In Plain Talk

Regressing to my childhood, I can't speak
Except in plain talk, every simple phrase
Reminding me of nursery rhymes, loud praise
Of learning. Knowledge can be pretty bleak,
And redolent of false trails for the meek,
Who will inherit nothing, salad days
When we were setting half the world ablaze,
My brother's war-cry, and my sister's shriek.

Sit down, my children, round the cold hearth here,
And listen to my stories of remorse,
Of desperation and the use of force
To entertain our visitors, through fear,
Intimidation, and bad homemade beer.
Then childhood can end, having run its course.

Refusal to Mourn

The infidelity of infidels
Confounds me, like the fear of death. Or dark.
Or fear itself. I should make some remark,
Some mean insult about disgusting smells
That emanate from those sunflower shells
You've strewn about the place. This is an ark,
A safe space, not a junkyard, a car park,
A used tire depot, rife with evil spells.

But you believe in nothing, and your grief
Remains unmitigated, unassuaged,
Your brain too wakeful, your heart unengaged,
Because you choose to nurture unbelief,
A raucous drinker, an unhappy thief.
A good soul is content, and happy, caged.

Reckoning

I reckon all the times, and ways,
I count the seconds that we spent
Pretending turtles in cement
Was normal. All our yesterdays
Have lighted fools; the donkey brays
Suggestions of an equine bent
Which he believes are heaven-sent;
The peacock shuts down his displays.

The heavens may in truth be vast,
But I am small. The greens and browns,
The leaves and branches, are the gowns
Of spring, but spring days never last.
Counting the comets whipping past,
I reckon moons, and stars, and clowns.

The Magic Dew

"Make love to me," she whispered. This was new,
Only the second woman to suggest
This mainly unclaimed heart sunk in my chest
Held any wanted ardour. That's my cue,
I thought, a sprinkling of the magic dew
That made them want me. I was surely blessed,
Took up the challenge with my usual zest,
Caressed her throat, and stiffened for review.

She loved me, briefly, but the months rolled by
And she loved someone else, and then once more
Doled out her favours to me. I adore
Her still, though I remained, always, too shy
To ask again. She married a sweet guy
Who took her swiftly to the Wicklow shore.