It is strange how these moments can stay
So esteemed and adored in my mind.
Like a madness, I cannot belay
These odd thoughts so ineptly defined.
On my right there’s the merciless noise,
That dull chatter so endless and dry.
To the left there’s that biblical voice,
That I’ve known since before birds could fly.
There’s a feeling now, foreign and new.
From this sudden, soft warmth comes a fool.
One who summoned affection untrue,
Like that love for the shade’s mistress cruel.
Soon returned is this false, baseless love.
As we sway to the new now made old.
An illusion of fate from above,
But the fool is now wise to his gold.
So, if fate at last wanders my way,
And I find her; electric, divine,
We’ll divide the hushed chorus and play
Down the tangled, dark, plastic grapevine.
– Rian Bolger
Throne of Stone
On the highest Throne of Glass
Three men have sat so far
Kings of Yellow, Blue, and Green
And none without a scar.
Yellow King was loved by all
But foolish so was he.
And underneath his jolly smile?
A dreaded cruelty.
The second king – the King of Blue –
Was smartest of them all,
But intellect turned ignorance
And so was his downfall.
The latest king – so Green was he –
Was brave and true and kind.
But even greatest kings have flaws.
Ambition took his mind.
All three kings did love the Throne,
Or so it is believed.
But when they left (or lost) the Throne
A mark on Glass they’d leave.
Which brings us to the naïve queen
Who’s grown to learn the truth:
That when great men do take the Throne
Their mark would follow suit.
She tried so hard to clear the marks,
To wash away their stain.
Her job was to protect the throne
But it was all in vain.
Each attempt to find a king,
Who’s heart was pure and true,
Was thwarted by the flaws of men
And so the queen did rue.
But maybe it’s not flaws of men
That should be held to blame.
Maybe Glass is not enough
To resist their flame?
So if she could not find a king
Who could respect the Throne,
It is no longer “Throne of Glass.”
Tis now a Throne of Stone.
– Ciara Lawlor
I love you to the moon and stars.
I hope you honestly don’t believe that
I wish you would leave me forever, and
My life would be worth much without you.
We make love when we have sex.
It is untrue to think that
I always think about
My ex before you,
Something I never thought I would say.
You are worth every second of my life.
It’s sad to think that
You don’t deserve my love.
We keep smiling.
(Now Read Backwards)
– Rian Rogers
What Do You Do?
What do you do?
What do you do when
You fulfil what your heart desires,
You try to satisfy what your heart yearns for,
But it does nothing to relieve
The affliction to which you’ve been condemned?
How do you cope?
How do you cope when
The thing that contains your joy,
Your addiction of life,
Is also what gnaws at your mind,
Chiselling away at your sanity
Fuelling the madness that plagues your mind?
How do you express?
How do you express how you feel
When there is not enough words,
Not enough ways
To say what you need to say
And what you say everyday?
When every word
Of every language to ever exist,
Every gesture, gift and action,
When every song, poem and rhythm,
Does not nearly do justice to how you feel.
How then are you suppose to say,
Suppose to express and explain,
Exactly what you mean by
“I love you!”
A Gem of Love
To your beauty,
no gem can compare.
I dig deep and face dangers
To get my precious gems.
But I would travel deeper,
Into the heart of a dragons lair.
Take you from it’s horde,
And defeat the dragon myself
To save you from it’s claws.
And I know I’m not the strongest,
But this love for you I feel
Is more powerful
Than any magic can compare.
When my heart grows heavy
With doom and gloom,
I need just think of you
And a new ray of hope does bloom.
You must be loved
– Megan Plummer (@awomanwithwords) – Instagram
Poetic Letter …
To the heart’s desires,
The body doesn’t understand
Your whimsical nature
Your lust for adventure….
The unerring design, the fallacy of wanting.
The body falters, the mind echoes
The mere utterance of the word
The word I want not to hear
Whispered to me drawing me near,
I possess no thought of it and its corrosive certitude.
To the heart that speaks
Cruel intention of the conception
Of a word weighing up possibilities
Of what could be and what is
A winter kiss brushing by cognate to a dying ideal
Spare the body one last chimaera
To adjourn the idea of the word
That heavy word that empty word,
Of what could bring destruction or inception.
– Niamh Farrell