Poetry
Photo by Kevin Butz on Unsplash
Defining Divinity
(Dedicated to: A friend, RIP)
Deep in the heart of the countryside
The tiny sturdy two-teacher school stood
Hidden between the tall trees and fading footsteps.
Many years ago, it finally closed its doors,
To all except for the traveling vagrants
Scurrying mice, spiders, wasps and black crows.
Today it still stands with echoes
Of children whose whole lives were
Sullied and muted by strong sally rods and the crucifixion.
One of those children was John G.
Wrenched from his parents, his community
And screeched off to a “school” in Galway.
The long journey alone in the back of a black van
Stretched for almost the full day.
It finally ended with the banging shut of two large oak doors.
The torture began immediately.
The wee boy was stripped of his everything,
Including his few shreds of dignity and speech.
Thus began the daily discipline of the wee boy
Who had never committed a crime,
And who withstood a little lifetime of belittlement.
His years in the ‘reform’ school taught him,
Trust nobody, drink like a fish, tread lightly,
So the scars on his bum would heal.
The scars divinely never did heal.
Gallop Arrested
It was Tuesday morning
Bright, so bright.
The tall trees lent their shadows
To the soft earth
Where infant animals
Sought relief from the bright
Dawn, dribbling life.
Unfurling too rapidly
Before maturity advanced
To arrest the gallop.
Tellingly.
A Journey – Steering from the North
Large chunks of ice floated on the water
The water froze over every winter
The summer, not spring, rode the waves
Troublesome seals pounded their flippers
Whilst strangers moved forward, inch by inch.
All the while, lamenting the cold
And scraps of food prepared in tin cans
She braved the hollow in her heart
That occasionally snuck upon her
With the scent of lavender and cinnamon
As men hurried in, tarried, sunk a pike
Into the child-like flesh between her legs.
Soundings of trepidation and tantalizing liquor
Broken logs ablaze in the fire
Of the heart and the hearth
Longing for the winter to return
When loggers and joggers went home
To roost and toast the coming long days
And brutal nights of wanton diatribes
That fill the air with heaving
Hollowed out witticisms and outright lies
Aflame in the cinder of her breast.
Ahoy there, your boat has landed
And mighty will be your sails
In the midst of steering from the north
As equality of deliverance bodes well
For all mankind.