Black Cherry Blossom Tattoo
half made up, all the way crazy, shirt undone
and a hairband for a husband, this bedrock
to the lake’s slippery as hell, love is a one
way street back in town and it is a slick path
down to the water, spring is no lover but
it comes quick and that’s how she wants it,
she’s got a black cherry blossom tattoo on
her back, the way she breathes is black as
bark, very thick, choked with new leaves
and ready for more, white blossom there’s
an old white blossom in her eyes, the lake
glows dark and is forgiving and yes, she sits
silent and waits, something’s moving down
there, something hungry and moving and wild —
a waterbug, a leaf suspended, the quick leap
Flotsam.
As a child I walked for hours upon
A strand where golden sunlight shone
To find the treasures, junk and so
That waves upon the beach would throw
Sand polished glass, abrased, opaque
The tattered bones of cod and hake
The limbs of trees so calcified
Played notes so sweet when they were dried
These beaches now play host again
To memories of desperate men
Where chance and fate won’t be denied
With punctured hulls, where engines died
And men in suits procrastinate
And gibber, gawk and masturbate
Then seek to soothe with eloquence
“Erect the razor wire fence.”
The flotsam now these days I see
Are boys of eight and girls of three
Whole branches of one family
Are offered up, now to the sea
Oh Neptune now, does this appease
Oh gods of war, these refugees
The offspring of your vanities
Begat, of foreign policies.
One day these tides will wash and wane
And offer up the nameless slain
And children walking on the beach
Will see the bones, chalk white and bleached
The tiny skulls with baby teeth
Carrion cleansed of mortal meat
Current carried to these lands
Dug from sands, by tiny hands.
Enquiring then from whence these came
And we cannot answer, for the shame.
Black ’16.
by Cormac Lally
The dog’s wet nose awakens me
His business needs attending
I open doors to let him out
Where trees the winds are bending
The static hiss of wireless
Miscellany of Sunday
Osmosis of that poetry
They might read mine out one day.
It’s quiet oh so quiet
As my tribe in silence slumbers
I care not now for bills or woes
Discrepancies of numbers
This half light morning time is mine
This half made fool of man
I stick the kettle on to boil
And fry black pudding on the pan.
One hundred years have almost passed
Since Plunkett, Ceantt, and Pearse
Sent out the call of freedom
But, fell mostly on deaf ears
Easter Sunday morning broadcast
Spoke of treacheries of man
When Ireland cursed those heroes
And fried black pudding on the pan.
The noble etiquette of failure
Consumed and then devoured
As patriots disarmed and marched
With spit and bile were showered
Young children killed in crossfire
As casual teas were poured
And England stood victorious
Put the rebels to the sword.
The papers and the radio
Muraled morals of its sham
But multitudes muttered darkly
And fried black pudding on the pan.
The Full Irish Independence war
Convulsed to conflict civil
As shadows crept across these shores
Malevolent and evil
Bullets then gave way to bombs
And bombs to politicians.
Divided homes and no go zones
And saw our land partitioned
Twenty sixteen will come and go
Hurrahed with hooleys, pints and cans
We’ll be revolting with hangovers
And fry black pudding on the pan.
Sam Curtis Age 22
Sam Curtis Age 22 Self Terminated 8/22/16 L
Sam, I have never found myself
In a seething swamp with no choices,
No way out,
No reason why not.
Sweet child
Your face could beguile;
Inside your soul
Just cried.
Glad ! am
to’ve shared a short path
with you;
Wish that I
could have been
a bit of nurture;
Sad I am
you could not
accept help.
Sweet child
Your face could beguile;
Inside your soul
Just cried.
27 August, 2016