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Niamh

Poetry

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Writing

When love is not love…

I am watching you

and everything you do

keeping careful note

of the way you move,

the clothes you wear

the way you do your hair

which colours you favour

the foods you choose

pretending I love you

that I’m in awe of you

 

you lap up each compliment

growing more trusting

and vulnerable with

every passing day

unaware that I am building

an ammunition store

 

I’ll use your trust and secrets

to diminish you, crush you

for I fear you, your strength,

generosity and ability to love

and that which scares me

must be destroyed.

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Stay with with me

Stay and hold me

so I can feel

your breath

cool on my cheek

your heartbeat

close to mine

the steadiness

of your feet

on the earth

if you let me go

or take your eyes

off me for a second

I am afraid

the wind of life

will seize me

in a frenzied whirl

and I may never

find my way home.

 

©Niamh Corcoran

 

 

Mother…

Today, I curl up

in a ball and cry,

for my children

slowly destroying me

 

with pollution, plastic

and pesticides

they cut forests

and burn grasslands

 

chase the animals,

they have not

hunted and killed,

from their homes

 

yet I continue to

feed them, provide

water and shelter

air to breathe

 

in the hope that

they will learn

to value

my magnificence

The Politician

On silver wings of desperation

she flees,

the knife in her hand drips

a Hansel and Gretel trail

that any ordinary man could find

 

the unicorn dips his head

as she passes

he has no wish to bear

witness to the crime

what he does not see…

 

the fairies in the glade

following her

flit from tree to tree

their incessant chatter

like birdsong

 

cover her footsteps

so none hear her pass

complicit in death

as in life they claim

to value freedom.

 

 

©Niamh Corcoran

Heart Whispers

Your words,

feather light

barely heard

cut deep

and changed my life

 

 

©Niamh Corcoran

 

 

Fairy tales…

fairy tales aren’t lies

but sugar-coated truths

we cannot bear to hear

 

to allow reality to sink in

is to float on a paper raft

in a raging sea

 

too many loose ends

not enough ribbon to tie them

only bedraggled raffia

 

in multi-coloured knots

that catch on rocks –

keep them floating

 

these dreams we seize

to bolster our days

turn to drizzle at dusk

 

 

© Niamh Corcoran 4/12/2013

The Voice

Two today, both with the same title, the first written on the 27 April 2012, the second written earlier this year. I had forgotten about the first one and only found it as I couldn’t remember where I’d saved the recent one and a search on my computer threw both of them up. I thought I’d share both as it is a good indication of how far I have journeyed in the last few years and I figure it might give those of who read my site and may be suffering from depression or anxiety hope that time does heal. Everything changes with time, hang in there. ❤

The Voice

Today, I cannot silence the voice,

nor the constant drumbeat

accompanying it,

that reverberates through

my every bone

 

The voice that tells me

I am no good,

The constant beat,

You are useless, useless, useless

an endless track.

 

The voice will not be quelled,

Silence is its power;

I cannot outrun it

for the beat

matches each and every step.

 

The voice will not be drowned

out by music,

I turn the volume up

’til my ears bleed

it cannot override the beat.

 

The voice accompanies me

night and day,

even as I sleep

the drumbeat

relentless in it desire

to destroy.

© Niamh 27/04/12

 

The Voice 

 

A whisper of moments past

a reminder of a time, a place

I thought I was stuck

a loop, a beat,  once unending

but now silenced

even in the night

 

I hear the birds sing,

the rain, and rustle of leaves,

the hum of the earth

beneath my feet,

the pulse of joy

in my heart

 

and I know I am free.

 

The voice that berated

criticised and

almost destroyed

was not mine

but memories of

words spoken

 

to me, of me

that sunk in

and became my truth

held me prisoner

its power washed away

by gentle words of love

 

that set me free.

 

© Niamh 19/01/19

I am

The pellucid promise of a  sunny future

turns opaque in a mist of silence

and carefully timed thrusts

screams stuttered to a halt

by a look, a smirk, a knowing

that you’re caught as surely

as a noose around your neck,

the gold band you wore so proudly

the children you love so deeply

bind you to your jailer as he waltzes

upon a trap he believes unbreakable

humming a tune only he can hear

deaf to all but his own words, blinded

by his overgrown ego; he is safe

does not notice the subtle changes

that will break the walls trapping you

he has stolen your voice claims your

body as his own but not your soul nor

the strength of spirit that will set you

free

The Prize

when the price becomes too high

the knife edge seems sharper

the blade cuts deeper, each wound

bleeds brighter, longer

 

the noose tightens, suffocates

the world turns a nauseous

shade of blue, each breath stabs

even as it grasps

 

the lifeline dangles just out of reach,

held aloft by your raw and bitter

laughter, your foot on my throat

stamps and

 

blackness takes hold,

your apologies with your tears

fall like blood drops

to a sanitised floor

 

I watch through swollen eyes

as you are led away

between two policewomen

with well-practised ennui

 

a nurse fiddles with a drip

pats my hand in sympathy

tells me you will  cause

no more trouble

 

but I know better

you will chase me down

the prize is not in the having

but in never letting go.

 

© Niamh  20/01/2015

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