Another Ending

This has ended, as it must
White Lilly’s wither, all is dust.
Seashells crumble to fine sand
That runs through fingers when clasped in hand.

Such is love, dies and ends
My heart, as all, grieves
then mends.

Unweaving the Rainbow

Unweaving the Rainbow.
(Richard Dawkins 1998)

I have seen a million rainbows, unmoved
By colour meeting colour on a rainy day.
Richard of York gave battle in vain,
But isn’t that always the way?

I known nothing of Science, to be fair
But then I am a poet, student of art
And should wax a rainbow beautiful
Not broken into its parts.

But the delicacy of such chance
A million raindrops fracturing light
And showing a fan of spectral colour
Where there had only been white.

I saw a rainbow yesterday
And by the understanding of why
It almost brought me to my knees
And its beauty made me cry.

West of Here

An abandoned house brings to mind a ruin
Some gothic romance held together by ivy and ghosts
(and fairytales)
This house was different, looking to be an innocent.

I remember watching, horrified and awed
Black bags lined upon its lawn,
(some of them seemed small)
While a silent crowd, surprised, gazed on.

This house crumbled quietly
Beneath the weight of unspeakable deeds,
(and blood soaked endings)
But this house lived, it breathed.

It could not be allowed, this house
To stand to one mans hate and lust
(October 1996)
This house was reduced to dust.

I am quite easily amused...

Therein Lies The Difference

I would write the story of forever,
beginning when all things begin
but I would change enough
that we would all be standing in the sun.

I have watched you and you may not remember
that I held your hand and called for help
when I found you vomiting
after filling your veins with so much poison.

Today you asked me for a cigarette
and, I hope understandably,
I recoiled from you
in fright of the anger in your face.

You called me a snob and responded to my reticence
by throwing coins at me,
and it made me laugh
but this was mostly from discomfort.

I am no more then you
an old Irish ‘there but for the grace of God’.
I know what it is too be used up
and worn to nothing by the harshness of life.

It would be nice if everything was easy
but plenty of us cannot sleep at night
it is just a matter of perspective
measuring one hurt against another.

I would write the story of forever
where these smaller hurts were everything
and we could all weep about mostly nothing
and pretend that our nothings were what mattered.