Popularity, Personified

Smugness was her scarf,

Inked pinkly, cerisely,

She stroked it smugly.

Smugness was her scarf.

Idleness was her chignon,

Gleaming, burnished, shiny

She fondled it idly.

Idleness was her chignon.

Cuteness was her weapon,

Trigger fingered, ready,

She cocked it cutely.

Cuteness was her weapon.

Blandness was her boyfriend,

Broad-shouldered, dreamy

She loved blandly.

Blandness was her boyfriend. 

For Heaney

30/08/2013

The sorrow's mine and yours
It's all of ours. We shake our heads.
Now, when we want words,
We will rifle and riffle 
Through pages printed.  
We will thumb-skim his volumes.
We will become accustomed,
And forget to mourn, as we do today,
For his bits of the world welded to
Bits of the meaning of the world,
With those new silvered weldings,
Hand-soldered together by him,
Scudding from him to us.
We will miss his missiles of insight.

This poem was first published on the Poethead blog.

Poemín

This poem
Will be
Exquisitely short

And

Dinkily dedicated
To you.

This poem was first published on the Poethead blog.

Untitled Poem

You wanted divinity
I was laughingly crude.

You wanted oblique mystery
I was openly yours.

You wanted feverish dysentry
I was body temperature cool.

You wanted polished refined sweetness
I was half raw cane sugar, half-tart.

You wanted a glass of Pinot
I was a luke-warm Tipperary apple juice.

Whatever else they may say of love, 
It does not bother with check-lists.

Minding the Dog

She's grand. Don't fret. 

The dog's alright. 

She's had her dinner heated.

Two minutes in the microwave,

Stirred half-way through.

Organic porridge oats added.

She's had her tummy rubbed

And her ears tickled, gently.

She seemed disdainful, though, somehow.

She's had her paws massaged,

With frankinsence.

And a hot towel cleanse before it.

She was flown by magic carpet

To the boutique walking location of her choice.

There was no interference in her choice.

She had her pick of postmen,

Or politicians to bark at, and she barked.

Then she walked away, disappointed.

So we fed her again, as she indicated

She was hungry, for cheese only.

Gruyere, some brie. Of course, some cheddar.

We put the fire on, just for her.

She roasted and cooled, in stretches.

The scented candles helped, we thought.

She is in her bed now, lightly snoozing.

The dog's alright.

She's grand, don't fret. 

Poor pooch.


Tipperary, 06/04/2013

Poetry is scum on tea

Poetry is scum on tea

Because the water's limey

Poetry is part of me 

But someone else's scripture

Poetry's a honey bee

It makes all else unsightly

Poetry is not for free

It lives there in the margins