Lilting of Kildare, Cork or Kilarney, 
She says to lie oh so still oh; 
(still as death, glad as a babe, o lucky me) 
Hugs my face to her bosom tightly 
As she drags a sensor firm and slow 
Across my chest to sound and chart 
A derelict heart full fathom five below. 

Even my mother’s tired sighs 
Can be heard down there still, 
As she grudges a life to her son; 
No, there are no lullabies; 
A child herself, she never sang. 

Now, all I desire is this Irish rose to sing — 
By the Rising of the Moon, O Danny Boy, 
Cole Porter, an ad jingle, any damned thing! 
Your smile, your voice could forever cure this heart 
but as you leave, I can only say, “Erin go bragh.” 


They lean and stretch out of long 
narrow windows never meant to open;
into the morning they reach out
as if hanging wash or gossiping
floor to floor with neighbors or
watching for parades of victory
to cheer above and throw confetti.

Some will stay but most will go;
pirouette, tumble or jack knife
joining hands or just solo,
dive into this sweet coolness
of summer turning fall.

‘Five Minutes’ (a response to Wallace Stevens’ ‘The Emperor of Ice Cream’)

here’s one I wish I wrote…

J.M. Weselby @ Magpie Creative Writing Services

Five Minutes

Don’t put me in the ground just yet, I beg you
Let me revel in my five short minutes of fame
Give them a moment to speak my name
And remember what little thing they loved best.

They caked my face in youth, so don’t turn away
Before they close the lid, lay your eyes on me
For this is the one time I will not age, you see
Soon you’ll forget how I looked when I could breathe.

Refer to all my faults in the present tense
Don’t summarise or bathe me in sentimentality
That turns me into the stuff of hazy memory
But in brutal truths I can live forever.

Pity flowers ensure my door is at its darkest.
To turn up draped in black and sympathy
Just mocks my absence from the party
Honour me who laughed loudest, but not last!

Remember this day like…

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