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Best Poems Written by Liz Walsh

Below are the all-time best Liz Walsh poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Liz Walsh Poem

Silence 2

Still - I sit in the silence
Thoughts slowing
Colour warming from pale yellows to cadmium reds
Wonderful sunsets happening gently
Muscles relax into soft blue-green
Sweet clean smells assail my nostrils
Silken cords unloose my spine
A burst of joy filters through my body
Senses heightened
I rejoice

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To Be Silly With-

I would love to swim to the 'Guilamine' in the skin
Or dance on a carpet of sheer pleasure
I might like an ice-cream cone on the way
Topped with pink and golden treasure.
I would enjoy a drink made of sparkles
That might light up with yellow-red magic
My dreary grey-blue life – and then
I would anticipate with joy an umbrella
Made of silk and maidenhair fern
To be silly with –

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Dreaming On a Diet

Raspberries
Young, tender and succulent
Smothered in cream
Yellow fluffy omelets 
Garnished with herbs 
Eve's pudding bathing in custard
- temptingly -
Mushroom risotto
-a gourmet delight -
Served with green salad
plus chips and icecream!
A glass of white wine - Pinot Grigio
slightly chilled
- decadence -
Madness sets in - slowly
I imagine how happy I'll be when I'm slim
A young flirty lover
With lips made of chocolate
Just waiting for kissing
Delicious and sweet
Courting my taste buds
- disgracefully -

Details | Liz Walsh Poem

A Little Poem On 'Getting Older' - Celebrating Creativity In 'Old Age'

The sea is rough and I never learned to swim
So I won't push the boat out
I won't push the boat out
I shall stay on shore and have a feast
Of delicious happy thoughts and plans
For treats and pleasures coloured pink
With my extraordinary friends and swap stories
About how we survived so far and feel proud.
Then maybe we shall play some cards or paint a picture
Perhaps sing a song filled with nostalgia and cry while
We celebrate each other with toasts made of sparkles
And effervesse with happy feelings and love for each other!

Details | Liz Walsh Poem

The Bookcase

In the sitting room by the wall stands
Great Grandfather's pride and joy
The glass fronted mahogany bookcase
Scratched and worn, but still majestic
Housing beautiful old books
The choices of generations past
A set of Shakespeare Plays, leather bound
'Great Short Stories of the World' and
'The Lost World of the Kalahari'
Books on Botany and even Hypnosis
With Classics to improve the mind
Much thumbed dictionaries and a big red Atlas
Pictures of exotic places
Preserved
Stale smell add to the magic
For the curious child.

Details | Liz Walsh Poem

Regret 3that I Didn'T Get To Know Freddie Dunlop Better

That I didn’t get to know Freddie Dunlop better
Defiant  mop of thick white hair - a Thurles face
Slim photographer - single lady – a leviathan in her time
Pictured my youth - talked to me as a person
Wore large pink hats with style and verve
An opinion on every topic - varnished nails her insignia
Morris Minor mirror polished - a smiling face
Masking latest mischief - rascal laughter burbling up
I knew her measure - I knew her loneliness
Not enough to let me help her - defensive joking
Her personal armour – her way of coping

Details | Liz Walsh Poem

Seaside Memories

Modest swimsuits, bathing boxes
 White-blue flesh ice cold
Scratchy towels, sandy sandwiches
 Pots of tea being sold
Foxford blankets, picnic baskets – 
A donkey ride on the strand
Flowery summer frocks, mischief brimming 
 A practical joke being planned 

Hesitant breast strokes – high pitched laughter
 Terror, delight ‘the cold’! -
Sunburn, windburn, scalded skin – 
‘You’ll remember this when you are old’
 Your mother is calling ‘the picnic is ready’
 ‘I’ll be there in a minute’, you say.
As you dive down again under – 
The sea bed to plunder -
‘There is treasure down there, Mam’ you say!’

Landladies’ rules, pubs with high stools
‘– A large bottle, sir, if you please -
And may be a chaser?’ ‘You are a disgrace, sir -
The night will blow away with the breeze’.
A day at the races, smiles on mens’ faces,
Jingles in pockets, dinner in ‘Rocketts’ -
 A beer and a fag, a joke and a drag – 
‘This is grand, Sir!’
   
Which horse do you fancy – I think Mary Nancy
Called after his missus – and just as delicious
‘A winner for sure, sir
 And what are you bettin’?  Think of what you’ll be gettin’
When you win on the jackpot –
 It is certain, sir!’
 
Sea-side rock plastic,
 Coloured windmills fantastic
Naughty postcards to be hidden
 – Their content forbidden, 
By your mother – 

The day’s nearly over – 
You are tired – you’ll recover
For a night at the amusements – you have one and twopence
Clean clothes, polished shoes and a song.

Details | Liz Walsh Poem

Anna Redmond

Anna Redmond put her own death in the Irish Independent as a mischief - or maybe ‘a cry 
for help’.  She married into Mr. Webster’s hotel and worked there slave-like.  Her beautiful 
young face, her red hair streaming, cheekily curling, her laughter eyes sad - her husband, 
boyishly drinking all the profits. They said she suffered from her nerves!  They said no 
wonder Tommy drank the way he did!  They always referred to her as she – she was a bit 
wild, she didn’t fit in, he could have done better for himself – no wonder he hit her. Her red 
hair dulled in a mental hospital. Anna Redmond, full of promise, beautiful and lively had her 
youthful exuberance quelled by life’s circumstances.

Details | Liz Walsh Poem

The Happiest Day of My Life

When I floated on air with exuberance
And danced to the music of fun
When I smelled the blue of the mountain
And painted a masterpiece 'in one'
When draped in silk and pink velvet
I climbed up a steeple of joy
When I swam in cold of the ocean
And sang him his first lullaby.

Details | Liz Walsh Poem

Waiting For the Apology -

I regret the anguish that I suffered from the church
No comfort for the questioner no solace for the lost
With rules and hypocrisy engrained in the folds
Of vestments golden -  
I regret the bigotry of those times - no mercy for the sinner
The smell of incense sweat and fear
Garbled mutterings paying dear 
Saving souls from extra torture
Hiding secrets from the world
Little infants buried outside little girls incarcerated
In the laundries of the Magdalen – starching sheets of rich mens’ linen
Feeling guilty for existing – 
No eyes meet mine
To tell the sorrow of their lives