Irish Pub
Full moon
Golden light streams onto the dampened streets
Swallowtail Jig plays
foamy beer mugs and loud drunken cheers
Men dancing in circles
bickering loudly over the happy song
jigging happily on the night wind
# 9 Love has 8 legs
Spidery tears
Run down my face
Silvery threads
Bind my dreams together
Arachnid eyes watch my wavering pulse
Venomous kisses
Ensnaring words
Watching, waiting
You stalk me, entrap me
Slowly I am wrapped up
In the death of your love
You liquify my insides
And desiccate my heart
The Epic
He caught her eye as she swung past,
Her partner tossed quite often,
Showing off his leading skills,
And her, in ballet motion.
Ah, that authenticity!
Poetry with music.
“Cut!” he yelled.
“Break for lunch,” another voice.
“I almost thought you meant it.”
She smiled. He smiled back.
“Good job, kids.”
“Next.”
Poem 11: Dance
The bartender pours the liquor into the cup, and the cloaked man sitting at the counter downs the shot. Across the room lit by dangling citrine lanterns, by the crackling fireplace, a musician starts to play a violin. Raw, rusty sound fills the stuffy but gradually weaves into a fast-paced tune. The regulars at the creaky tables begin to stand up. In a corner, a copper-haired girl sits on a barrel, arms folded, leaning against the grimy wall with a surly scowl. The young man stands up, unfurls his cloak with a smirk, takes her hand and pulls her off her seat. He grabs her by the waist and whirls into the center of the room. Their boots tap the chestnut floorboards, and they dance amidst claps and cheers. She spins around and clasps his hand. Her caramel eyes soften and slowly, her scowl disappears.
U-N-I-T-E-D
everywhere we go people want to know
who we are, and we tell them
we’re UNITED mighty UNITED
we’re Red to the core
the Mighty, Mighty core
we’re standing at your door
oh Manchester, oh Manchester
no Scousers wanted here
we’ll beat you every day and night then drink your beer
we’re UNITED mighty UNITED
we’re coming to your town, we’re going to tear it down.
we’re UNITED. mighty UNITED
not to be ignored, you better get on board
we’re UNITED, mighty UNITED
everywhere we go, people want to know
who we are, and we tell them
all hail hail United to the end,
our spirit is what we choose
so hail, hail, United, United to the end
U-N-I-T-E-D R-E-D
G-O W-I-T-H M-E
2017 Poetry Marathon, Hour Eleven: Empty
I don’t like to watch you dance
because it stirs me up inside
and I know you have no interest
My infatuation
does me more harm than good
that’s when I turn to the Irish exit
In short order
I will remember seeing you dance
in that polka-dot skirt
I’ll have a couple glasses of wine
write a poem about you
and fall asleep with the TV on
(5 August 2017)
Hour 11 – Swallowtail Jig
It’s my father.
Music.
Banjo, Irish folk,
With a Scottish accent
And a flutter of Jazz.
Everything intertwined,
Always moving,
Always turning,
Always out of reach.
It’s me.
Learning the recorder,
Irish jigs, Sully’s,
Play them faster,
Fingers moving
Without instruction.
Always moving,
Always turning,
Always out of reach.
It’s him and me.
A pro and a child.
The goal, the same,
The distance different
Music not connecting,
Evading the point.
Always moving,
Always turning,
Always out of reach.
Sounds on the Wind
Melodies do abound
Just listen
Here the music in the wind
Listen to the sound
Words glisten
Your music and my music twinned
From The Window (In Black and White)
Take my hand in yours
And sail away
To that distant shore
We’ll leave this black and white
We’ll leave by ocean
Let’s leave tonight
Through the window
We’ll find passage
We’ll find the light
Fight through the rain
Search through clouds
All to leave this town
Take my hand
And trust in me
prompt #11 ~ waiting for music
Waiting for music
A harp is mystery, unlike
the piano, which I played easily.
A harp is rare in red dirt country
and I had only books for teachers.
But I wanted to play the harp
not the harp of angels
but the Celtic harp of bards
My harp was simple, plain
and sturdy. Months I worked
to make her mine, trading
time & skills for music.
But the music never came.
She has followed me across the world
and back again, my Celtic darling.
Like a lover out of bardic song,
she has crossed mountain & sea
sleeping in dusty corners
To be with me.
Hours I practiced scales, aligning
clumsy fingers w/ graceful strings.
Still, the music hasn’t come.
Perhaps now, as the horizon draws down
and the light of August thins to dusk
I will learn to sing with her. Learn
her strings as if they were my own hands.
The music might well come.