Five Poems by Daniel P. Stokes

 

     

THROUGH A WINDOW

A ship on the horizon

moves to Malaga

or Marabella

or some such place

upon a mission.

Each day brings changes:

loading, sailing, berthing,

swell or calm.

It has direction,

serves a purpose,

proves its worth.

 

But come the day it’s

deemed unfit for sea

and everything of use

is stripped for salvage

will it also be off-loaded

at an empty dock

and left to rot.             

 

 

NIGHT CHOICE

 

The apple boughs were shaded,

      yard debris fed the roots,

she found on Thursday morning

       a single blighted fruit 

 

dangling in the dawn haze,

        impassive.  Time on time

will failed his aspirations

        till he wouldn't strive again. 

 

and aimless, weary waiting for

        the peace when fruit is picked,

he helped a zephyr swing him

         and stretch his manic neck. 

 

THIS   MORNING 

 

The suspicion you intuit

what I’m thinking

may be whimsy,

but this morning

when I muttered  

flesh was covered bone

without a purpose,

you didn't start

or smile. 

 

 

The Sugar Mill

 

The ruins you can’t help notice as you pass,

the mill perching on a hill half-way to Maro,

today’s our target. It’s not, mind you,

a spot you’d travel far to photo.

The dirt-track, pocked with puddles                                            

after last night’s thunder,

skirts scrub that harbours (hides?)                            

amorphous workshops.

We hug the hedge to let a van wedge by

and, no surprise, we get our feet mucked.

But who’d suppose up here they’d hang                              

a gate upon a crumbling wall 

then lock it. Not curious                                                                             

enough to climb, we concede                                                                                                                                

scanning from the ditch fulfils our quest.

                                  

Presuming that the path will horseshoe         

we swing downwards. A pepper poking.                               

from a canvas greenhouse -                                                

no one’s looking – finds your bag.                                    

Road reached, relieved, we’re on another mission -                    

hotfoot home before the rain resumes.                                             

“Lárgate, chucho!” A dog, tail under,                                   

scuttles from a drive in our direction,                                 

skulks onto the road as we approach                               

and arcs behind us. You take a biscuit                          

from your bag and proffer. She shies                         

as from a stone. Overtly,                                                

you place it on the pavement

and retreat. Hunger drags her slouching                                           

almost half-way. She sniffs apart                                

and, slightly limping, cringes back.                          

We move on with the notion                                

she might follow, but when I turn again                                                 

she’s nowhere to be seen.

                                                              

Though we maintain the pace,                                                       

the rain outruns us.  Grabbling                                         

with your hood, you murmur,                                                                        

“That creature, more than likely,                                    

has no shelter.”  I shrug,

“Millions suffer worse,”                                          

and quicken stride but can’t escape                                   

the scene reruns in sepia

nor the suspicion had I allayed it                            

I’d have no need                                                          

to ply it into verse.

Separate Dreams 

 

A kiss upon the cheek. I hear the door close.                                 

Footsteps crunch the gravel to the gate.                 

I hang my apron on the door hook                                                        

and bring a glass of Chablis to the couch.              

 

Knowing, as a girl, I had potential                                      

sufficed me. To pursue the perks                              

it promised, too much bother.                                            

Yet waited, as of right, for them to show.                            

Dreams, unlike goals, are fate’s                                                                     

to fashion. And, if they’re not,                                                                                      

we’re spared the effort to employ them,                            

free, when fancy takes us,                                                

to envision them fulfilled.                                           

                 

                         **

                                                                                         

Tonight’s contentious twaddle

is gay marriage. Queried,       

I shrug, as if it’s beyond me, unfold

a borrowed Herald and reorder.                                          

When I go home at half past nine                               

I’ll boil the kettle and watch                                           

whatever she is watching on the box.                                

Then go to bed together and,                                                        ,  

back to back, dream separate dreams                               

that neither needs to share.                                           

 

                                                                

                                                                

 

Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A, Canada and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes. He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London and at the Edinburgh Festival.