Taken Path

Whatever is handy is the taken path,
Overcomplicating the load is unnecessary,
Pretension sought and found, lived through and hidden,
Looking glass fogged, blanket covering
Up all those who are happy, blocked from
Begrudging glances;
Seeking a time when wishes breathe in life,
Bouncing from dreams like a rainbow arising from
The crest of a wave, banishing the rain
To a dark cloud in the Atlantic, while all the colours
Flourish in the sky and in your mirror-like eyes;
Hope haplessly given and taken away in two words,
The same two words, positively negative
In their structure, playing prospects with a
Turn of phrase, but not so much lies as a
Change of mind;
Glasses are worn to prevent tears, blue shining
In the drops held back at the sight of the opposing green,
And all I wanted was to take your hand, to flee
This suffocating standard imposed in the institution
Before its grasp sucked all the youthful enthusiasm
We had spare from us;
But you are caught in it now, heading back West
To establish your name as the others all fall away
And while I sit alone, writing about rainbows and blue waves
That just make up another poem about something lost
That I never had.

Stands

Stands manned by people close at hand,
Smiles wide inviting them to turn the tide,
Shouting, laughing, objectives graphing,
Alone I watch, helpless at hand.

Pins see the sky bringing a gasp and a sigh,
Bodies crush as people pointlessly push,
Staring, scathing, fearing their world is changing,
Alone I watch, and I can only sigh.

They snatched the confused while they mused,
Thieves of time gifting only rhymes,
Passionate in trapping their early mapping,
Alone I watch, not snatched while I mused.

And I have never been so close to friends
And still felt so lost,
And I have never been more alone in a crowd
Then when useless by the stands.

The Crocodile

Wrapping paper ripped apart in excited greed
And envious glances are cast my way.
I got the biggest present of the lot.
I tear to shreds the green paper with red
Presents decorated all over and am faced with
An unusual thing – a crocodile.
Initially, I laugh, joining in with the joke that
This crocodile is the perfect present for me
With its green skin and still greener hoops.
Then, it starts happening all around me,
The people do what they have failed to do
For the last two and a half years and actually
Revel in one another’s company outside of a
Classroom – and all I can do is sit here,
Crocodile hanging loosely from my hand,
Wondering when it was I last left my house
Without fearing ridicule from ridiculous people.

Snide comments passed by the standard bearers in the presence
Of the other better people, the other important people,
The ones who saved the publication from the mundane
And made guardians and independents take notice.
As they pretend to live in reality, the coldness of my lids
Reverberates down my body every millisecond,
Slowly, like a groping glove seeking the hidden problems,
Only without the warm intention to cure those problems,
And tears come so close before becoming cold themselves,
Retreating so far away the thought makes me want to cry
All over again, all over the people.
So I turn to the crocodile with hopes of a reprieve
From a present meant to make me smile, surely?
But the crocodile has no words of wisdom, no
Philosophy I can borrow; it just sits there,
Unemotional, quiet, with dead pan eyes and
A stitched up mouth preventing attack on open wounds.

Yet there is something else about the crocodile’s indifference,
A reclusive charm hangs about it, with a knowing air,
And I realise then what I missed in its absent glint;
This crocodile is laughing at me, mocking the blood
Coursing through my veins, and the life that blood brings
To my heart – only to allow it all slip away in whirlpools
Of doubt and despair, with death not even an option
Because I am not allowed to die the way he did.
In its entire idleness, its unnerving uselessness and
Its dead in every single way nature, this crocodile
Has finally enabled me to understand a grim truth;
I am as much use to those I call my friends
As this crocodile is – stuffed, lifeless and of
Value to nobody in the harsh reality of things.
Yet I am kept around, purely for entertainment,
Cheap, over apologetic, and utterly humorous to all
But I.

And as my mind walks away from yet another
Unfinished jigsaw puzzle missing its major pieces,
I attempt to console myself by withdrawing with
The crocodile into isolation;
The din of the party they had without me, though,
Follows behind like an annoying child,
Tugging at my ear lobes, smashing my drums,
Getting louder and louder the further away I go,
Repeatedly hitting the great time had by all off my face
Until blood begins to flow from my nose like the
Slowest and most elegant of waterfalls.
And I shout, and I shout, and I shout, and I shout,
But I am drowned out by the invisible long over party,
And I fall silent out of hoarseness, as quiet as this
Crocodile now occupying the foot of my bed,
As opinionless, voiceless and completely choiceless
As this stuffed loon.

(I got a crocodile for Kris Kringle and look what it made me write).

Spark

There is a light in Donaghmede that can bring more shadows than sight,
A spark that can start more fires than lighters,
She makes the book of love into a drama without the bland,
Forever seeking attention from two close at hand,
And age goes by so slowly for them all,
Each one waiting for the other to call.

He claims to have walked in with eyes wide open,
A fog brought by her blinded his way,
The orange glow carries him home five nights straight,
Dimming in hope as each night passes,
With the mildness of the beginning dying so fast,
Wind and rain soon doubling confused pain.

And that phantom no longer himself leaves her house,
Heart uplifted at the renewed vigour her words brought,
He is completely unaware of the tangle in which he is caught,
Strung along like a puppet by a friend played like a piano,
String and keyboard at the end of her shared bed,
A box of matches at her bedside.

She strikes a flame as all sparks do,
Searing the next scene into the grass of her back garden,
The smoke rises in the shape of the soap opera’s end.

Sort of

A certainty no longer guaranteed turns my head this way and that,
Options not even viable become the main focus of my confusion,
Somehow I have succeeded in pushing away true feelings,
In their stead comes silence and shut doors with taken keys;
Things are never so simple as they seem in the book of love,
With phrases like “sort of” often used as a ‘get out of jail free’ card,
And it is sad how one request can be met with such disdain,
Asked three times in total, the replies cease to come;
There is nothing to bury myself in now,
The realisation of three years wasted takes away all motivation,
All I can do is sit on my hands and wait for two semesters’ end,
Then I can walk away from the pointless things and begin again;
The touch of others close by offers a dangerous temptation,
Desires not reciprocated drag my eyes away from the game,
Which is so much worse to a broken mind and a broken heart,
Well, to a mind and heart that never had an act together in the first place;
And in the end all I really want is a big hug from a close friend,
As at least in her hug I can close my eyes and escape the real world.

Snowed in Salt

All is not sacred, the snow preserves nothing,
Frost may still lakes but it never stops life
Or the falling pieces caught in the brief glimpses of
Moonlight that show themselves through cloud breaks.
People slip on the ice but get up every time, dusting down
To press on with the day or night ahead - this, though,
Is not true of now, the break in play that feels like
A break in time; even though it has just sped up.
Love’s fragility can never be underestimated
Yet when its final chapter is written in two people’s lives
The shock reverberates through the streets, bringing
Feelings of endless emptiness in stomachs’ pits and
The odd tear of sympathy that lands in the snow,
Untroubled, as it becomes part of that blanket of white.
Footsteps over footsteps, forever trampling and unceasing
Despite the sight of a blown out light in the room next door,
Where warmth once emanated, heating passers by,
Lost thoughts of freezing wonder rescued by it.
Now, it is smoke and ash for reasons unknown; burned-out
Flames make eyes drift away from the facing facts,
Allowing the most important thing to be pushed out altogether.
Snowed in before it had ever fallen, making the love impossible to retrieve,
And no amount of salt could clear the sought path or the
Realisation that believing it would last forever was the biggest mistake.