Without that old hill

Where we were born

We surely never would

Have thought to run

Downhill from the Rath

And the concrete water tower

Away from the rippling Bann

Where the kingfishers live

And would have dreamed

A single dream, not more.

Without that old hill

And the broken-mill stream

Where man-boy swam

With his collie friend

And the silver fish came

And we washed our hair

In the misty morning rain

Midst the dew drenched flowers

We would never have stretched

For what was out of reach. 

Without that old hill

And its ivy-clad tower

We would have kept to the flat

And known no foreign faces

But the ups and downs mean

That we grow long legs

In such rustic places

And feel vagrant itches

That no earthly power

Knows how to scratch.

Without that old hill

We would never have picked

Potatoes because we must

And fought back to back

For turf, them and us

Never felt the thirst

For the moon and stars

Fate takes us where it will

But no-one takes away our hill

Only we have that power. 

Life on that old hill

May not be easy

And the peg may not fit

But when you shrug

And turn your back

The red sun sets it face 

And blurs the backward path

So it glows once again

Though it never was like that

And will never be the same.

Sent from my iPhone

Bear hug

It's all I will need

To feel like

I belong to you

To squeeze out

My sadness

And to fill it

With love

K.j.a. (c) 2017

my poetry

is heartless, chews

like gravel on your teeth,

tastes like your mother,

the cornmeal on her hands

when she tied you up 

in a burlap sack and tried

to drown you in the creek.

i know you want to.

ask, what's it like

to lay down and die?

how many spiders do you swallow

in your sleep? how many

have you strung out, washed

and ironed to fit your piece? 

do girls like you still feel,

can i pinch your skin

until it bleeds, pretend your body

is for tourists and it's a ghost town

once i leave?

you will not take credit 

for the nothing that i am now,

even though we both know

i make a killing off of the pain.

you break us, i build colossus,

then redact your name.

Scorched

and

blackened,

the flames

of being

and circumstance

have charred me whole -

heart, body, and soul -

until all that remains

is a mound of ashes.

Temptation lies

in the form of release,

a longing to just let the wind

carry the cinders away,

fragments flying free

to go where

and as they please,

no cares or worries

grounding the me debris.

But

instead,

I choose

to rise,

to try and reform

the deadened dust,

to fuel the fire

that burned inside before,

creating a renewing flow

of life,

lava that I can shape,

molding it into

volcanic glass,

and emerge

with stronger wings,

sharp,

but beautiful,

unsteady,

but ready

to

soar.

I have never quite seen anything like it.

The skyline seems to spill over,

We are quiet, as we watch it graze the horizon, ignoring the rising moon-

We ignore it as well, only looking away from the ethereal sky to steal glances at each other.

You catch my eye, and smile.

It stays.

And so we lay,

Drinking in the warm summer breeze, watching the hazy sunset of wine and what seems to be liquid gold.

Your fingers brush against mind,

Soft, fleeting touches that (I keep hoping) won't end.

I see you through rose tinted glasses, and all I can think of,

All I want to think of, is- 

Forever.

A campfire roars in the distance,

We hear the lilting voices of children,

Laughing, whispering, singing their favorite songs-

Songs we learned all those years ago.

I barely remember, but you hum along, ever so softly.

You shift closer to me,

I can almost hear your heartbeat as your shoulder leans against mine.

The grass between our toes is warm as we try to bask in the already fading sun.

And very much like our summer sky, you fade away to the night fall. 

I have never quite seen anything like it.

A sudden caprice

of a guest and we meet

Under a wide screen TV

In an old Spanish street

And kick back Coladas

Next to some off duty lads

From the local police

Smiling and friendly

Even speaking English

While above on the screen

Two old enemies meet

To settle a timeless gripe.

Here they have never learned

The history of Bannockburn

Or heard the skirling pipes

Nor have they remarked

The famous thin red line

Behind which lions fight

But raised on true battles

Between ancient adversaries

Such as Real and Barca

They understand the passion

And at times the fury

That home nations ignite.

Behind us people hurry

And aficionados get sweary

Over some neglected chance

Nil all in the second half

As time begins to stretch

This battle looks set to last

Beyond ninety minutes of play

Then comes a flurry

Of free kicks in a hurry

It ends 2 all: what a laugh

It seems old rivalries never pass

Or even quietly fade away.

Don't fret my love because I'm loud 

But see that your soul does not linger 

between waves of sound and rolling laughter

but deep within the magnitude of silence

I constantly yearn for and draw myself in 

and right there 

at the back of my head 

and inside my heart

is where you shall find yourself 

complete

even with

Trembling hands 

and dilated pupils

with that smile of yours

filled with all the love 

that should have been granted you

and I'll hold you

and push your boundaries 

just enough for you

to tell me to get fucked 

I'll cherish 

your broken words 

and turn your shame 

into rays of sun 

because your heart is pure

and your mind as of a child 

crumbling 

and buckling 

breathing in snow 

for way to many miles 

I'll walk next to your staccato steps

and sing soft tunes in vibrato

so you'll remember

happiness 

and float steady in legato

Because deep inside my broken heart

there is a love that's more profound 

Where I'll embrace your mind in silence

and firmly build your grounds 

Finding out was the easy part

First she missed a month

And soon every morning began

With some sickness and vomiting

There were hugs and tears

When that little blue cross appeared

And they told their mothers and fathers

That soon they would hold

Their newborn grandchild

Time for an ultrasound came

And they decided

For the sake of choosing a name

They would like to know the gender

Her eyes filled with tears

As she hugged her husband

Both of them simply overjoyed

At the news that they were having

A little baby boy

Times passed and her belly grew

Along with the love she had

For this child she barely knew

But at week twenty~one

She knew something was wrong

The pitter patter of his feet

Ceased across the surface of her skin

She tried to have hope

But then the bleeding began

And her husband rushed to take her in

They searched for his heartbeat

That little melody that gave them life

But it appeared his song had come to an end

As if his life was connected to hers

She began to break down

And lose all refrain

Her husband held her

Struggling through his own tears

As she cried for the child

She would never see with her own eyes

And she cried

My God did she cry for him

The little boy

Who never existed at all

Dedicated to anyone who has ever lost a child. My prayers are with you. <3

It is not easy

to take a life

because, in all naturality,

a life does not wish

to be taken. A life festers

on it's blank slate, artificial

desires seated beside it. One on

one side, another on the other.

The life sits there and waits on

a train to pick them up and

bring them Elsewhere. The life

may speak on occasion with the desires

waiting with them to be

swept away on that filthy metro

littered with graffiti. But the life

will not accept a sudden mugging,

banger attempting to take

their wallet with a knife,

or a gun, or a something that

steals without warning. Thievery

is the worst sin. You steal a virgin's petals.

You steal a truth and replace it with a lie.

You steal a life, because

it's just there.

In this sparse land

By the ocean's side

Where falcons glean

And often famished

Spread their wings

Like vengeful angels appointed

To preside over some hellish Eden

What pleasure to watch

Them hover with a trembling shake

In the blue-most sky

Sifting the quick from the dead

Laying down the law

To the wily snakes

Like a feathered Dredd

Stooping often for prey unseen

Among the patches of green

And often rising disappointed

With empty claws or maw

Having found the mice innocent

And their consciences clean.

What a pleasure to find

Cruel beauty of a kind

And rough justice too

Where blue touches green.