Watch the Quiet Ones

There are things never said causing oblivion
Access to information stalling ambition,
Sameness in form a blinding difference
Not ordinarily a problem, but still kissing death.

Some public kiss eats my soul
Enough to dissolve trust in a hare’s eye
Burning over coffee a necessary trick
Dispose with necessity, surviving letters.

Tying up hair in a predictable spancel
Rebuffing concern over a light lunch
Theories of disposition not ringing true
Packing sweetness is a hypocritical mass.

Picking apart decorum to the last degree
In no company do I raise my height
Black serviettes furnish the belated sorrow
A sly association dissolving the soul.

Criminal cliques, deluding God,
The road to perdition calling the shots
The princess stripped of her entourage
Deservedly alone for a minor crime.

Infused with good deeds, compensate for demeanor
Exclusion zones reign supreme across the board.
Waiting for star turns singing a praise
The quiet ones plot again for aggrandizement.
 


Sing Before Sung

An artist to regimentary love looms large
Taking random lives in due course
A poet’s sweat gone before bedtime
The young king wishes for wisdom,
A fitting climax for the stage hand.

Not seeing that far is a curse to savor
Sequins before substance tighten the screws
Of satisfied failure, a hypocrisy burned,
Loving the weather while you can
Traveling the scorched earth dream.
	
Stripped to the waist, a boy with principles
With the exact change and a illicit prescription
His discourse is brief, phoning the phonies
No one getting hurt in the course of the day
Sweet failures mourn the last song.

Acrylic eaten quickly by unholy punters
An artist unheard is calling the shots
Acres of beauty for sale, anonymous wishes
Burn with perdition, fighting for a soul
Taking apart roles to expose the carcass.

Justifying desolation before it is sought
Asking for grief before consummation
the roll calls for gridlock of another’s wits
and what is unsaid, playing with fire
and dancing on another’s head.
 


Hypochoristic

He twists his blade like a remembered kiss
Being made up to a parody of likeness
Attention deflected to a newish fad.

Choosing a clachan over history,
Grinded into heartbreak a savage conclusion
Weeping in public is a hard option.

Some white boy riot simplifies things.
People changing to vicissitudes of embarrassment
Avoidance strategy is a necessary string of events.

Feasting on the street not a good thing
Gathering dishes not an historic task
Sarcasm where intended, a shame of light.

Drawing on tradition edging two souls
Wanting to be a best friend stalls acceptance
Disbelief at parties in another block.

Political solution is on his side
Gathering an importance a done deal
All getting hurt at the end of the present.

Taking a live is the only  possibility at hand
Weeping with pain traveling upstream
Watching over a dangerous cause.

Knowing pain before it is etched
Conceding defeat in a public stare
Filtered through a facetious quip.

Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland.  To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals.  She has also published another novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.