Overcast but warm,
The day dry, unusually.
Walking the woods with the dogs
As many times before.
...
A fractured home
A distanced heartache
A chopstick, an empty cup
...
He had only one more gift to give,
the manner of his going.
He had only one short life to live,
and only now was knowing
...
On back a bedroom door
A hook, a cap, untouched
This many year. The head
That wore it laughing
...
I saw myself on T.V.
I think. In black & white
on channel four, tonight.
My Doppelganger from 1938.
...
Now is the golden browning of the year,
early dusky evenings, and the quiet.
A time of listless leaves and branches,
a settling, and a dignity of dying.
...
Time was an orange
in a stocking was a treat.
Or maybe a banana.
Now it’s Star Fruits, Uglies
...
I am a Nearly Man,
At least that’s what you think
My bent back
Or withered leg,
...
As I came over Wicklow Gap
All on a summer’s day
A sight I met which held me trapped
And took my breath away
...
god you’re ugly
and yet to another insect…..
who am i to feel superior
you’re good at what you do
...
What is this magic you do?
Taming the fire
Bending the earth
Making beauty from brute strength
...
Christmas, I remember,
Was the only time the fire was lit all day.
Da lit it real early with twists of the Evening Press,
Bits of broken wood, and coal brought from the
...
Who is She
She is The Fairy Woman
She says my name
She speaks with her eyes
...
Welcome. 'Fáilte'- from yet another Irish Poet. My Blog www.martinswordspoetry.blogspot.com Writers Group www.wicklowwritersblogspot.com YouTube Martin Swords Wicklow Writers Member of Wicklow Writers Group. Background in Design and Communications. Writing Poetry since 1990)
A Walk In The Woods With Robert Frost
Overcast but warm,
The day dry, unusually.
Walking the woods with the dogs
As many times before.
Lucy and Tig, away in the rough dark deep,
Yipping with the scent of deer, excited.
Ruby, river scrambling, biting
At the bogwater, wagging, from the shoulders back
Along the old familiar track, into
The clearing where the roads diverge.
I stopped and stood. Which way to go?
Think of another Poet, and roads not taken.
Yes, I’ve been here before. This way I came.
That way I saw a squirrel once.
And down that way a badger
Straight on, the Mill Pond where ducks dabble.
Behind me then a stag, stares my way, and
Startled, slips into the wood.
I think again of Robert Frost and look a different way.
I stand a while. I turn, retrace my steps, recall, relive,
I’ll write this down, and this will be
The road I’ve taken.
Nostalgia ain't what it used to be Writing Poetry is like standing naked with your thoughts exposed