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Niamh

Poetry

Earth song

I hear the music

not with my ears

but through

the soles of my feet

 

I feel the earth beat

as it changes with time

each season a movement

my life a symphony

 

I am the second violin

to your first,

together we move

in tune

in sync

 

We wait for the orchestra

to join in

to become one body

of song

 

we can heal

the world

if we can all play

the same notes

 

 

© Niamh Corcoran   9/11/2012

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In the dark

I hear steps behind me,

soft soled creeping slowly closer,

then dropping away

just like you did in our life

 

playing on my fears and emotions

a Chinese water torture

of anger and dread

denial and disbelief

 

even then I knew the truth

but hardly dared believe,

now I am moving on

breaking slowly free

but still your footsteps echo

 

long into the night

cutting into my sleep

a cry before dawn

 

©  Niamh Corcoran 31/1/2016

 

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

I want you…

to see me

not as a body ripe for

harvesting

but as moonlight

an unwavering glow

 

no, not the moon

for she waxes and wanes

but the steadiness

of the sun

a constant

 

not reliable or

responsible

but prone to bursts

of fire

 

by times hidden

yet you know she is there.

 

To be your sunlight,

to warm you

guide you

to have you

seek me.

 

© Niamh 8/11/2011

Gone

In the bright noon sun,

I sensed the warmth of you next to me.

I needed someone to validate me

I grasped your love with both hands

And threw myself into the whirlpool.

 

As the sun sank, I realised

I expected too much of you.

I thought you could set me free.

Now I know that was too much to ask,

That love for another is not what I need

But to learn to love me.

 

In the shadows of night I can see

That it was never meant to be

You were nothing but a fantasy.

The pedestal on which you stood

Slowly crumbling as time went by.

 

I stand alone, unloved, unworthy

There was no pedestal designed for me.

As the morning dawns I wonder,

If I could feel your love again

Would it change how I feel about me?

 

 

© Niamh Corcoran 29/05/2011

Ghosts of the past

I sit surrounded by ghosts from the past

old chests of drawers, desks and shelves,

age has rendered them useless

yet they take up space in my house.

Occasional tables with legs too spindly

to bear any weight, dotted around,

paintings of scenes I do not recognise,

portraits of people I do not know,

stacked behind doors and cupboards

because there is no more wall.

Past lives lived and forgotten,

yet they take up so much of my life

they are not of my past, my history,

but they are here to stay

as another cannot let go

of these meaningless things,

they have passed for years

an unbroken chain through a family

and ended up with me here.

I feel these ghosts looking at me

disparagingly, disapprovingly,

for I do not share their values,

their lifestyle, their pasts

I am from a different time and place

I have no need of them or their things.

I wish to live in the present

uncluttered, unhindered, free,

yet someone important to me

clings like an anemone to a rock

to the ghosts of his past.

Luck

if luck were sandy beach

would you  take just a grain,

or a bucketful?

build a castle to share

or a moat to keep

others and the sea at bay

 

if luck were a lawn

would  you take just a blade

or a handful?

let it grow tall and free

or mow it

so others could have less

 

if luck were stars in the sky

would you take a small one,

or perhaps the sun?

put it in a window to

to light the way

or hide it

so others live in the dark.

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Leaving

A trembling hand clutches a drooping white rose,
as if the thorns might stem the tears
and roll back fleeting years.
They stand tall and proud, amid memories
of the day they first went through that door
brand new uniforms, tiny shiny shoes,
book bags, packed lunches a novelty
waiting anxiously at the gate
hoping to see a smiling face
to hear tales of learning and friends.

hearing their voices loud and deep
as reflections, memories and prayers are read
clutching hard, fighting now, the years are gone,
today they will walk through gates
festooned with balloons and streamers,
putting on a brave face to save their embarrassment,
we cheer and clap them out,
a new chapter in life, a new step,
they are ready, eager to be on their way
but mother deep her in heart wishes they could stay.

 

By Niamh Corcoran, Jul 13 2012 4:53PM

This was written on the day my youngest left Primary School. Twelve years I had been going to that gate  morning and evening and now it was over, never again would I stand at a school gate waiting for my child.

 

 

 

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