Saturday, 26 March 2011


Athasel Abbey

Cuban tobacco
beside the stone wall
cigar smoke rises
to the gray sky

a spoiled water-colour
a lost brush 
-don’t fall or get eaten by the cows-

gray ash and stone
cloisters sitting in a field
as our brave knights
protect us

Father Matthew

the large hand slips to
another minute
on the face of the clock
above Patrick Street
inside the TV-3 bus

broken celtic cross at
the feet of Father Matthew
stretching out his hand
to touch an imaginary
child on the head

- the millennium is gone -
a chair scraping
across the floor
concrete slopping
in the truck

On a gray silver day

-you can’t think when it’s too hot-
I wouldn’t believe a word he says
hundreds of 2000’s across the floor 
in the midst of Tipperary

mail carts at Limerick Junction
grease spread down the track
a pink florecent luggage bag
on a gray silver day


sodden bedding
burnt out chairs
red and white strips
on a work-mans tent

gloves and socks
hanging on a hedge
breakfast laid out
beside the road

silver mist creaking
through the trees
beside the hot pavilion

down the blue tunnel
a hedge in the room
and a dress of sparkling lace

grass frosted like sugar
a broken hair dryer
the ragged edge of a torn out page

Skeleton in the cupboard

The house was full of broken things
holding on to childhood dreams

the skeleton in the wardrobe
might be needed one day

a false sky reflected in the mirror
the breeze snaps off a branch

a tiny graveyard in the middle of the field
frost melts as we head for Cork

a couple with an Eason’s bag
it has nothing to do with age

The back of a truck

on the back of a truck
at the foot of Shandon
I am sitting on a couch

steam rising from Murphy's
a rich smell of malt
driving through the streets

the radio switched on
water fills the bridge
cleaning her teeth in the car

The Cottage

through the pine forest
to the bridge
where the water
is carved in the wood

be a child roll in the hay
with mud churned
by the horses hooves

a tiny jade tree
on the window sill
and sun glistening
through the leaves

Take away everything that’s not the elephant

take away the scaffolding
from the back of the house
next to the largest selection
of furniture in Munster

pink plastic rocket
on the Watercourse road
glistening roofs cluster up the hill
tar machines hiss by

-Jesus was not a woman-
white polka-dots on the window
red and yellow stars
lights above the street

scrambled eggs sausages
hash brown English muffin
clutching her white hands
to her chin  long black coat
huddled in a doorway

The snowman

I saw an umbrella floating
up the mountain side
a cannon stuck in the pavement
on Grand Parade
trees tracing a black lace-work
against a pink sky
a snowball hiding in
the freezer
searching for a snowman
up in the clouds

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