Voice for the Wolf
-First person POV
Desolation, measured odds
wind cries through ravines
spring floods gain impetus,
echo
to the city markets
Eco banter
with Hedge funds.
Hunted fleeces long-ago
when men got mine put down
our odds of survival
were estimated
now rising heat and melted floes
leave out consent.
They are afraid to wear my
coat.
Going higher above the canopy
to my abode
I contemplate
centuries of extinction
it runs back to now.
Survive to fail is not my
call
fur traders have gone home
to their Gods
yet the axe persists.
It is a pen.
Whooshing eagles fly up
mountains
wavering in flight
like weary commuters going
home
their feathered wings carry
above the wrung-out
sedition of governments
uncoordinated’
with natures choirs.
Essay Poetry
Geranium
Pots and Keys
by Margaret Kiernan
Those days long gone of un-locked front doors and keys left
beneath the Geranium pots are now almost forgot. People would say they never
happened. Not in their country anyhow. They hadn’t a front door.
As children we did call unannounced to say howdy to our
unrelated Grandmothers at their houses. We brought them news. Asked questions.
Were noisy too.
Those days before families took their aged and placed them
with strangers. Taken out and placed in residential uncaring homes. No
outsiders allowed in to mingle without a hullabaloo of paperwork to say who you
are, checks and balances or police permit requirements. Are they locked in or
are we locked out? Can we get her out, that lady that sits forlorn beside the
window and looks at walkers move along the river path? Have her closer?
Remember the age of Myths and Druids. Living out silence
into grey stone walls. When people knew God from within. The memory of knowing
and its peace. Then bushes thrived, wedged into rocky soil. Beauty may have
started with nature, or not. Humankind being part of it, chipped into the
balance, arrived at Power, while ethics was gone on a sabbatical to somewhere.
Perhaps loaned out. Tensions on shifting grounds.
That piece of land
with road frontage became the demand. Raged about in brown envelopes and in the
road-train to Bally-go-lightly. Sheltered in the Corporate Tents.
Where had beauty
gone, why did it leave, now it was all curlicues, that bitter turned down mouth
without a smile. Politicians and small-bit players standing hours in the rain, queue to meet the dead, at least say
hello to the next of kin.
In 2019’ the plague arrived to assist the career politicians,
for then they could leave condolences on- line, keep the two-metre distance, no
handshakes. Before the vaccination card show-down. Before the leak of mica from
cement. Keep that distance, things are tumbling down.
History comes in layers, colour coded to separate.
Remembering remains a faulty thing. What gets left out, or what’s put in?
Days of climate retribution have arrived. Collaboration and
mutual assistance are the currency of survival. Butter mountains will drop
away, there will be those that say they never were such mountains. Butter found
in ancient bogs is well documented.
Housing estates on water-planes ought not be allowed those
directives are now saying. Stamped in official legalese and twenty- seven E U stars. The bogs are to be preserved. Water
must find its own level.
The sun will allow us
warm through. Storytellers will speak their truths. Glimpse the dawn and rest
our elbows upon a gate, gaze at pastures full of flowers. Take time to live,
reflect on who we are. The resistance has passed. Now the mood is let us get to
the task. The beat of the Heart never more pro-found.
Live Encounters Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Ekphrastic Review.
The Galway Review, Wildfire Words/Frosted Fire, The Irish Literary Times,
Tim Saunders Publishing, Black-lion Press/Cathal Bùi/Belcoo Poet,
The Blue Nib Literary Journal, Writing In a Woman’s Voice Journal.
Wilderness House Literary Review and Press.
Pendemic.ie Journal-covid nineteen collection,-
archived at University College Dublin.
Poet-Head.Wordpress.com.( Collection in Women Poet’s in Ireland, Live archive at The National Library of Ireland Dublin 2 and at University College Dublin, Bellfield, Dublin )
The Write Life Literary Magazine, Arc Magazine. India, Outlookindia.com,
Red Fern Review. Civic Leicester poetry, Corncrake Literary Magazine.
The Burrow Literary Journal & publishing press, Brave New World,
Visual Verse, Bath Flash Fiction, Dragonfly Haiku Poetry Journal.
The Daily Haiku, Sand Journal Magazine, Vox Galvia, Galway Advertiser broadsheet.
A New Ulster, Literary Press.
Margaret writes with Over the Edge on Thursdays advanced poetry workshop/reading group at Galway Arts Centre. Facilitated by Mr Kevin Higgins, Poet.
She is a member of Ox Mountain Poets, Sligo.
She is listed in the Index of Contemporary Women Poets
in Ireland, 2020.
She holds a Degree in Arts in Humanities in Advocacy from Sligo Institute of Technology.
An International Degree in Business Management, from
Sheffield University and Technological University of the Shannon.
Her background is in Advocacy in Human and Social
Rights. She is a Democracy activist.
Margaret has completed courses and workshops in writing, for prose and poetry. Tutors in poetry include,
Annemarie Ni Churainn, Martin Dyer, Colm Keegan,
Monica Corish, Moyra Donaldson, Anne McMaster, Noel Monahan (Master Series),
Kevin Higgins, Dr Arthur Broomfield.
Tutors in prose
includes, Jan Carson, Claire Allan, Anne McMaster, Conor Kostick, Carlo
Gebler, Malacai O’Doherty, Lynda Kirby, Ciara Doorley and, Susan Millar Dumars.
Margaret has four grown-up children. She lives in Westmeath with her dog Molly.
She paints in Watercolours and acrylics and has the
following interests. Nature, philosophy, astrology, gardening, music, spirituality,
archaeology, and historical heritage.
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