Thursday, November 25, 2010

Hat Stand

The endless line
of wingless eagles
continue their
Dodo march

Arched backs falling,
little slack lemmings,
tumbling with disdain
before my eyes

And back sodden,
soaked, pressed firm
beside rock
Toes dug in
Heels soggy with algae

From here I can see
your flower-proof brolly
painting flames
abroad the horizon

Monday, November 22, 2010

Blue Room
5ft x 4ft

Wednesday, November 17, 2010


Accompanying the return
of magpie breath and feathers
I surround myself
with sallow squares
and careful circles of chalk

Ears pricked
Fingers reaching,
long and black,
across an eyeless stitch
flanked by candles

And the turning cogs,
twisting wheels and roots
Hoping for that cheerful clink
caused by paper against palm

Monday, November 15, 2010

acrylic/fluted sbs

Monday, November 8, 2010

Lorca's Lament

My love has flown away
on the black wing of an eagle
to pierce the blue mantle
of a Spanish sky.

Words have deserted me,
they have marched away
to the beat of a thousand drums
and the clash of swords.

The gleam of his naked pistol
and the sun's scorching rays
blinded me as I knelt
that sweltering summer's day
on flowering earth-
mother of all mothers
that gave birth to me.

They dragged me to the cemetery
to breathe my last broken sigh.

I am still searching for the mound
where my shattered bones lie.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Friday, November 5, 2010

Prayer of the unsaintly

Would you banish me if I confessed
a secret thrill the instant
shrill sirens intrude,
rudely breaking in
to shove aside my trailed-off whispers
with a wail from which no earwax,
no matter how doughy thick,
could keep a modern Ulysses safe.

Maybe it’s this time
they’ll stop for me.

Maybe it’s this time
and there won’t come a knock.

Maybe it’s this time
the stale crust of hardening past
explodes to scorch a put-upon earth
or crack her open so we can,
you and I, slip through,
up among the slewfoot roamers.
Their heavy heads are down,
always down, down,
pointed down and they’re unaware
there are germs here.
There are puffs of dainty fluff floating
close above them here and hoping
to ride our slipstream,
to skip over those dreams
too drained of ambition for ever
to germinate.

Ignore, am I
the kind to ignore? I am
ignoring them right now,
and the dimpled facts
they’d dare be
if beggary wasn’t better served
than derring-do. Don’t
tell me you don’t see them too.

I’ve witnessed the self-interest
and I’m still abiding, dude,
but when, dear God, when
will enlightenment finally arrive?

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Autumn Morning.....

The first scents of the day
Fill me up and radiate to my finger tips
Invigorating and refreshing
The early morning coolness breathing against my face
And the ever welcome warmth that cloaks my back
My fading friend of summer
Chinks of light peep through the loaded branches
Leaves, clinging for life
The life within them withering away
The autumnal colours of ochre’s and browns
Curling with their rusty spots abound
That moment of life extinct as they freefall
Dressing the ground with a crisp crunchy carpet

© Eileen O’Neill    24/09/2010
Thursday Prompt for Poets United: Autumn
(Poem originally written 17/10/2009)

Monday, November 1, 2010

Ants with Sticks

I watched them dismantle a cat's game in my backyard,
their X's and O's imprinted in the rust-filled sand,
symbols left behind like fossils who refused to change.
I watched them transplant the sticks piece-by-piece
over new blades of grass, new colors of flowers,
hoping they might be filled with sweet, simple time:
free land, free energy, free love in arms of freedom.
Sedentary, I sat watching and drinking beer
while a tired sun set behind the distant hills;
political ads poured out my windows, ignorance
screamed back-and-forth like wavering curtains
torn by the hands of an evening draft—I sat,
I watched them play games with broken branches,
and the history of our world continued to suffer.


Too long spent treading water,
head bobbing up and down
between passing ships
and an array of distorted
messages in bottles

It was here that I realised the time to let go
and sink down into the depths of you
had arrived

But fear,
night terrors,
a gang of them,
their voices calling out like whale song
beneath the surface

Try as I might I cannot shake the feeling
that this shade is not a ghost at all
Rather a permanent stain,
the spreading of ink
across an otherwise pale blue

And it always arrives with the taste of decay
that dull screw
of a fragile hobgoblin
so pensive and grave