Bedroom Door

I stare at my bedroom door, mostly shut
but partially open - too frightened to
peak around its edge because I believe
there is somebody beyond the threshold
whom I do not want to see anymore.
I continue to stare at my bedroom
door, my logic lost amidst the many
permutations of these complications,
swirling in the abyss of never again,
never to be and never was in the
first place, misplaced in a time of my own
manufacture from my own dreams which slip
away as sleep itself becomes a dream;
impossible in the warm summer nights
spent idly reading, writing and playing
virtual football with virtual players
who are still so much better than my real
self and my own mishap filled control.
So I stare at my bedroom door, wanting
to leave while knowing it would mean coming
face-to-face with those who will devalue me,
abuse me, assault me, those who say they
care - and mean it too - but who will never
have the means to make their sense see my sense.
And even though I know that my landing
is as empty at three in the morning
as it was when I first became entranced
by the known unknown beyond, I just stand
and stare rather than open it wide to
reveal no apparition as I fear the
meaning of its absence’ enforced admission.

Miracle

Today is her birthday, so we bake her
A cake, but one silly mistake is all
It can take and now we are left with no
Place to put her candle. The birthday girl
Will arrive soon and as the seconds slip
Away panic grips us all as we know
That time is running out to rectify
This simple wrong; there is no money to
Buy a replacement, and even if there
Was, the gift would mean more if handcrafted.
And the birthday room floating away on
The balloons that fill it seems absent of the
Crucial component which would give it life,
So a miracle is cried out for and,
With God apparently absent in our
Time of need, we turn to you - the one who
Has always made things happen when others
Have stood still. Your eyes widen in fear at
First but the colour surrounding you in
This moment of majestic expectation
Carries you to the kitchen, a place you
Feel quite homely in despite its walls never
Being able to keep you. And you smile,
And you laugh, and you revel in your role
Of responsibility as the sheer
Power of friendship makes something once
A distinct impossibility become
A wonderful realisation in
The form of a completed cake, perfectly
Edible and equally as delicious
As its now forgotten predecessor.
And the sense of satisfaction culminates
With the look on the birthday girl’s face when
She steps through the door - a genuine look
Of joyful shock that can not be achieved
Without the element of surprise; but
It is the cake that grabs her attention
As it is her favourite flavour, and once
The birthday girl blows out her candle, she
Looks up and smiles at you from across the
Room, knowing this could never have happened
Without you, even though she knows nothing
Of the cake mishap (which is better left unsaid!),
And you smile back because for you today
Is just about being happy with friends,
Which is a daily miracle in itself.

Measure

And praise lavish in its delivery
drops at his doorstep when it all goes well,
as he smiles his smile so famous for its
authenticity; but any man can
be a good man when things go according
to plan - the true measure of a man can
only be seen when it all falls apart.

Fantasies

All my fantasies are filled with people
who are not me, controlling my heartbeat
as if it was their own with actions I
could never even dream of achieving
by myself because I am simply not
able nor worthy. They carry hopes of
nations upon shoulders incredibly
broad, and they do so with the freedom
and movement of children gracing us with
the presence of their imagination.
And it makes me sad that some are younger
than I, and so much more gifted too, with
a grand stage to exhibit their talents
on; and it only serves to remind me
of my own inadequacy and my
own failings in my own life, here, in the
real world, where real things happen or do not
happen, depending on whether one can
speak up or sit down when the time is right
or wrong or never to be; and it soon
becomes apparent that my fantasies
are actually living nightmares that haunt
me night and day, and morning and evening,
tearing me to pieces to put me back
together, just to pull me apart once
more, just to piece me back together again,
like some sort of sick jigsaw puzzle which
has a jagged part that does not quite fit
because it is never allowed to end.

Cliffs

And today June emphatically begins,
As we scale these cliffs, reliving our sins,
The sun beats down with no sign of a wind,
Just an air of hope the past will rescind.

Old war wounds burst their banks on my skin,
As rocks rapingly scrape “repent to win,”
We approach the edge, I approach the end,
And looking down I fear to surrend.

The beauty of certain uncertainty,
The unknown of life as a guarantee,
My laughter is said to bring so much joy,
But how can that be, I am just a boy?

Now the waves crash into the cliff side,
The roar grabs hold, without a place to hide,
But then it all goes numbingly silent,
So deafening, voraciously violent.

And though time drags us so far apart,
We breath in the clock, go back to the start,
And live in this scene of serenity,
Setting sun shows no shred of sympathy.


(I visited the cliffs around Howth for the first time yesterday - they were incredible)

Yellow Door

Crumbling buildings shrink beside Scotch Hall,
A yellow door stands out amongst them all,
Windows boarded-up, bricks a rusty brown,
But that door is the brightest door in town.

Lead-filled legs walk back to the train station,
Over-priced tickets greet me with inflation,
Eye lids so heavy fight to stay awake,
Sleeping on trains is a silly mistake.

I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.

Fate and faith are but mere fabrications,
Mind over matter, like these train stations,
I fled their false embrace so long ago,
Yet that yellow door now haunts me so.

Its number five gleaning bold as brass,
A mocking sheen so cold and crass,
It coaxes me to board a train once more,
To see what is beyond that yellow door.

I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.


(I wrote this while on work placement in Drogheda and saw a bright yellow door that was in complete contrast to the old houses of the surrounding area on my home from work one day; in other news, they let me off early for the second day on the bounce, which can only mean I wasn't doing my job very well at the time - BOOM!).

Rat Race

We sit on steps, surveying the chaos
all around us - fresh vomit on one side,
a streak of dried-up piss on the other.
Harcourt Street has descended into a
disaster zone of drunkards, some fighting,
some crying, some swaying from the inability
to hold themselves upright, and some on the
ground, thinking the concrete is their mattress,
having succumb to the dizzy spells that
can seem so freeing, yet are misleading.
Every action is made to move ahead
in the Rat Race, forever victorless.
And we look at each other while thinking
the same thing: what is the point of it all?

A veil of silence comes between us as
the noise of this newfound, well-worn battle
ground attracts our attention; screeches of
women in utter dismay over the
advances of groping men, whose laughter
is tinged with the subtly of what they
really want, masking their anger and their
resentment as they await their failure.
Bottles smash and fists are raised as blood spills
in the name of something no one knows of.
Confused astonishment strikes us as we
wonder how society still stands when
it falls apart so spectacularly
on nights like this, dropping to its scarred knees.

And we briefly become embroiled in this
showcase of Ireland’s Got Talent, when a
woman and a man encroach upon our
front row seats, her seeking a reprieve from
his forward courting, while his confidence
never shakes despite her hostility
to his loud and proud profession that he
“wants to be on you.” When he finally
admits defeat her appreciation
is shocking, but changes nothing about
the grain of truth that we have just witnessed.
The Rat Race is not the work we do but
the means to an end so we can sate the
self-destructive tendencies we love to embrace.

Burst Banks

One mean promise that bursts its banks, causing
Two tides to roll steadily down either
Hill before they come together in the
Crevice underneath a mouth that speaks too
Much and fails to do enough. Walking the
Streets of Dublin, crying about living
And dying alone when a louder cry
Pierces the air and my eardrums - I turn
In hope only to find that a machine’s
Brakes cry louder than I do, earning the
Attention of passers-by more than a
Fellow human being can only wish
For, and once again I gaze across the sea,
Believing all is greener on distant
Shores, despite the news telling me different
Everyday. Ignorance is easier
Because giving up would mean allowing
This sea to swallow me whole,
Combining the streams on my cheeks with the
Relentless assault of wave after wave,
Until I end up isolated on
An island, truly alone, and with no
Way out except to lie down and close my
Eyes, lost in happier times with better
People who did quite well to disappear.

Fuelled Fire

I fuel a fire that never needed
A match to strike its first flame, screaming in
Agony everyday while nobody
Ever hears because it is locked within
My ribcage, now bruised from the vibrations.
It is the time spent idle that kills me
Because it is then thoughts wander along
Past paths that should be blocked off forever.

I stand alone, pacing the path,
Outside the old folks’ graveyard, waiting for
A friend’s shift to end, when all I can hear
In the rustling of a nearby tree’s leaves
Is death - simple and free, paralysing
The pain of living the same fiery
Lies everyday because they need the light.

Rankle

Agitation of my wringing hands haunts
Those around me as my voice shrills higher.

Thickened glass drowns yells they wish to ignore
As the situation becomes dire.

Simplicities of intimacies lost
Still rankle as the world holds out on me.

Gaping mouths and tear-stained cheeks plead in vain
To deaf ears as I refuse to wait and see.

Taken flights and clouds of ash restrict my
Breath as my friends’ pleas begin to cower.

Cigarette stubs and empty cans litter
Life like indifference without power.

The long walk back to the start goes awry
As the path vanishes before my eyes.

Keep them open, keep on walking because
It is all so short, are their anguished cries.

Pleasantries and patience, all I extolled
As I dreamed of reaping returned rewards.

Yet here I sit empty-handed as I
Realise that we all fall on our own swords.

Red Moon

Conversation carries us along the
Dark backroads of Portmarnock, and with no
Lights to guide us home we jog the whole way,
Not in fear but lost in freedom only
Solitude can bring. A glance to our left
Shows a big red orb hanging in the sky,
The moon watching tenderly over us
In its unusual shade; a glance to
Our right shows a field with once endless
Expanse now slowly dwindling as
Empty apartments creep closer to these
Narrow, pathless roads. Yet the changing scene
Does not bother us as we run, for in
These moments the tedious, painful words
We exchanged about a past resting in
Futility and a future that could
Be just the same fall away. We run in
A different time, seeing the pitch where we
Grew up together, defender and goal-
Keeper, protecting the honour of a
Team that never had one to begin with.
We recall the old man with his Sunday
Finest and his cigarette addiction,
Memory lapses, temper tantrums and
Unbelievable passion for a game
That eventually attacked his heart,
Ending their love affair. The liberty
Of youth on this nostalgia run takes us
All the way to Donaghmede, where, once the
Running ceases, all the complications
Of the present catch up to us again,
And you vomit, mostly from drunkenness,
But partly in disgust, as the truth that
Those days are over hits again under
The glare of the ever watchful red moon,
Bloody with pity for our blissful plight.


(running home along isolated and empty backroads in the dark with a friend brings a freedom unattainable elsewhere - but it was only a brief reprieve as you cannot outrun life)

Chamber

I have a chance to die here, all alone,
Overcrowded beach of faceless strangers,
But I run away, leaving my friends to
Die there instead, solving nothing at all.
In reality, the isolation
Chamber I constructed for you, that we
Joked about, was made really for me
To hide behind, so I could watch the joy
Of your life without disrupting its free
Chaos filled essence, conflicting and cold.
Your eyes in which I deign to lose myself
Are set soulfully on another man,
Invisible and imaginary,
Whom I do not know, yet envy still.
Our shared kiss is dead in the annals of
History, forgotten by you because
It was a footnote in your weekly game
Of who next? It yellows within my mind,
Tearing at the edges as I fight to
Grasp that feeling of meaning something to
Somebody once more, when the truth is
I never did, because they all run away,
Empty words floundering in fear behind.
My time is spent chasing indifferent
Shadows daily and nightly, waiting to
Catch one and never let it go, because
The order attained in books and films will
Finally be mine when I do, even
Though the stories written for amusement
And entertainment are written only
To cash in on manipulation.
They are not real and they never will be,
So this hope to achieve the scene-set end,
Of taking you on the beach as the waves
Whisper, telling us that the world has stopped
Spinning, is futile, because this chamber
Is designed to prevent, not to create.


(the last poem ever to go on Bebo).

Golden

Desperate defeat left quickly behind

With the chance to dance on deity’s designed,

Shaped in September of a year now lost,

Fumbled through fingers as chores crossed.

I wipe away lashes, disillusioned tears,

Your disappointment and your future fears,

Realisation hits, you slowly start to smile,

No more excuses or drunken denial.

Surrounding circumstance is then ignored,

Past idleness forgotten by the bored,

Focus becomes present, to you and me,

The end of an era sets us both free.

Beauty resonates in your smooth cream dress,

In your golden skin I love to caress,

And it is up, not down, I am staring,

The lights in your eyes, the sign of caring.

And even when you can stand no more,

Alcohol weighing you down to the floor,

We sit in silence, your eyes shut tight,

And we hold hands amidst the passing night.

Your head resting gently upon my hand, 

While I stroke softly every silk strand,

And by the end I walk you to your door,

Waving goodbye to your kiss once more.

Turquoise

I take your hand, lost in your turquoise eyes,
Heading to the floor, no more compromise.

Arms around my neck, body to body,
Intoxicated, nothing could stop me.

As everything else falls away, we dance,
Beating heart, I lean in to take the chance.

When our lips touch, your shock is evident,
Until you smile, as others circumvent.

With eyes shut we kiss, missing in the crowd,
First moment of respite, you laugh aloud.

No-one prying, hands wander to caress,
Ours unite to pull down your rising dress.

Other thoughts drift, savouring this sought kiss,
The past gone, forgetting our last near-miss.

We stop again, your laughter fills my ears,
In the corner they watch, with drowned out cheers.

We sway together, move through the masses,
In each other’s arms, we flee their chassis.

Blinded by feeling, your infectious smile,
I disregard morals, drunken denial.

And all the while, lights in strobes shadow us,
Hiding, becoming bright to break our trust.

A startling luster sheen, they all disperse,
As they do, the night’s end I spit and curse.

We let go, minutes for eternity,
So long, so short, too fast for you and me.

Chaos to Silence

I

Strobe-light chaos splits time with black spaces,
Seconds divided, just like stop motion
Animation without any purpose.
Bodies come together and sway as one,
Shaking the floor in time to the rhythm.
Elbows crack ribs as sweat rains down from those
Perched on the upper levels, surveying
The alcohol fuelled ecstasy below.
Alone I stand in sobriety, lost
In thought while moving thoughtlessly to the
Beat that goes ever on and on for no
Reason but to inspire the masses,
Granting courage to those lives without it.
Now they hang from each other, boy and girl,
Boy and boy, girl and girl, all playing the
Tease with the desires of the drunkard,
And when they drop their glasses, yelling in
Uncalled for anger and futile despair
As all their aspirations fall apart
In their man-made spiralling abyss, it
Is clear I shall forever be alone.

II

And that is the way I left the city,
On my own, expecting the chaos to
Pervade the streets as society lets
Itself fall into the trap of being
Too comfortable in uncomforting
Times, with the sly men and whorish women
Screaming and vomiting under street lights,
While the innocent night workers curse their
Prayers that were prayed in vain to the deafest;
But instead of finding bodies crisscrossed
Along the paths of deceit and sin so
Frequented by the ever ossified,
My eyes fell upon nothing at all, save
A solitary cab and its driver,
With only three jobs in thirteen hours.
Then he told me stories of a recluse,
And how the night sky mirrored the events here,
So empty, not a soul nor star in sight.
And as deafening silence drowns my
Ears while we race the night’s casting shadows,
Solitude becomes random, not certain.

(another night out, another poem about that night out).

Hope/My Friends

Slipping into an abyss within the
Soul where solitude rests in deceiving
Harmlessness. A lack of reality
In my mind creates oblivion, sharp
In its coup but merciless in its fierce
Follow-through. Past memories manifest
Themselves before my eyes, reminding me
Of circumstance’s cruel interventions
And of my own mistakes, the conceited
Chases. It all unfolds again as if
It was the first time, unleashing the stream
Within and without, in front of those most
Likely to make a mockery. People
Cover the cracks yet create the faults, some
In vain trying to protect me from the
Pretenders; not my well-wishers, never
To be so. Dreams crumble from stone to shards
To shallow mud puddles, catching steps and
Dragging them down to the sloping, sinking
Depths of disimprovement, with only false
Prophets found at the end, buried beneath.
The only chance now to restore faith in
Humanity lies with those who took it,
Unknowingly, away from me before;
Hope and my friends must take each other’s hands.

Dull Evening in February

A dull February evening heard through
An open window; smelled first, seen second.

Cars drive to and fro, as the dusk begins
To fade into time but not memory.

Remarkably unremarkable, this
Dimming candle light outside my window,

Glowing orange over suburbia,
No different to any other day.

Yet, on this day, the setting sun is a
Sign of something saying goodbye to me…

And of something new being born within.


(my second attempt at the iambic pentametre is slightly better than the first, I think).

Unhooked

“Darling, you left the phone unhooked again,”
She whispers, as her hand slips into mine.
I think to myself that looking is free,
Of course, but that acting comes with reason
And freedom’s worth could not bear her losses.

Here I lie, in her arms, feather in cap,
Its placement a pitiful performance,
A periphery outside her own game.
Sight was becoming only in tears, then,
As my ears walked a musical landscape.

The striking piano chord locks me in,
Holding me closer than her deathly arms.
I feel trapped in a cocoon of indifference
The more I consider this ritual
Of ours, a haunting weekly procession.

My mind’s eye beholds the empty spaces,
A futile dream as they are to me, yet
I shall not stop dreaming till they are real.
A moment approaches where idleness
Ceases, and escape can be grasped by hands.

Freedom should be mine by right, not by chance.

(after three and a half years Francis Reilly (me!) has discovered iambic pentametre, and this is his first attempt at writing a poem within this structure - needless to say, Francis should read more then come back and try again).