Tag Archives: Yeats

NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 29 – Where

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Where have my robots gone?
Is there another shelf for them
or desk on which to lead
their silent plastic lives?
A room that is one
and two and four
and a space that is more than
what it seems, more
than what it sounds.

Where has my artwork gone?
The wordland, the doctor,
the space between will and power
and better angels still?
No room for one more
as the walls are
laid bare again –
to prosper perhaps beyond
the boxed papers whispered
by faceless passers by
and sudden saxophones.

Where have my covers gone?
Are there no more layers
for them to build upon truths
and cushion the inevitable fall?
There is room for more
than one person
more than one body
to lie away
from the streets
more than one spirit
to inhabit the shape
left behind by another.

Where have my words gone?
Were they lost
where I last saw
where I last heard

Where will my room
find its space
find its sound
find its place
once it’s gone?

Lost

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The end

is the best place to start
when you’re lost for words
because, apart from the troubles
you’ve saved yourself from
having to think of a beginning,
all you need to work out
is how to retrace your steps
walk backwards, in heels if needs must
in lines in the sand and the dust
and trust me, it gets easier.
Because maybe it’s just a phrase
you’re going through.
And you’ll figure out
that in your end may very well be your beginning,
but – and this is just a feeling, Toto –
we are not in Little Gidding any more
so carry on. Walk.

Run if you must, run from the living
run through the dead, empty words
that brought you here in the first place.
Run until the air burns in your lungs
sounds stick to your tongue
piercing your throat
with peaks of voice.

Pick apart the rain now rushing
on your skin, washing the world
clean of the steps you
took on your way to the end
of your life-long sentence
the full stop with no real cause
attempting to order the clauses
clawing at each other
scratching each other
into your mind and fingers
wanting to spill onto the page.

And when, not if, you lose your thread
make sure to tread carefully
on your own or someone else’s dreams.
Apologies can only do so much
and minds are fragile things,
thumb prints can burn and stay
on blood and ink and skin
so think before you speak
but always, always speak your thoughts.

And run, or walk if you must
carry the weight, count the prints
you left on your route here
close the circle and return
back to the place where you started
all the way back to

Crazy Jane at Tesco

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She treads through the aisles
dragging her cart and feet.
She mumbles and mutters
but mostly she shouts.
She knows he’s been here.
She knows he’ll be back.

Aherne, Robartes, they’re gone,
their minds so set on symbols and moons.
(Never saw the bus coming.)
She nods and sighs, grips tight on her coat
(his coat, he made it for her
a long time ago)
as she steps, back into the cold,
a smile cracks her wrinkle-aged mask.

She’s the last of them all.
Even Aengus, who visited her dreams,
has wandered off, way beyond the veil.
Yet she smiles, and tugs at her coat.
She outlasted them all:
the bishop, the vicar, the dancers,
even him, with his coat!
She grins and laughs
and laughs and coughs.
Even him, with his coat.

Sadly she looks
at the cold winter’s road
and she treads through the streets
dragging cart and feet
but softly, because she knows
they still are his dreams.