Poetry

Gray Area

You stay strangely vacant
from the grey matter these days.
Why, it was a traveler–a vagrant–
who saw you
so that they could relay
it to the rest of us.
Eyes, so to speak, who composed
music of the loveliest girl
in the world.
Translated it too. Translated it
for all the senses, for all the muscles,
the blood, the bones.
Why did they look to you
when they can just get by?
I could get you off my mind
but the vacancy
seldom lasts.

Poetry

Mheall Sí Lena Glórthaí Mé

I don’t miss the days

of being young and dumb

when I am just a bit older now

but sometimes when I hear a note

on the old piano

I hear that French tune all over again,

played by an inexperienced player

who made it her goal to learn it,

who played her heart out

even further

than its usual place

at the opening of her sleeves,

who dared to be herself

and smile all the while

they told her not to,

yes,

only sporadically do I wish

to step back in time

that I might let her know then,

or earlier,

or later

that her voice carried through life

and it carries through time

with grace and charm and admiration.

Not just the song. Not just the one time.

Not just the words

nor the words of this poem.

It was everything she did,

and she enticed me with her voice

Poetry

Rock Song

Would you help me, my friend?

I’ve had quite enough

for I’m stuck in between

the diamonds and rough.

I could have asked you

to give me a hand

but in fear I declined

since you’d understand.

Please help me, I beg you,

my pride to efface

for I’m stuck in between

this rock and hard place

Poetry

Forever Young

Just another song

with another story

that I try to forget,

a song I’ve heard

a thousand times before

and a thousand times

since,

but sometimes

I hear him sing

those words again,

when they sneak through

the FM waves,

and I smile at

the fading memories

I have of you

Poetry

Song of the Cicada

You can’t walk without

stepping on the bent spoons

that the hungry left behind,

who had tried to carve a chunk

out of the muggy air

but left with less

than they brought.

The cicadas sang a song once

on such a day as this

but no one remembers the words.

Are they singing it now?

It’s hard to tell if it stops or not

when its noise

is all that’s left

to remember