POETRY

Patricia Walsh 

                      CREDITS: RAM NAGAPPAN 

                       

ANIMATED DARKNESS

Sifting through paper, a niggling progeny,

whitewashed tombs betray their wares

shortage of ink to comfort the deja vu

strange solid art watches from above.

Collective champions eschew the later bar,

insulted injury too much to drag across

the dark-haired redeemer brings to notice

the unsung text of a forgotten queen.

Being rested and fed, despite any industry

colluding in its produce, goading further

the attention sought, gained and remembered

looking fierce shook, despite recommendation.

Intravenous for drugs, come along later,

minimal disruption of a working day

weighted, abated, a nightmare of excess

a noticed permission of means of production.

A closeted white, told to grow up

not even a break-in can move me far,

unless some getaway, through a galaxy nearby

fearing everything in sight, walking cleanly.

Solace in tea, a life-form worth dissecting

embarrassed in silence, burning in the truth

not getting over this, solidified wedding ring

crashed to obscurity, a lesson earned.

SUITABLE

Canvassing will disqualify,  a certain click

demoting the needy, a perfumed arm behold,

familiar figures turn off a coloured head

industry firing on some cylinders forlorn.

Hungry by choice, pressing ahead with work

the prized dinner plate offers its satisfaction

this excellent work derides all who abide,

shaking through malnutrition, obesity halved.

Catching the devil’s eyeball, blue on blue.

This complicated rejection befell at times

seating outside for sake of diminutive

tea lights remain obsolete, a passion solved.

In the neighbourhood, dropping by, of assistance

a cursed offspring sleeps through daylight oil,

attending a window of earthly delights

boxes of relief on the sill, remembered.

Owing no one a living, regrettable as required

austere shenanigans handles one’s resolve,

outstaying isle of welcomes, lovely damn

attractive through observation, an envious stance.

Selected through familiarity, production aside

beloved out of measure, scurrying from view,

belated illnesses blow the wedding band away,

a hurting daytime of loves since deserting.

LESSER FOOD

“You should just go home”, sagely chimed

caught in a myriad of poisoned circumstance

eschewing invitation to a bought pint

feelings remain known, slyly watched.

The theory of attraction, unknown, but still

fudge-packed on the quiet, the best there is,

seated through the barb of a trite reflection

slicking through wounds, hurt like the others.

Safety in distance, feet in proximity, 

passing by with intent, observing amity

the only thing of value now is a grateful kiss

interrupted by the judgemental, a straightened touch.

Writing against type, the worthless buzz

presidential likeness curses the auditor

reminded of this dross cutting my back

honoured to be listened to, at last.

Going home to a heavy-handed darkness

informatory going cheap, for some necessity

protecting the good time from wholly dissection

or washed down with tears, like so.

Cutting through adultery, a losing game

angered through loss of what was never secure,

seated with sorrow, comforting through a truth

aged under trying, a fallible joke.

                                           

Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland. To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals. These include: The Lake; Seventh Quarry Press; Marble Journal; New Binary Press; Stanzas; Crossways; Ygdrasil; Seventh Quarry; The Fractured Nuance; Revival Magazine; Ink Sweat and Tears; Drunk Monkeys; Hesterglock Press; Linnet's Wing, Narrator International, The Galway Review; Poethead and The Evening Echo. She has also published a novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.