All the Old Friends

Oh, there’s my old friend Karma,
A broken scene as the interest soared.
Cutting through pretension to grant an extension
To a time and place without record.

Oh, there’s my old friend Hope,
Temptation is truly the fabled sin.
Appeasing forever those with endeavour
So they always have reason to begin.

Oh, there’s my old friend Love,
Intervention of the well-worn friend.
Inhaling to choke on those flames you stoke
With shortened breath to comprehend.

Oh, there’s my old friend Silence,
Thickened walls offer no reprieve.
Yelling to pray while I watch as you sway
In a drunken attempt to deceive.

Oh, there’s my old friend Lies,
Trickling stream of an age-old river.
Sitting on your throne while the film is shown
As you wait for me to deliver.

Oh, there’s my old friend Logic,
Calculating prowess a point of assault.
Though you control parts of my soul
In you I can see no fault.

Oh, and there’s a new friend, Being,
Realisation cracks the white mask.
I open my eyes to reveal our guise
And find you already took me to task.

Shards of a Puzzle

You stand alone, or so you think,
watching the shards rain down around you,
a storm that has been brewing a long time.
Bigger pieces fall, smashing into smaller parts
that fly everywhere, cutting to ribbons
those nearest and dearest to you.
It seems like the storm will never end,
the shards almost ceaseless in their descent;
but then it stops, leaving shards scattered
all around you, and only an empty void above.

Feelings ominous grow, fed by indecision
and fear, that it is all drawing to a close,
so you neglect to piece the shards back
together, seeing it as an act of futility.
It is in that moment of darkest despair,
with progression suspended and respite
restricted, that we start the process for you,
happily cutting our fingers on these shards
as we piece them together, because we know
that your life is something worth rebuilding.

Crystal

Waves lap in a precious moment of calm,
gently rocking this lonesome boat side-to-side.
Two oars sit in silent slumber, content with the
isolation in which we now find ourselves,
lost in the middle of the sea’s vast expanse.
I pull an empty glass from a bag of trinkets,
clean it with a brand new cloth so the sun
glistens off the transparent cylinder shape.
Then, I dip it into the ocean, filling the glass
with the sea’s salty water for no real reason;
and what I see in the glass both startles and saddens,
for the water is not blue like the surrounding sea
but completely clear, like the cleanest crystal.
Then, I come to resent the sea’s ability to
achieve clarity so easily, as the sun begins to die
and the cold crawls through my skin, plunging
me back into the dark depths of murky thought.

Three Stars

Three stars flying down so high,
One for each as time flows by,
Crashing towards Earth in blazing glory,
Crossing chores, they do bore me.

A star from the past still shines brightly,
A star from the present is just as sprightly,
I am the star stuck in-between,
Deciphering doubt while crying unseen.

Light years apart, yet still so close,
Whisperers suggest an overdose,
One I knock back daily and nightly,
Prising the puzzle just to spite me.

I write myself into a cage,
Lamenting feelings on a yellowing page,
Waiting in haste for a single sign,
So I know which star is mine.


(I saw an aeroplane tonight that looked like three stars slowly crashing towards the airport...don't worry, I'm almost certain the plane landed safely; another for the Signs by Bloc Party collection).

Marooned

I thought I saw a man standing on Leigh’s roof in Donaghmede,
Hooded,
Holding what seemed to be a warning sign in my direction.
But it wasn’t a man, it was a chimney,
Smoking innocently, and even if it was a man,
I chose to ignore his selfless warning…

And then I looked up and saw the moon, so full.
I tried to strike up a conversation with the words of a poet
Ringing in my mind’s ears,
That the moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.
But the moon ignored me like I ignored the hooded man’s warning sign,
Leaving me to reach the sea in solitude and ponder my mistakes…

The white light now shimmers off the surface of the sea,
Taunting me by withholding its wisdom
Gleaned from centuries of swallowing mercilessly
Those naïve enough to believe in its tranquillity,
And I can only sit and watch the water lap on the steps
Of my secret seat four rows down…

Alone.

I am a self-destructing machine who cannot have
The simplicities of the sea or the
Immaculate mystery of the moon.
They all run away before my pleasantries
Because I am from a different decade
When things were more intimate and less casual…

The handrails of my stepped seat bear evidence
Of a visitor to the sea who never left its grasp,
Their clothes’ remnants tied around the steel in a knot
As a warning not to follow them to the depths.
The second warning of the night,
But will I heed it?

The ocean could just carry me away,
Or drag me down,
Either way, I would get what I want.
The ripples are so tempting as I gaze with envy
At the sleeve blowing gently in the wind, and the
Lapping water is whispering my name…

And it grows louder until it is all I can hear.

The whispering then mocks my foolishness
For braving these Baltic elements just to watch
From afar as boats leave Howth Head to places
I can only dream of setting foot upon.
A chance of escape lies in the route of the sea
But I cannot swim so what becomes of me?

Nothing.
So I continue to look longingly across the ocean,
Willing it to rise up and sweep me from my seat,
Sweep us all from this life lived in futility,
In some falsified hope that by doing so
I can re-mould my being to be like every other 21st century man…

Then, for a brief moment,
A light shines on the horizon between the islands,
Coaxing me to take those tentative first steps
Into the icy depths disillusionment has carried me
To thus far, to a level of despair even he knew
In his short, soundless drama of a life…

But the light disappears,
Marooning me here until I die.


(I went for a walk the other night and this is everything I felt, saw, and thought I saw).

Violin

The majority are meaningless strings
Played by the conspicuous conductors,
The ones whose music gives reason
To the violin’s existence otherwise
Futile, a forlorn piece of carved wood.
Conductors are few and far between
But the strings are plentiful, coming
In boxes by the dozen daily and weekly,
Before they inevitably gather dust and break,
Replaced by a lively new set with a similar
Standing sustain as the notes that went before.
One-by-one the conductors leave the room
Having learned of a finer instrument to be
Played in a different, more upstanding place
Where the quality of sound is not hindered
By the surrounding atmosphere of the patrons.
Complacent conductors take up the violin
And mistreat its once sincere soul,
Each conductor’s iris of the eye darker
With every dropping of the instrument,
Denting its body, scratching its being.
And then, there is nobody left to play,
And the violin is left to gather the same
Dust as the strings, the same dust it so
Detested when it was at the height of its
Popularity, played by only the critical
Conductors, the ones whose influence
Was everlasting when they manipulated
The mundane strings so easily found.
Finally, the strings are taken away too
For use on another active instrument,
Leaving the violin on its own to inhale the dust,
A mark of passing time and inaction,
A mark of the inconsequence it used to mock.

Skeletal

Recollections pool within,
Dancing history tempts sin,
Dead and buried, dug back up,
Skeletal fragments, born enough.

Reminisces recall kisses,
Shared in rainy near misses,
Hands held tight in ignorance,
Futility without a chance.

Realisation months too old,
Forgotten with a flick of bold,
Returning lover never left,
Only concealment oh so deft.

Fragility renewed threatened,
Moans of ecstasy once deafened,
Now clouding thoughts and desires,
Reigniting burned out fires.

Heart torn manic obsessive,
Jumping the gun, so compulsive,
Unavoidable crossing chores,
Failure this time shuts all doors.

Now you will look into my eyes,
Removing those skeletal lies.

Valentine

As the conversation teeters toward the mundane,
I realise I am a victim of my mind’s game,
Always wishing and dreaming about the maybes
While ignoring the signs of the realities.
Twenty Valentines have passed me by in my life,
Cupid’s arrows have never been close in my eye,
And I think all I want is to lay by your side,
How have I forgotten lessons of times gone by?

Having barred myself from places of happiness,
And from being sucked in by the need to caress,
I grew weary of the dankness within this hole
And sought an escape from the constraints of my soul.
I begin to scale, liberation is at hand,
Condemnation comes in the crooked clefts to stand,
Then below I see you with your entrancing eyes,
Gazing up at me, like I had been telling lies.

The misinterpreter misinterpreted dreams,
A master in finding something less than it seems,
Misreading truth to see love in imperfections
And bound to discover heartbreaking corrections.
Even when my grip rested upon freedom’s soil,
It crumbled through my fingers, and I fell and toil,
Lost in the oblivion of your bright blue eyes,
Innocent’s blame absolved for my own twisting guise.

(by the time I realised I regretted trying to rhyme this one it was practically finished, so I didn't bother changing it 'round).

Ice

Skidding on ice under a yellow moon,
Hearing confessions of a drunken loon,
Drunk no more, or so he says,
Middle move made in a game of chess.

Bitter wind bites as we slide through the night,
Deductions made in darkest respite,
Grand plans elaborated in excited deception,
To see all and feel all the hopeful conception.

A year now past looked upon with waste,
Regrets a-many, made in haste,
Betrayals begotten but not yet forgotten,
Betrayals bestowed bring feelings rotten.

Our conclusion skids into parting view,
A handshake click and we know what to do,
Skate forward on ice till it all melts away,
Look ahead, not back, live only for today.

To spend ten years living, and ten surveying,
‘Cause the ten spent dreaming lie behind, decaying.

(myself and Anto Gallagher were chatting after seeing Sherlock Holmes about what the future held for us - Ice is the conversation and the circumstances surrounding it).

Rising Smoke

They dance, forgetting any potential problem they have,
Me at their side, unknown to them but known to me,
And I use the safety of introductions in ignorance as a scapegoat
To get lost in the rising smoke.

They drink, celebrating the birthday of an age old friend,
Me at their side, celebrating in isolated, silent sobriety,
And as they circle the birthday boy in his naked birthday suit
I get lost in the rising smoke.

They shout, demented in their deliberate drunken state,
Me at their side, unaware of being sucked into their oblivion,
And I drown myself in their yelping yells and my standard sub-vocals
To get lost in the rising smoke.

They link, jumping around the birthday boy singing “Happy Birthday!”,
Me at their side, humming the tune in distracted disinterest,
And as they cheer and clap amidst the shenanigans of ropey randomers
I get lost in the rising smoke.

Wondering when again I would get to wield my weapon.
A perfect pen forced painfully into prostration.

(another night out poem where I was more concerned with typing random lines into my phone than having a good night).

Red

I bought a big red balloon today
And tied it around my right wrist,
It was my friend to talk to all day,
Red was there when others were not;
I took Red to the seaside for a walk,
We had a heart-to-air as the tide
Came in and the people pushed out
Toward the nearby ice-cream van;
We got some funny looks from
Those beach folk, who just did not understand us
And the way our friendship worked,
That single white string the only bond we needed;
She turned out to be a guiding light my friend Red,
Offering sound advice as she floated innocently by,
The only problem was I found myself watching her glisten
In the sunlight rather than listening to her words;
You see, an epiphany struck me late in the day
Like a car on the motorway - in those hours we spent together,
Walking the coast, I had come to really like Red,
And all I wanted to do then was kiss her inflated body;
So I leant into Red, really thinking she
Felt the same, but she had untied herself
From my wrist, and floated straight up,
High into the sky above, where she burst into shreds.

(I didn't actually attempt to snog a balloon, just in case you thought it was going that way - to be honest, though, I don't actually remember where the idea for this poem came from).

Sky Stands Still

The sky stands still while cars zoom slowly by,
A scene painted in tranquillity with the volume muted,
Seven swallows’ wings flap silently in formation,
Working together like a beautifully well-oiled machine,
Not something one sees everyday.

The sun peaks a select few rays around the clouds,
Groping for a place to shine without being too bright,
Children clasp parents’ hands for fear of falling,
Youthful innocence taken away one year earlier all the time,
A terrible truth in a changing world.

The train roars underneath the bridge, shattering reveries,
Carrying people to destinations they could walk to if they tried,
Two individuals stroll separately from the local church,
The grip of religion dying bit-by-bit, day-by-day,
An acceptance of its diminished role growing with age.

The wind whips up the Autumn leaves in golden turrets,
Little tornadoes brushing off society’s various visages,
Some of whom deal in the dark with hands well hidden,
Hoods thrown over the masks circumstance has given them,
Their true faces lost beneath the corruption money brings.

And all the while the sky stands resolutely still with a shifting scowl,
Day and night, the only thing here not to have changed with time.

(I was collecting my little brother Conor from school - as I came over the Hump-back Bridge heading into Baldoyle I looked at the sky and it looked like a perfect painting).

Window

The one window that allows stars to watch me sleep,
The mattress, weightless, falls away, making me fall too,
Bottomless, into the trap of being too comfortable.

They wink, candles of the night sky, lulling me to falsity,
Hanging there, unmoving and unwavering to thoughts or wishes,
Actions are impossible in this suspension of all drive.

Lead filled lids crash and grate with every forced re-opening,
With dreams tantalisingly close before I take them away,
Open eyes fixed on those unreachable stars, that unreachable space.

The only time in my life they watch me while I gaze back,
No curtains, no roofs, no street lights, no clouds, no moon, no obstruction,
Just our sights’ lines, meeting, overlapping, crossing and telling.

Telling me to forget their existence, and to just travel the distance.

(I was staying over in a friend's house and he was kind enough to give me a bed - while looking out of the window beside my bed it occurred to me that it was the first time I had ever been able to gaze at the stars while lying down to go to sleep).

Locked

Locked, the door and this house, in need of maintenance by one, who refuses to do the job while being unaware of this decision, living blissfully ignorant to that which looks them in the eye, smiling while lying, crying because of the dying feeling surrounding the house, incapable of breaking down the locked door with the battering ram approach which served so well in the past, but has now become obsolete with the passing of people and time, both as irretrievable as each other, yet both the only ones with the power to unlock the door to this locked house, as one is one, but has always been many, just at different intervals with bigger or smaller locks, depending on the circumstance and time of when the first meeting took place, with the early years spent falling hopelessly and the more recent encounters spent pushing potential away out of fear of producing more pieces for the house's mantel.

(not really a poem, more so a long winded sentence - the point was to say everything in one breath to get the effect of a person either shouting or pleading uncontrollably).

Untitled Document

And I am surrounded by mindless, random people,
When all I want is a conversation with one random, mindless person,
And I really do not want to be here, yet I have to be,
In the hope a friend not mindless will let me listen to them,
And there is sweat dripping from my forehead,
But I fail to see the point.

And I am forced to stand and watch as it unfolds before me,
On the dance floor, trapped by the people,
And I cannot move my shoulders as I see their lips lock,
Dashing dreams with every motion,
And I fight my way from the horrific heartbreaking scene,
Leaving in a frenzy of stomach churning emotion.

And I cannot afford to breath too loudly,
Or they will notice my taking leave is based on half a lie,
And the people in the restaurant outside marvel at the saddest sight they ever saw,
A man in a long black overcoat and tuxedo t-shirt,
And he walks the long road home alone, a lost look on his face,
Head bowed in the rain as he realises his hope was the biggest joke of them all.

And the break dancer with the backwards cap and the old man with withered old wisdom,
Stand sheltered beside the shuttered doors of the pub to share a cigarette,
And a drunk stumbles past, a young man with his life supposedly ahead of him,
Trying to convince me that his money has been stolen,
And he howls a crying plea so transparent, I know I will be the robbed one,
Should I take his five simple steps toward his hidden right hand.

And the old man walking thirty yards ahead holds back a tear,
As I lag behind singing beautiful words out of tune,
And they tell a tragic story with inflections of reality buried in the tone,
So much so the old man cannot distinguish between fact and fiction,
And everything in the air is jumbled with all the varying noises,
Disorientating the old man whose sleep that night would be disturbed by visions of me.

And the person lying asleep on the steps of an abandoned house,
Just wishes I would shut my well-off mouth,
And she resents the fact I can afford to walk this distance home,
Safe in the knowledge that a taxi can get me to a guaranteed bed at any time,
And she thinks me a pretentious so and so, who writes random lines into his mobile phone,
In the hope that simple elaboration will make masterpieces of them.

And I gaze into the dark never ending expanse of Fairview Park,
Seeing a gloriously bitter end to a gloriously bitter night,
And creeping cars frighten me with their shadow casting lights,
Because I fear knowing the people inside the cars and inside the shadows,
And I laugh sadly as a swarm of taxis fly by,
Racing each other to the city’s few fares (fairs).

And I see a silhouetted figure run into the middle of the road,
Before vanishing into nothing before my heavy eyes,
And I am unsure if this was a fatigue induced hallucination,
Or a warning to heed the cramp in my right calf,
And I stare nervously at the place it disappeared as I walk past it,
Convinced it will reappear and take me to the place where shadows sleep.

And a car wash light flickers on and off, when there’s no need for it to be alive at all,
When all washable cars are clean at this inhumane time between morning and wakening,
And the cover of trees shelters me from the prying eyes of hunters of the night,
Who may judge my behaviour and spread lies to those who could harm me,
And a song comes on my MP3 player that incites a rage years old,
That I did not know even existed until this moment of disillusioned clarity.

And I am angry at my father now, but not for the manner of his departure,
Or for the consequences on myself or on my father’s side of the tree,
And my anger breaks, leading to screams of undecipherable, mutilated lyrics,
As I realise with sudden helplessness the effect his death will have on my brothers,
And I resent the timing of him knotting the noose,
As his sons were too young to lose a father figure, and I was too young to become one.

And I notice now a slash on my conscience,
A seven year old bleeding wound.

(I was walking home from town one night, which is a two hour walk or so for me, and I was just typing things that happened, or that I saw or thought, into my phone and saving them as drafts as I went - this is the end result of that process).

Red Tide

Hand held to my cut eyebrow, stemming the red tide,
The cracked pane stares back at me, mocking the damage it has caused,
Outside, the sun shines, but dims with every spell of falling water,
Despite the lack of a grey sky above, supposedly needed to bring the rain;
Gazing through the broken glass, and through the broken swirls of cloud,
Through the forests of the West, where something special should have blossomed,
Through to fertile grass, by the smooth surface of the lake, in that place that never dies,
Even if the people living in or around do face life's one assurance;
Thinking about the brevity of our moments and why they were so,
Dreaming of a time we could have been alone, lying amidst freshly cut blades,
Under a shower of warm drops that would have felt like kisses,
Breathing in air free of the smoke that veils the Black Pool;
In reality, a bandage soaked in blood stings my wound,
Doubling the frustration now reaching its crescendo of helpless hopes,
While the jagged point sticks through some dead skin, held aloft like a trophy,
Celebrating my stupidity in the wet sun light, now gathering gusts to sway the trees,
Blowing leaves away that are no longer strong enough to stay at home;
And I can hear the howling of the wind in opposition to the thoughts rushing through my head,
Wailing louder as the blood rushes from my torn brow, dripping onto my cheek,
Pumping, the gaping hole has a pulse, growing wider with every second,
Everything begins to spin as each red droplet leaves circulation to wander free,
Increasing in speed, as word of emancipation from this body spreads like the Plague,
Until it flows like a river and crashes like a waterfall, drowning in a red wave,
And I wither away, like all the wants I held foolishly onto for so long.

(now I start getting into things that aren't happening and start using objects/events as metaphors).

Black Hand

Exhausted eyes fight the self-imposed night,
Losing a minute with every seeming second,
Thoughts cease, movements slow,
The off button is pushed; the on button breaks,
A sudden flash of something strange,
A grotesque limb never seen before;
A hand, skinny, black, with white cuts or scabs,
Reaches across the table where I sit, my arms resting,
And picks up a box of cigarettes that did not exist in real time,
Before vanishing, leaving behind a confused pair of eyes;
The hallucination ended as soon as it begun,
Yet it burned itself inside my lids, smoking,
A direct address is dismissed with a disturbing smile,
And a blatant lie,
A world of my own has just showed me signs of a smoke-out,
Now I just want to know where the fire extinguisher is.

(the incident that inspired this poem was bizarre and it happened literally as I describe it - I'd been out the night before and was nearly falling asleep in the seminar the next day when I saw a split second image of a black hand picking up a box of cigarettes, and I have no idea why I would see something like that).

Washing Away

I find myself on a beach, twilight fading,
Lying back, facing the sea,
The water washes against my feet as I await the dawn…

I gaze gently at the horizon, a smile across my lips,
Safe in the knowledge of one thing,
My emancipation is absolute and immediate…

I think back to the months passed, a tear forming,
Knowing that they represent wasted time,
It rolls slowly down my face, washing away with the tide…

I sit up suddenly, as the sky begins to lighten,
Wondering when again I would share this with someone,
I stop wondering, as ‘when’ is ‘when’ and no longer matters…

I notice now something new, an inner calm,
Windless, just like the morning I behold,
Not a grain of sand touches the clarity above…

I marvel to myself, while taking some sand,
As I know I have changed for the better of us all,
I loosely let the sand slip, just like an hour glass…

I watch the sunrise, until the day is in motion,
The tide has fallen back and I know it is time,
A new start awaits in pastures old…

Finally.

(Washing Away was published in DCU Book Society's 2009 Creative Writing Anthology along with Loveable Rogue - to be published two years running was good enough, but to get two into one anthology took me by surprise, to be honest).

Double Consciousness

I stand in my cold box bedroom,
Back to the window that showcases a characterising downpour,
Looking at a scene that once housed so much gaiety
And marvelling at how dark it is now,
While also being amazed at how time flies
And transforms things that once were oh so familiar;
I close my eyes and open them again,
The scene that I now behold is different yet recognisable,
It is a setting from five and a half months previous,
I stand silently and watch as her and I scramble frantically,
Unable to keep each other’s hands from the other’s body,
I stare jealously as we simply sit and gaze into one another’s eyes,
I turn away as I see in her eyes the butterflies she always spoke of,
I need not look with my now distant sight as I recall the joy I once felt inside;
It being summer, the rays glorify an already glorious scene,
It plays off our brown and blue eyes and lights up our tanned faces,
The entire day pans out before me, exactly as it happened so long ago,
And I can only stand helplessly by and be overcome with envy,
As I watch myself grab her and hold her against my wooden wardrobe,
Kissing her passionately like there was no five minutes from now;
I struggle to hold tears in check as I see us lying side-by-side in each other’s arms,
Sleeping, talking, gazing and just holding onto this precious instance,
And I watch as we happily waste the day away
And as we talk of the many more days to come;
Yet, as this perfect moment unfolds before my eyes,
Piecing together a time of impeccable happiness,
The scene flickers between then and now,
And as I watch something irretrievable happen again
I am fully aware of the reality in which I stand;
I know the bedroom is bleak in the January freeze
And not affectionately tender in the August sun,
I know I stand ominously by the window overlooking my bed
And am not lying beside her, listening to her heart’s beat,
And, worst of all, I know she is not smiling here with me,
As she is in this flawless recollection I am having right now;
My mind’s eye is experiencing the double standards of a double consciousness
That forces me to relive the past while still living in the present,
One that offers no way back to the moments that were
And offers no hope in the way of making them moments that are…

(two reasons for Double Consciousness' inclusion: personally, it marks the end of an emotional stranglehold of a futile, long-ended romance and, writing-wise, it's the first of a flurry of poems written in blocks with an emphasis on images).