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.