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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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.
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.
