Three poems by Patricia Walsh
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.