Three Poems by Patricia Walsh

Three poems by Patricia Walsh

Meltdown Café

No redemption yet, at least some forthcoming

Mere undertakings breathe its last mistakes

Not wanting miracles, but you do! A scurrilous whine

Burning pretences called for, smile for the camera.

Not fixated by geography as left to hide

Qualifications for agony fell short this time

The quaint unhappiness rocks its own world

Blowing the arcade a lesson sought.

Detonating conversation, no apologies given

Scraping the natural in a solemn breeze

Keeping sweet the tell-tale heart over sludge

Cleaning operation masking the film.

Hell barred from the inside, to serve or reign

Laughing at death and all its glory

Socially bankrupt, repeating the same jokes

Setting a fire the perfect guise, head-on.

The coffee taken dark, burgeoning on receipts

Nothing cooking under hours, medicated

Persistent failure the trick to redeem oneself

The national clique runs past the sidelines.

An incoherent, blubbering mess, letting the side down

A fashionable disease better than the cure

Enjoying solitary company, hands held

 Righteous promise worked against, believed,

Born to Rot

It was an interesting story while it lasted

Slammed into a perfect aperture, smiling

The pleasures dug, short-changed under orders

Stealing home from the good books, awaited.

Fingers in several pies, what could go wrong?

The volunteered mischief never goes away

Time-serving no match for creaky solitude

Vomiting, solitary, an anointed is born.

These scraggly dreams, knowing the times

Worn-out adulation picks its own skin

Consistently brilliant in this own field

Fly by your own right, ripping itself clean.

The overly-fulfilled prophecy boasts it’s time

Ringing its time to the best of an nonentity

The fold coffee rubbish repents all its sins

Seek redemption elsewhere in these obligatory times.

Glad to meet, sorry to part, a grandiose glitch

A surfeit of mistakes cost your credibility

The patronised directive goes unabated

The patriated bones, the gluttonous texts.

Tidy living for an afterthought, cleaning up

Throwing out he sacrilegious castle on another day

Not lying idle or just waiting for preferment

The argument is yours, so use it wisely.

Working on the Moon

Strewn rubbish and glass, at times, for safekeeping

Timed release of a sudden urge

Singular destruction of a common knowledge

No stomach for gratitude or other forms

Punshingly short for a lifetime of boredom.

The conspired function, laughed-at foibles

The aggrandsed gentleman not calling over angels

Left alone as required for the slightest of reasons

No guaranteed burnout cause to free the tide

Dropping by uninvited for minimal effect.

Not liked, or wanted, pariahon the doorstep

Wasting apposite time socialising or ever

Counting down the pathogen told by another

Solid guarantees of academia don’t suffice

Turning over exercise wasting its own time.

Being good, to point, redeems the hard members

Adding to names like a fool’s charter

Playing fair at close of day, redeems features

Knowing all at a certain age, gone to seed

Slinking the bilateral effort over equals.

The quitting rain in a corrugated shelter

Going home in peacetime, better or worse form

Promoted in sleeptime, drawing in excellence

Wasted journeys in fear of favour

Going mad again, having no manners.

Patricia Walsh was born in the parish of Burnfort, Co Cork,and educated at University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology. Her poetry has been published in Stony Thursday; Southword; Narrator International;  Trouvaille Review; Strukturrus; Seventh Quarry; Vox Galvia; The Quarryman; Brickplight, The Literatus, and Otherwise Engaged. She has already published a chapbook, titled Continuity Errors in 2010, and a novel, The Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014.  A further collection of poetry, titled Outstanding Balance, is scheduled for publication in early 2021. She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and is a regular attendee at the O Bheal poetry night in Cork city.

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