Day: October 31, 2014

The curate’s motorbike

Come here darling, come here quick,
‘Cos your Daddy’s very sick.
Run as fast as fast, you can,
Get the priest, get Father Dan.
Run,run went my eight year old feet,
Down the lane and up the street
I ran right up to Father’s door,
[Does God live there any more?]
“Come please, Mam said Daddy’s ill”
“Oh”,said Father,”that I will.”
Revving up his motor bike
With The Sacrament beside;
He lifted me up onto the back
And roared off up the church-side track.
It was the best thrill of my life;
If only Daddy had not died.

 

Barbarosities

 

She’s as easy  to hug as  it would be to  kiss a bee on my crown
Life’s not easy when I  see ghosts smoking without ashtrays
I feel uneasy as  your pie made me queasy.
Poisoned by gum and still chewing
Beat lead.Buy a  fountain pen today.Qouink!
He sits like a broomstick at a wedding for dummies
Shall we beat my cat… or hunt hares?Is cruelty good? Then ban hunting,for God’s sake.He made all creatures…if he exists
It’s  treat  to  see your gun;catch my lift?
Why not eat your own dog’s food and leave mine for me.It’s all I have since the cat  died.
Eight hundred men caught one gorilla which took a bus into town..Now he’s been given a free Mass in the cathedral.Sorry  a Free Bus Pass ex cathedra
Why no elephant in your room? Are you in need of brass monkeys?
Are you on  an imaginative roller coaster?Join our club for the highly imaginary person
Now you must empathize with the wrong willed yet able to get the country off my knees.I am worn down by the dichotomies

The end of the sentence

 book-art-3
with its deep darkness
The Fall was never healed.
Can I resist the call of the killers?
Will they kill me with kindness or with hatred?
I try to hide but no place feels safe anymore
I negate my writing and hide my pens.
Pain degrades me.
Writing deleted returns in imagination
I can do little but I try
Black gravity is the monster in my soul…
Sway not the tree
On whose strong branch the leopard drapes himself
But let the moon speak in silver tongue
as the leaves rustle
I am invisible
except as a home for ants
Who steals my words.
I am no more than a punctuation mark or a short title
I am near the end of my sentence.
I’ll be hanged by some inverted commas
From the oak tree.. burning in the sun’s borrowed fires
I can’t see your face now.
Just shapes in grey fog
Like the doctor without feeling for my child.
A child,that was..
that would have been…
that has gone.
I am uncertain
outside the circle,
outside the circle.
the circle
the circle
of your arms