Three Poems by Tony McMahon

 

Space Invaders

Coin slot empty,

still I play on.

Frantically pressing the red button,

sweat slithers across the joystick,

like wet mackerel.

 

I ponder what it would be like to be

No longer chased by a hungry alien,

teeth penetrating through the screen,

rising like an alligator in a Florida swamp.

 

I play on.

Even though the threat has gone,

a blank screen provides little comfort. 

 

 

The bus stop

Stood stationary at the bus stop,

with shackled feet.

Solar plexus vibrating in beat with

the heart.

Sweat sticking to the upper lip,

failing to dry,

guided by a broken egg timer.

 

A pocketful of pence dangles,

as hands leave the pocket.

Waiting for the doors to open.

Thoughts arrive like scud missiles,

how many will detonate?

 

Eyes meet with the bus driver,

he looks away as the bus doors close

and the bus drives away.

Passengers stare out of the window,

viewing their own world.

 

Stood at the bus stop,

 a 5 minute wait,

 for the next bus. 

 

 

O’Meara’s pint

An overflowing glass with cream dribbling.

Settling, as colours become divided and defined.

O’Meara huddled in the furthermost part of the bar.

He’s takes a sip.

A cream coloured moustache forms

over protruding white hairs on his tired skin. 

 

A Seanchai in a tiny part of north London,

he’s been sat daily in the bar for 50 years.

He talks of ration books and remittance

that the family farm needed.

Of priests and nuns who watched their flock

arrive freshly off the boat.

Digging holes in each borough of London

and which one his heart found a home in.

Letters home that dwindled over the years,

as ink blot was replaced by headstones. 

 

The pint dwindles to white cloud;

he contemplates returning home

to the black mould which has formed above his bed,

believing his youthful dreams of a pocket full

of the Queens head are gone. 

 

Looking out at the empty seats, that increasingly

provides his audience,

he recalls Cronin from Cork and Clancy from Clare,

who enjoyed a pint and the craic.

When he shuts his eyes he can see them sat with

a pint listening intently,

he ponders briefly

what would happen if he never opened his eyes.

Tony McMahon is a published poet from Islington in London who is of Irish descent. Tony enjoys writing about a number of subjects, notably identity and the Irish diaspora.