Tranquil Chagrin

We wake up in the early hours
in Cahirciveen beside the shimmering
silence of the smooth sea’s surface.
Clouds hide the pointed peaks of
the surrounding mountains
as we yawn and stretch to get
ready for a day of stone skipping
and day tripping across the
many layers and strands of this
well known home of peace.

Our plan is borne of childhood
nostalgia and discounted offers,
a cycle to the nearby island of Valentia.
The rent-a-bike chatters happily to us
while we gaze upon our temporary
steeds, battle worn but familiar with
our route; and then we leave, basking in
the freedom only two wheels and a
strong breeze through one’s hair beneath
perfect golden rays of sun can grant.

We reach the ferry to Valentia and cross
to the island where we cycle for over
three hours, lost in the beauty surrounding us.
The uphill struggles burn the thighs so
we stop awhile at the cliffs where we
gaze down at the world’s end, crashing
against the rocks - it erodes the present.
Everybody else shudders at the sight of
such a perilous drop, but I flirt with
the edge and it is then I lose myself in thought.

I see the couples around me, matched up
and made up, happiness personified in a
world where temperance is king and
permanence is a pauper’s false hope.
In my mind’s eye I see replays of love
unrequited taken from my weak grasp.
Isolation roars up in the crashing waves
as the utter frustration coils up inside,
ready to spring from the cliff’s edge
down to the wrong solution below.

They voice their concerns as I eyeball
the jagged stones so elegantly formed,
all oblivious to the whispers in my mind.
Words of worry and the natural sounds
fade away as the footing becomes
treacherous while the whispers grow louder,
coaxing me one step further and
one step further, yanking the invisible
leash around the imaginary
collar on my neck so inevitably noosed.

Never before have I been more
comfortable than when within the grip
of an unbiased wind, pushing and pulling,
giving then taking, and always
threatening no matter which way
it blows the day; and just when I
look set to succumb to the wind,
the whispers and the rocks, I step back,
chagrined by the perpetual tranquillity
I cannot bring myself to ruin.

Lover of a Friend

War of attrition, impossible mission,
Guns set down in forced coalition.

My heart exploding, our love imploding,
Mixed messages forever decoding.

Standing stone still, without any will,
Hours spent gazing from my windowsill.

Cannot comprehend, lover of a friend,
All I ask now is where will it end?

News: two more poems on SpunOut.ie

SpunOut.ie have published two more of my poems, Turquoise and Lover of a Friend. I didn't publish Lover of a Friend on this blog for the simple reason that I actually forgot to, and the fact the site doesn't credit me with writing the poem makes it look like I'm trying to take credit for something I didn't write - but I assure you all now I did actually write it and I have the email from SpunOut.ie crediting me with writing the poem!

So Long

We wander through the streets so old,
Clandestine in our cascade.
It starts to rain as the thunder
Roars its disproval of this charade.

But rather than douse your flames
The water stokes your burning fire,
And as the clouds continue bunching
Together the flames lick ever higher.

Oblivion grows as the abuse increases,
It becomes torrential and ill-thought out,
And a sly remark with raised eyebrows
Was enough to sow the seed of doubt.

Our walk ceases outside an old haunt,
And your eyes bore through mine,
My grip on your hand surprisingly
Slackens as I say “We had our time.”

Resentment

There is a carnival atmosphere in
the air but all I feel is resentment
towards everybody around me who clings
to who they have as if slacking their grip
would let my bitterness swallow them whole;
the nearby shore is drowned out by the sounds
of the Spanish travelling siesta
combined with the usual outpouring
of drunken delinquency by the Irish,
a stereotype that fits so well I
almost begrudge myself for not bearing
it too, even though it would exacerbate
everything that doing nothing at all
manages to keep in balance; and when
the festival lights are dimmed one last time,
when deluded anarchy hits the streets,
my resentment still builds as I watch these
people, seemingly without a care, drawl
and stumble and cry over trivial
things made drastic by the temptress that is
alcohol who lives in oblivion,
a place that coaxes even me when I
witness freedom - disillusioned, yes, but
still freedom - in everyone else but I.