The Poisoned Bride
Reciting the riot act, its first
step backwards
The impression of punishment lingers
fine
Rotted in money, the keepsakes
infernal
Occupation in hearsay, having heard
enough
The catchcry of failure blaming
others.
Crying out the emperor, rolling in
the fresh
Loving where none right, rummaging
in malice
Rubbed in till it bleeds,
ambidextrous argument
Holding the nerve until absent
notice
Wanting too much, resigned to the
shelf.
Needing feelings too, or at least,
some sentiment
Fighting for a full name is
certainly not the answer
Rummaging into debt a time rescinded
Aborting for convenience a whistled
right
Feelings on both sides unwon,
defeated.
The blinded pantomime, growing into
a better shape
Parking the likelihood of a
matrimonial disease
Philosophical retirement won't do a
disservice
Working into disturbances, feeling
pretty good
Scribbling at night to uncover the
righteous flaw.
Longing for deliverance, meted all
year round
Corrosive dissention rises above the
acrostic
Stalling at preference, marriage
co-starred
The next violin swings on its
hallowed hours
Music for the denouement, a cause less likely.
Recyclable
Wanting to be caught out, not
helping itself
Not able to, screeching the brakes
supreme
The solemn sunlight courses through
wind-ups
The settled matter relieved of its
costly duties
Stripped of this privilege, fitting
in obscurity
The bated anticipation goes forth
like a lamb.
Growing into spite the innumerable
cashier
More plastic than fish a scourged
reality
Minding nets, waiting for the Lord
to assuage them
None being indispensable, got up and
left
A rock on the church to stand on
gracefully
Looking back not fit for glory, as
advised.
Looking out for signs, close cousin
of information
Gotten away to the bitter end,
joyously sick,
The unnerved flirting over extreme
drinks
Revealed by the gift, you strain at
intellect
Slipping through frosted windows
from the outside
Desperate hours covering a multitude
of sins.
The world is already on fire,
solitarily said
A song for the deaf in an attentive
episode
Where the next meal is coming from,
cannibalised for food
The employed self-esteem runs foul
of tenacity
The pet-name riots through speed and
efficiency
The average bolt-hole on a capsized entity.
The
Generous Gene
Not always writing, at the end of a
smart phone
Hijacking the email at a diffident
time
Cracked for marrow, siphoning the
bone
Future queens of content, poisoning
conversation
Cutting through silk, mumbling on
the quiet.
This mark is good for you, like it
or otherwise
Picking out husband's on a father's
free will,
The essential bowing down to the
break of dusk
The hungry minion basis in its own
cold
Hitting gibes at the less fortunate,
a date sealed.
What to give for another
leeway! This substance abuse,
Flying in your own hands above a
universal slob,
To cease and desist from the
potential snowflakes
Crying out scandal, at least before
time
Inferno in a heart wiping out
transgression.
A place for the self-absorbed, true,
it is,
Right time for repentance, paying
through the nose,
Growing in stately fear, a port in a
storm
Home truths of hell measuring
precious deeds
Expelled at midnight through the
wedding feast.
Rippling through good, the stately
mansions bleating
Gone through sarcasm in a classroom
brawl
Lies and conjectures roving through
desertion
Falling in hate a growth more than
cancer burns
Not returning ever, evermore aged
and foolish.
Patricia Walsh was born in the parish of Mourneabbey, in north Co Cork,and educated at University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology in 2000. Her poetry has been published in Stony Thursday; Southword; Too Well Away Journal; New Wasteland Magazine; Quail Bell Magazine; The Poetry Collective; Quiver Review; Blazevox Magazine; and The Rational Creature.
She has already published a chapbook, titled Continuity Errors in 2010, and a novel, The Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014. She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and a further novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina will be published in late 2021.
It would be invidious to have to pick out a favourite from amongst these 3 marvellous works.But it's been kind of a rule of thumb of mine when it comes to reading the work of another Poet, if I wish that I too had created such couplings of words - as in one very small instance- "blinded pantomime" and there are so many more that I simply adore after the first reading;then that's my kind of a Poet and my kind of poetry.
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