I built my dry-stone walls
In the garden, through the years:
Happy, heavy work,
The most gratifying of chores.
While the light of summer evenings
Turned stones to gold,
Bats and swallows swooped
Under Ned’s big sycamores.
But football on the lawn—
Our game of sweat and cheers—
Placed my walls in jeopardy.
Shots that went wide
Loosened wedges inside
The front wall’s hidden heart,
Like medieval weaponry.
A song based on an old poem of mine.
Time for one more,
Eyes are bright;
Wonder what’s
In store tonight
Told me often
That she might
Sail the coffin
To the light. Continue reading
[I wrote this in July but forgot to post it here then.]
You should be here in these times
To tell us what you’re thinking:
To show how your sweetness has developed
And your sharpness has increased.
This unholy blur started with shivers:
Our lives’ coldest spell.
You were gone for no reason;
Time passed slowly while snow fell.
Ireland froze, except for rivers of tears.
Filed under Death, Ireland, Memories, Philosophy of life
There is a name for this kind of poem, which escapes me. The idea is that line 1 has one syllable, line 2 has two syllables, and so on.
The following one was written quickly (by me) for some kind of blog challenge a few years ago.
Go
Lightly
On your path
Over life’s high
Hurdles. Remember
That milk curdles for a
Reason: flux is not a form
Of treason. Live, enjoy the dance,
Acquiesce to happenstance, and give
The whispers of your spirit a fair chance.
Filed under Poems
The road to God knows where ... Brendan O'Brien 