Let the tigers come
Cracked bandage of bone,
edging colours
of fired earth,
east-west lay
the troubled sores,
of such a dalliance with steel.
Deep in the night the tigers come,
and lap the blood
from my marrow well.
This peace of mind,
this picture still,
to feel the rough tongues will,
Then I loops and coil,
to my anaemic rise,
blind by colours full.
I wait the day,
for eventide light,
and let the tigers come again.
Tigers and Bamboo -- Katayama Yōkoku
Tiger Emerging from Bamboo -- Katayama Yōkoku
Proposal at the Bryn
The thought had formed like flint in his mind.
Over weeks it had grown in size.
Although eyes red traced with the dusts
of his life’s gone byes,
his smile still shone out,
still life in the toothless dog.
Dressed and tidy,
as tight as the folded bud,
with his chest out like sails,
he made his entrance known.
Him, with his showy pride,
making its way before him,
parting the bar crowd.
Moses would have smiled.
After the first rum,
the point of order came.
From behind the bar she said ‘yes’.
They said their vows in May that year,
seven years after the passing of his first love.
He would die with his second
by his side,
at his hospital bed,
three years on.
He was happy.
Winter moths
The shadows of street lights swing
with the commute,
along our routes of black water colours pooling.
From the parking lines and stopping lights,
to our freedoms behind front doors.
We winter moths of January,
head in from the night,
where the wolf moon hides behind forest walls of winter.
Where desire lines are turning black
upon the tip jar covering.
Up the ‘skelters' of ivy sheen,
to the black electric of the oak trees bare.
There its howl is pierced calling.
Diesel trains pull into the sunken towns,
we all tined meat unloading.
A hurried pace for grazing stock
on station flagstones and pilgrims lanes.
Stepping light into the forest tracks,
with its thug embrace of a gales force warning,
there the cathedral home is awaiting.
A promise of the gold electric blush,
glowing patchwork cut from the nightly black
as we pass the neighbours' windows.
We know our way
on these branches off the main,
a hundred times with tired eyes,
and still that sight it sparks alive.
Our place of full heart
locked away from those wolves and gales.
Sunday morning sermon blues
The after hum of copper peal.
Lingering draw of church bells,
once at rest.
The air white with peace.
A clear resonance for a moment,
before the bleeding screams
of gulls reach down.
The ashen coke grey sky flecks,
matching paper print on kitchen tops,
breakfast spots on ironed shirts
and soap tides on five years olds.
Sunday welcomes all.
Come repent your week's reliefs
and abide with countenance
of the hallow’d smiles,
as such warm beds are wasted,
to such a waking hour.
Our guilt played
with saintly pluck.
Bless us all, each one.
Ranked by ordained love.
St. Patricks Church -- J.P. Rooney
