I crawl back in my creator’s crater,
Sure to emerge but a few minutes later,
It’s not much but it’s catharsis,
Poerty’s where the writer’s heart is.
My bicycle is my lifecycle,
The connection is something chemical
The feel of rubber on the road
Is some kind if secret code
It whispers, “keep the pace steady,
Up on your toes, hill ahead, ready?”
Feel the rhythm, one-to-one,
Pedals push a perfect run
Teeth engaged, chain pulled taut
Hill’s coming, don’t fall short.
Tilt the bars and feel the wind
Gears and grit and spirit twinned.
Get ahead and get there quicker,
Leaner, meaner, faster, slicker.
Smudged glasses perched at the end of my nose,
Teeth are no longer in pristine white rows.
Black sacks filled with coals droop under mine eyes
Brown belts stretch and fray, a diet of lies
Tired defeat just one coffee away,
Nearer and nearer with each passing day
Rest and recover, times’s up for today,
This moment is gone, for now anyway.
Why worry, why moan, why whine and why fret.
Stop. Consider. Or perhaps better yet;
Accept that your lot is shot, what you got
Will one day rot, and what that you begot
Will be forgot, but; tis not all for naught.
Let’s concoct an upshot, some food for thought-
Though ourselves we may be temporary,
Our impact’s nonetheless contemporary.
Today I weep for the world.
For the man with the winning temperament.
He wasn’t wrong.
For the daughters and wives and mothers who can be told “if the president does it, it must be okay”
For the sons and the husbands and the fathers who look to a man obsessed with walls and towers.
For the woman who fought the hard fight and endured the cackles of the jackals as they chant.
I weep for the man who hands his country over to a tyrannical business mogul and not to a weeping grandmother.
I weep because I am uncertain about the future.
A future where freedom means doing whatever you want rather than whatever is right
And bravery means the courage to offend whomever comes in your way.
Today I weep for the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Far above the ground I fly
A giant steel butterfly.
I carve up stratospheric mash
I run on dinosaurs and cash.
“Are you, Sir, a frequent flyer?
Round here there’s no one higher,
The local time is three forty-one
And looks like there is lots of sun.
Return to Dublin, nine ninety-nine
With prices like that, flying’s fine!
Will you fly again perhaps?
Who needs those pesky polar caps?
More champagne, wipe your arse?
You are, after-all in business class.”
Sometimes I hope for rainy days
To lay here in dreamy haze
I don’t want to go outside and ‘be’
I just want to stay here, you and me.
I do hope the sun comes up soon
But don’t go yet, you friendly moon
I hear that showers are set to scatter
But I still listen for that pitter-patter
Of raindrops on my bedroom roof
That reassuring precipitatory proof
Need not I the curtains draw
I await inevitable downpour
Until then it’s back to sleep
In dreams no finer company I keep.
We once had a garden shed
Beside our garden flower bed,
Until we got it in our head:
‘We want a garden den instead!’
So we took out all the garden pots,
(There were lots and lots and lots)
And anything that likely rots,
“Are these some bits of someone’s cots?”
We stuck a wire through the garden wall
Now we have light! And best of all,
We took the radio from the hall,
“We’re going to have a garden ball!”
Now we sit in our garden den,
We come out here now and then
We sit on pillows and hearts unharden,
Our den full of love, out here in the garden.