Five Poems by Bridget Houlihan

 

Spring (I)

have you heard the sound

the bud opening in spring

has anyone known that noise

thousands of eruptions

it must be a cacophony

or a symphony

of the trees

too soft for the human ear

the noise of flesh

rips open

so that cells gasping and grabbing

for the sunlight can emerge

do they kick, cry, or scream?

perhaps, ask the chickadee what it sees

when no one else is around

 

Last Moments

 

Grinding inside, struggling to be free

slipping through blood and fleshy networks

through the dark space between organs

where bone dwells among fibres and tissues

now torn, 

now shattered.

 

There’s no path, just a final release

when body gives up its clenched grasp--

energy metamorphoses.

 

Gasps of lungs and flicker of fading eyes,

glazing            clouding         

 

slowly disconnecting

 

to space beyond. 

 

No       Time.

 

The colour between skin and the space inside,

is it not red?

No, it is black like the pavement, 

            not the void,

but transformation.

 

Gears are turning and circuits changing ad finis

quietly preparing an escape 

 

Limbs lifeless and senses subdued,

silence ad infinitum descends.

 

painless           motionless

Terminatus.

 

But unbound.

 

Corks

 

The sun whispers warm murmurs to the surface of the sea,

Much like a lover will in between cool sheets.

Patches of sunlight blind us as it bounces off of the white buildings 

winding down to the sandy beach.

 

Our dreams bob in our minds in this sunny place, 

like the cork pieces that float in our wine. 

It can’t be so bad in that glass, 

where you can only go up to the top

and float.

We want to be there, to skim over the depths below.

 

We can’t fail, but we do.

We don’t see that all the pieces of the cork 

get swallowed up whole,

or are left to linger at the bottom of the glass.

Fallen.

Empty.

Swollen.

 

Spring (II)

Spring rain

cold rain

drops on the dogwood flower

springs back like

space between heartbeats

silence waiting for sound

 

Shower of Leaves

the trees of the grove start their yearly dance

I can hear them rustle and see them twitch

with

anticipation

like a case of nerves that settles in, while waiting in the wings

an unknown metronome clicks

and

their performance starts

the first act you may miss, if not in your seat

as colours peep through the green

red, orange, yellow, brown

autumnal hues slide and mingle their way through the bushy boughs

more each day

the second act is quicker, an allegro pace

the rain and the wind accelerando the pace

quite a show

bravo

the ash leaves trickle down from their lofty heights

the dogwood's leaves pierce their shower de côté

flashes of crimson mixed with marigold

the maples bring their performers spinning and swaying perfectly

adding texture and stateliness to the dance

the torrent of leaves is brief, before the final movement

quiet, slow, lento

the leaves fall with

almost

not a sound

no encore

Bridget Houlihan - Bridget is a writer of short stories and poetry, who likes to dabble in photography and sketching. She is currently a content creator and editor.