Three Poems


Patricia Walsh





Local Anaesthetic



An alchemist’s grasp on life

Faithfully departed on a derelict house

In earnest, too sharp to reproduce

With reason, or to abandon the same.


Granite counters by a solitary telephone

Pressing thorns where none intended, a feast

For the balls of a decrepit grand master

Woken up at night to perform.


Well-read, well intentioned.  Recounting the times

Puppetry dancing under an umbrage of tea

A plagiarized silence, muted over plans

For a world domination, far from realization.


A borrowed charging, nay computer

Cuts across a necessary would subjection

Valentine’s gifts donated in sincerity

Slitting throats in opposition to the dawn.


Knowing how we feel, a little number-witch

Broadcasts our failings over a wretched cough

Warm overnight, a tent over failings

Meted out in lieu of a proper house.


“The man is utterly insane”.  Nowhere man

Cuts through swathes of responsibility to live

On his own terms, a rebel independent

Queuing up for his dole on Tuesdays.





The Snake’s Skeleton



Not for the first time, you sidle away

Drunk on our mutual perfume.

Tidying the universe at great expense

Watching like cats for false moves.


If you ignore for long enough, it will go away

Weaving complication presenting glamor

Coming at great expense, as yet unpaid

Cups for breakfast conveniently ignored.


Not even clowns saw the joke.

Constant agony witnessing trouble in its path

Selling diaries with other entries intact

Tied with a shredded ribbon for show.


Heralding a future not short of trouble

Shutting down a system of true love

Affection is punished data singular venture

Opportunity to get money’s work falling apart.


Irrelevant miniatures deck the halls

Fromes by dying leaves for show

Empty tables disparaging the time of day

Spent glasses on the next table spark a recent past.


Waiting by shopfronts for the time to strike

Silent claims cheekily demark attentions

At unhold hours, weekends being free

To dust off ignominious debts, as demanded.


Enjoying dissolute credit, a borrowed purgatory

Certificate of excellence still awaiting

Saint’s holy whiskey renting the moment

Ram-raiding Victorian buildings for the course.


Credit where credit is due.  Broadband arguments

Exercise extortion in subtle call center forays

Doing a job, as is their requirement

God-given scourges best endured.





The Fine Art of Falling Apart



We were never lovers,

Picking apart moments with a fine tooth comb,

A birthright of voice recognition

Interrupted by pleasantries unsolved

Rebuffs another gauntlet to run.


Everyone knows your business

Punishment for wrong feeling, riding again

Nightlights catching fire, taking care

On what starts, then stays, glorious revolution.


Sightseeing is blocked, first by unequals

Warmer outside than in, sport while we may

Some voice diatribes whistles for form

Arrival no more than punctuation

A roundabout tour is the cherry on the cake.


Under the paths lie all our snares.

Friction being verbal, a losing cause

Surveying a distance no longer relevant

Icy sleep in doorways as a just reward.


Cutting across consumption, a slow ember

Immorality a close second, a kiss bought and sold

Knowing glances, no entry, destroying my fantasy

Turning up where not wanted, we a sleeping shame

Missive attacks are too heavy for some.









Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland.  Her works include a poetry collection entitled Continuity Errors (Lapwing Publications, 2010), and two novels, The Quest for Lost Eire (2014), and In The Days of Ford Cortina (2021).  She’s been published in a variety of journals in print and online. 



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