she studied musicpaintingfashiondramatheatre.
cant believe it,
went to school,
she was an art major

she’s gone to school for English,
she’s trying to write a book
(oh it’s even worse – it’s poetry)
(poetry, jesus christ)

but what do i care for work?
when youre on stage there’s
no such thing as money.
can’t convince me in

the studio, there’s time;
behind the pen what greater
purpose than to bring
a world to life?

art major, 2025

my light fell upon a woman dreaming —
well into the morning, my light had lit the world
for many hours seeming; yet not she wakes for me —
the Night was her lover. no beautiful paintings
could i make for her, no sunrise gentle, pastel green —
she loved the gold and purple screen preceding
her Nighttime’s coming. my warm rays gave way to
the shrouded mystery Night uses, to shield her heart
from me — how could someone shun the morning Sun?
was I mistaken to write off the beauty of a Day
that’s done?

for maybe it was Her the Sun —
and I, only dreaming.

30 Day Writing Prompts
Week 1. Observations and Reflections
Prompt 1. Describe a sunrise as if
it were a person waking up
2024

The swirling depths dredged from
Their dark and secret homes,
Deep ocean currents wrest up from
Abyssal planes, places unknown,
And that the Moon holds so much power,
As it drags unwilling tides,

Then why not my own body?
For water, why not mine?

2024

how deep my desire,
how lov’ed the silence:
the waking of birds when
the morning is quiet;

the brush of the fountain;
how playful the breeze!
that slips through the rushes,
the reeds and the trees;

the laugh of the candle,
the whisper of fire,
the merry that lingers
on family awhile;

the hush of the darkness,
profoundly at ease.
but i have tinnitus,

and my silence:
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

2024

God in Heaven, sat on high,
beheld the Earth with watchful eye,
the carpenters were at their trade;
the flock and shepherd slept in shade;
the merchants at their wicked wiles
(though not ideal, freewill abides);

He watch’d please’d o’er Gaia shown;
Jesus, fair Son, approached the Throne,
and Jove astonish’d swept around,
that Elysian footsteps echoes sound,
but Heaven, dreadful sight behold,
Prodigal Son man’s manifold!

My only Son, durst cut Thy hair,
pray take again Thy Princely air;
thoust in Heaven; take Thy form,
aura Incarnate, Royal-born;
thus cut Thy hair now, shave Thy beard,
Gods have no part in teenage years.

‘Tis not a phase! Jesus repli’d!
‘Tis but a phase! God angr’d cried!;
away to Earth now, take Thy leave,
partake in Adam’s revelries,
whence don’t return now, I decry
ere this foul phase hast passed You by.

thus Jesus alit on Earth esteemed,
and lived His life as He didst mean;
He got a job, hence paid His rent;
wait, no — His Life upon the cross was spent

(this part was not of His intent)

and returne’d to Heaven shaven clean —
was right; t’was but a phase it seemed.

jesus but it’s not just a phase
2024

No matter which performance,
forged in collective memory,
in parchment, iron, gold
in marble,
clay – or stone,
a shape’d human form,
a vision of the inner eye,
the desires of the heart,
and no limits to the image of
the passion of the soul,
and any shape to fashion high,
exalt the work
of learned hand, of practice old.

As perfect as the running stream,
and water just as clear, and captured
well the whisperings leap
unto the ready ear —
the ever-flowing presence that
a fountain brings to years.

What celebration, honor, sculpted
wellspring well-designed —
how as people feel the fountain keeps
and represents the flow of time —
a treasure for the senses, and a pleasure
for the mind, as blood through marrow
pulls the fountain water as if
human kind.

Cibeles
Written by Seán Ó Coistealbha
Translated by Shannon O’Neill
See below for original Irish
2023

Continue reading “”

forgive me what i said when i was mourning.
the gap was left i tried to fill what what i had:
my Words —

and any words will do when you are hurting,
and any sounds to try to stay the unforgiving world —

Oh, Lord,!
if you are there and you are listening,
i forgave to soon and left no other room to wont forget–

Did I mar the memories to give them titles?
What’s more to say,
when only words are left?

2022

an préachán

once upon a midnight dreary – fadó sin a thiteadh oíche,
agus mé lagmhachnamh ar le cuma tuirse orm,
leabhar saíocht, seanchas, scéalaíocht agam bhaint thaitneamh
asam ach corr-codlaím thainig gasta nuair a chuala mé fuaim corr –
‘seo cuairteoir,” cogar mise, “ag cnagáil ag mo sheomra mór —
‘seo é is gan níos mó.”

oaugh! – más buan mo chuimhne – tharla sé san úafás geimhridh,
agus an tine cuma taoibhse éitilt ar an t-úrlár fuar.
Tá an maidin uaimse; níor d’éirigh mé mo shuaimhneach
as mo leabhair sos mo fhulaingt, fulaingt chuimhne as Lenore —
an máighdéain stórín álainn uirthi ainm, mo Lenore,
gan sí anam ann go deo

Continue reading “”

The tragedy Titanic!
Her Majesty has sunk beneath the waves,
and pulled to grief her passengers
unto a final icy grave.

Thus shocked the world! And as they mourned
The Times did honor victims borne
with lines of grace and rectitude –
a simple poem.

But oh no! It lit the fire,
and flooded now the Times,
with inspired readers’ writings,
who’d tried their hands at lines,

And thus the Times replied:

What literary horrors here! You
mustn’t be surprised,
that we’ll publish not an elegy so poor
it’s why the reader cries.

In fact we’ll consider not a sonnet —
if that’s truly what they are,
if writer’s caring not for rhyme,
or meter — or meaning by far.

We’ll read not another single poem!
Nor print a single verse besides,
lest tarnish we our daily News
with your “attempt” at rhymes.

Dear readers all, please heed us well:
our mail box is well and locked–

and to whoever’s sending limericks,
for the love of God please stop.

2022
Submitted to the 2023 Wergle Flomp
Humor Poetry Competition