by Patrick Walsh

POEM-1
Verdicts and Processes

On low,Bardo Pond’s relentless
Feedbacking cuts a wave of sound
Across their woman’s glorious vocals
Like a distant thunderstorm
Echoing fuzz,filling my head’s
7 A.M breakfast kitchen to full,
While the polar-caps empty some
Of their age-old dreams to water
Like choc-ices dancing winter sunlight
Or your mask-face crumbling to skins
At the realisation I’ll never be
That one you thought I might have been.

POEM -2
Midnight in Cork County

My cd-player mood-walks with
The Monochrome Set’s “Golden Waters”.

A multi-coloured plastic butterfly
On its metal-spindle
Guards the potted foxy heathers
And the frosty-windowed darkness.

This wood-fire crackles behind me,
It’s warmth spread-pulsing my back.

Our black mongrel with her handsome
Mini-wolf face,eyes the red-purple blaze.
Touch her,her gaze turns suspicious grey,
Fire-addict from that cold-turkey short-hair.

Cousin Bob has just e-mailed me,
His sister’s husband[Bob],dead from cancer,
Somewhere out on the Jersey shore
Near where Springsteen used hang-out once.

Reminding me of our listening-in,
And our tiptoeing on
The great matrix of death
Until we fall through those dark cracks,

Sometimes having slipped into acceptance
Just as red-ball sun through horizon’s lips.

POEM-3
Another Blurred Telescope

Little whirlwinds of dried leaves
Are a table flailing
Of handed-off breadcrumbs,
Falling on a story so short
On originality’s spark,
That one cries “eaten bread”.

Moore is angry,
Moore has righteous anger.
Moore’s rightfully angry,
Eyeing corners
Of darker truths,
Yet like a kid
With a full cookie jar
He decides more is best,
Tops with stranger filling,
Silver icing,melting
Just off absolute truth.
The connoisseurs and converted
Whimper with absolute delight,
But the great unchosen
Are mostly not impressed,
They’ve been to car auctions,
Know not-quite-truth may well kill you.

Moore is very angry again
But the gods are laughing,
Playing Tower-of-Babel jigsaws
While many lose the setting sun.