The feeling of the water
As it runs over my bare skin
The soap forming bubbles that pop
In lathered delight
...
The yellow moon hung low
Over papier-mâché hills and
Cast it's benevolent glow
On the factories and homes
...
(For Al Filreis)
The peace of this place chimes with a hum
...
I cannot even give an account of what it meant to be born.
To fall head first down the tubes inside my mother into an opening light of a world gone mad and getting worse.
...
I do not know what it's like to be a girl
For being a man, I don't face
The real threat that I will be robbed of education
As some girls are
...
The rabbit died during
the night
she had not been well
the day before
...
Only in Britain would the police give power to
A group of civilians, allowing them to make false claims
...
When you are born
You are made to feel small
But it's all your fault
For not being on the ball
...
You had your dreams
Kept in a paper bag
The world was your oyster
Or so you used to think
...
Youthful exuberance
In hoodies and tartan caps
Wild
Rabid
...
The stars gave her to me
A mind as bright as the sun
A presence
A true goddess
...
Maybe you could scold me
Tell my that you told me so
Dig my grave with your
Harder words
...
Vincent S. Coster is an Irish-born poet who now lives in England where he continues to write poetry and the occasional short story. He began writing poetry as a way of venting the frustrations of being an outsider in a small rural village in Ireland when he was twelve, but it wasn’t until he was nineteen that he decided to take up the vocation of poetry as a serious craft. Since then he has tirelessly worked on developing his poetic voice with a determination to take up the mantle as the ''Poetic Oracle of his race, '' and sees himself as the heir apparent to Seamus Heaney in the line of great Irish poets stretching back to WB Yeats. His main style is the loose free form lyrical poetry which was used to great effect by Seamus Heaney, and like Heaney and Kavanagh he tries to tell the story of the Irish people from the perspective not only of that nation's struggles to find its place in the world, but from that of the individual and parochial struggles faced by the Irish people who are part of the diaspora, who try to find their place among the world's nations as individuals. He has published a pamphlet of gothic poems and five poetry collection.)
An Obsessive Compulsive's Thoughts On Washing His Hands
The feeling of the water
As it runs over my bare skin
The soap forming bubbles that pop
In lathered delight
It is pure ecstasy for me
The feeling of the water on my skin
Soothing me of the torment
From the man who sneezed
And shook my hands
Not a worry for him
If I should catch the damn thing
What ever it was that made him sneeze
Filthy and uncaring fool who sneezed
Did you see him sneeze?
And then shake my hand with
All them germs and things?
Crawling around like Greeks in Troy
But soap and water are my allies
Nuclear bombs to filthy bugs
Boom!
Washed
Removed
Erased
Zapped
Wicked little crawling things meet your demise
The great war of my lifetime
Ended with the soothing feel
Of soap and water
Running over my bare skin
'Sid and Nancy had it made Heroin chic stupidity In a hotel bed Glazed eyes And soft carpet touch Like a thorn in the side of youthful folly'
'For him there could only ever be The hope and longing Despair and guilt To which he could but shrug And surrender Happy only to have seen The Queen of the North in all her beauty'
i asked for a dang peom