Not only do I love writing but I also enjoy reading. So many of the amazing things I read are enjoyed by so few, as not every literary marvel is also a marketing mogul. It’s this, i care to share most.
I’m indifferent to you, in this world made for two, sharing what we have with the rest, wondering how we got this far on fumes. The breath of life in view, littering the streets with news, of a better life for everyone.
Sun flares into the sapphire
My canvas rushes to capture
Birds flying through wands of gold, grey
Language of rainbow wings
Strength in wild of day
Divine comes through
Sun warms aura of my consciousness
Adorning wisdom in my heart
I bleed in this odyssey
Where tears turn to diamonds
A jeweled promise
Like a timepiece
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It’s about that which went before
and nostalgia is not an option.
So begins the road to the past
and I drive down Landseer street.
Land seer indeed. What things I’ve seen
and shared. But how to proceed?
Perhaps in prehistory; rocks and
the beginnings of life; a different
life in Belfast, aeons ago.I see myself
walking by as other people;
bright eyed and bushy tailed
not unlike that taxidermied hare
beside the world’s largest antlers.
I am layered like geological
features. I have ages and distinct
periods I could name. We stroll
through the Pleistocene all the way
down to the history of Ireland.
Dinosaurs to glacial progress; Gods,
religions, division all neatly divided
into glass cases. Labelled evidence
to learn from or most commonly
ignore. The Stranmilis setting also
means more. Yes, in memory; student,
drinker, idiot but the name itself. I
know it to refer to a ‘sweet stream’.
How we flowed, like water down the hill
to the traffic lights and on into Queen’s
Students’ Union, now in ruins (I lay in ruins
there too). My son urges me onward,
time travelling, consumed by
excitement. It is an unmitigated
joy to watch him run and look back
at me, at us. I see my next era as a
young father passing me angst ridden.
His face mirrors the stress on his
partner’s as their two charges lay
siege to the cuddly toys in the museum
shop. ‘What fucking genius set them
just high enough to reach?’ he asks the
world. There may be fatalities. We walk
out into the pelting rain and freeze of
February. There is too much to take in,
I look for you between the sheets where we fell into love then into silence a leaden hush still blankets the woods muffling morning eerily still the butterflies lay stiff my fingers are numb and blue thumbing through these pages back and forth I look for you. – Jen