The Murder of Youth
Remember last year?
When eighteen flames
Quivered over your name,
Scribed in icing, it was,
Now, here we stand, heads bowed
As the driving rain beats on your coffin,
Can’t understand a ’cause’
Your murder; sees you as nothing
More than a way to put their name on some sods.
Cross-hairs, knit grasses into green,
Your x-ray, unseen,
A naked blush of blue,
Sunburnt shadows flee
To autumn’s burning trees,
Shapes shift to guises struggling under guns,
You snatch a round,
Watch it sink without a sound,
Death smiles, another brother found.
Birth Of Borders
Spring jewelled from Dónairt’s mossy crown,
Winter’s bloom drowned neath a grassy gown,
These meadows know no bound, nor forest fear the fence, dug into ground,
It scars not earth,
But scars those minds behind the cursed
Birth of borders:
Their lines disordered;
Unlike the graves; those lines of lives, wasted.
A furnace lies behind your eyes,
Its heat, a vigil in your hand,
Long after the last scream dies,
You, who cast blood on this land,
Fasten your eyes on the mourning Sky.
Each star: a wake.
In your mouth the Eucharist
Is nothing more than Semtex,
Death: the sunrise of your morning.
A Lesson In Murder
Like a soundless rain,
Smash on barren ground,
As songs of thunder
Thump the air with carrion
Fists, gnarled, bare,
A brutal brush unfurls
Palettes of crimson
Clouds that hurl
Themselves into the mirror
Of a child’s eye,
Shackle dream’s rise
To nightmare’s grinning guise.
A collection of my is poetry available at: