Poems

Poem

He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.
He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.
His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.

Poem

It's New Year, 1979, at Funderland in the RDS in Dublin. 
In the cold calculation of the January air, a young girl tries to talk 

Poem

I like to stay up
and listen
when big people talking
jumbie stories

I does feel
so tingly and excited
inside me

Poem

Nobody can see my name on me.
My name is inside
and all over me, unseen
like other people also keep it.
Isn't my name magical?

Poem

One was beautiful, silken hair to her waist
and dutiful, kept it neatly in place.
Please and Thanks were words she’d use.

Red Cherry Red
Poem

The living room remembers Gran dancing to Count Bessie.
The kitchen can still hear my aunts fighting on Christmas Day.
The hall is worried about the loose banister.

Poem

All you see is outside me: my painted smile,
the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes.
A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me

Poem

 

Eyes as wide as continents brim wih the water between.

Seeks a different future. Looks back on what has been.

 

Mouth seeks another language. Shapes a different air.

Poem

I am the evil Slithermonchowchuck,
I am afraid of no one (well almost no one).
I munch on the marbles of lost lunatics,
I nibble on the toes of Tyrannosaurus 

Poem

The space is a friend.
I tell it what hurts.

I tell it why I'm not good.
The space is a friend.
I tell it the bother I'm in.
It won't let me tell lies.

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