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A selection from |
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Storm of Words |
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by Mike Byrne |
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The Anguished Man |
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He could not take it any more |
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but wanted only to exist |
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feeling neither love nor pain |
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But still he let his anguish pour |
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on every one he ever loved, or kissed, |
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and all in vain. |
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Bruised, bleeding, battered, sore, |
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dejected; lost in a deep untouching mist |
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that shielded him, and kept him sane. |
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No-one ever understood that core |
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of truth, that he could not resist |
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the will to die, to live |
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And so he would not, any more |
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that false-truth ever twist: |
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but say he had no more to give. |
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Storm of Words |
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I cry aloud and curse my pallid page |
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no words I write, but slowly turn to rage, |
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as barren, bleak and silent as the grave. |
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Upon the stormy ocean of my mind |
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from pounding waves of thought no rest I find, |
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but drowning words that I can scarcely save. |
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Then as the sun deserts the dying day, |
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my page, my mind, is as the evening, grey; |
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and quiet comes a calm and peaceful bliss: |
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As words flow freely from my mind, my pen |
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too quickly fills my empty page, and then, |
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what melancholy purpose now is this? |
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How strange it is, how odd, and yet so right |
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that words that hid by day, be ever bold at night. |
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Stars |
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Embedded in a blackened sky |
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discarded reminders |
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of long-dead, far-off fires; |
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sparks that slowly dissipate |
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pale streams of living light. |
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Mark that spot; that grave |
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from where they |
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shed their life’s existence |
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to illuminate |
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what is no longer there. |
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But still my eyes believe in stars, |
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whose passing light I see |
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and fear to contemplate. |
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Mo Grá Thu |
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Like sunshine after April showers, |
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she comes to me, |
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fresh and bright |
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as the May blossom I gave her. |
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Sweet-scented |
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like the moonlit air |
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by the gently flowing Feale, |
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where a lonely heron waits |
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like a broken heart |
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for healing, |
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her gentle voice |
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and sweet words |
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sigh like the soft wind |
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and fill my empty heart |
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with her gift of love. |
