,
and down below the fjord gleamed in early light,
while above, the waterfalls fell so far
they seemed almost static.

In the village, men prepared kayaks
and lines for an early trip,
and I waited in the silence
as the sun crept slowly round to warm me.

The majestic fjord ahead of me as I waited—
so loved by tourists, but to me,
living here and knowing,
there’s nowhere I’d less rather be,
beautiful as it is.