Seán O Muiríosa
Biography of Seán O Muiríosa
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Seán O Muiríosa Poems
A Journey To My Roots
The old house stood as sturdy as ever even as the mangled jade ivy clung and grasped as it had for decades, but she would never be killed. It’s not in her make-up.
Ode To Sylvia Plath
Painful star of poetry; Misery disguised, Misery unleashed; Ending in an oven.
Opening Tunnel Vision
Twinkling lanterns shone high In the Johnstown night sky
The Visiting Hours
I visited your grey face today. Your not well, old friend, not well. They say it’s spreading swiftly Through your every curve and bend,
Cracks Of Night
Staring through the dark of night I can just about make out the ceiling, cracks and all. It’s a battered fading plain of white like a rolled up piece of paper Flattened back out again. It must have witnessed
A Golden End
Golden waves rushed on in upon a rusty Irish sky as mother sang out across the land, fading leaves strained on branches.
The mind is the scariest thing I know. It is not like any darkness. It is a transparent, life colour Covering everything I am,
A Coral Beach In Connemara
The two of us alone on that stony Cheathrú Rua beach On a July evening that almost seemed like my reason for being. It was our last day together and the sun was burning strong.
Among Tall Pine Trees
Out among the tall pine trees, with a view that could spill over if it wasn’t so profoundly controlled by the dark ditches,
I am an erratic. Look at my edges How they pierce the landscape Of the desert each day.
18th September 1994 It’s eleven years now Since I last saw your face.
Country Essence - Haiku
Fields of green waves under The sky grey, rain on the soft Winds whisper; normality reigns.
I’m drowning. In a sea of wires. They are everywhere. Inescapable. Frail solitary man there in your mottled,
Tonight the sky is yours. I dedicate it to you in all its awe. It’s so colourful, a promise of things to come perhaps,
Blue And Gold Love Song
The wafting of the blue and gold
When I was young and times were old
And standing amongst the Tipperary crowd
We sang our songs clear and proud.
The worship of our heroes, urging a goal
Summer days in Thurles are a part of my soul,
From the chanting of ‘Tipp’ to Slievenamon
We were the expectation, the extra man.