Best Waterford Poems
In January 2007 the fishing trawler, 'Pere Charles'was lost off Dunmore East. Co Waterford,
Ireland, with the loss of five fishermen. I knew four of them, two very well.
Pere Charles
Soft water all quiet
Bubbles of air take last breath
Five souls bid goodbye
Flowing Music
White water tinkling
Exudes musical moments
Hear a perfect peace
Soft Power
Soft flowing water
Creates valley and canyon
Kisses ocean, free
Moonlight crying on white linen, fingering
lace curtains, glancing apprehensively
at distorted reflections peeping
through Waterford crystal
framed in silver,
a silence
almost apologetic
creeping through the room,
trying hard not to disturb
the softly sleeping gloom.
Melting gently through my bedroom wall,
wind chimes, barely heard
bamboo sighs,
Geisha
whispered words
that penetrate my sleep
with velvet promises from far away,
I feel their kiss upon my eyes
after the waking of the dawn
before the night wind dies.
Liquid noises scattered on the day
nudge my slumber, quietly
taking my hand,
waiting
for my eyes to see
through milky listed windows,
barely discernible visions,
fading remnants of the night
retreating shadows settled down
to sleep away the light...
200th anniversary of the sinking of The Seahorse with the loss of 363 lives at Tramore in Waterford Ireland. (Jan 30th 1816)..Like so many places around Ireland a plaque marks the tragedy to remember the lost souls and their families.
This beautiful island that to me is my home,
With scenery to gasp at as you travel and roam.
Yet its beauty can be dangerous especially the sea,
For an island it is and its isolation makes you feel free.
But sadness and tragedy looms between the tides,
It makes no distinction to races, it never takes sides.
Each lost too many lives, to many missing over the years.
The Leinster, Lusitania, The Seahorse, names written in tears.
We remember them all on plaques displayed with pride
For families to visit, to reminisce, no tears need hide.
Wreaths laid on waves, pipers lament the fresh air
All signs that we remember, all signs that we care.
We welcome back the families and share their pain
Our hopes are to bring closure to all that remain.
We never forget, as a life is too precious to dismiss.
When we look to the sea we always remember this.
Remember the sailors, soldiers, families and fishermen.
Who, lose their lives so tragically time and again,
A place to visit, to share the pain, to recite a prayer,
As we show the still suffering, we will always care.
I wanted to keep you alive,
in the small waterford bud vase
near our bed,
the one the minister spoke of,
on our wedding day.
There was always a rosebud in the vase,
you'de replace the dead one,
then I would,
we took turns,
the rose our rogue child,
that breathed a fragrance of the eternal bloom.....
and that night that you died,
I put two buds in the vase,
hoping that your parting was
no more than last nights dream.
*Image of Waterford Curio by Houzz.
Cup in the Curio Cabinet
An empty cup daintily accompanies
an assemblage of finery,
from old-world porcelains crafted
against Dutch Boy bluings,
bone China platters painted in
Eastern mystique watercolors,
cozy teapot, sugarbowl, and
creamer set in English rosewood,
a stage concerning crystal
stems elegant Irish sultry charms,
anticipation ...
what season be?
what hour is it now?
what satisfies this void?
2021 August 04
*4th Place*
Imagism
~~Emile Pinet: Judged 2021 September 01
A kingdom of the Gael
Lying well outside the Pale !
Subjects of an Ardri Lord
From Clare to Kerry
And Cork to Waterford
Like a Waterford goblet
There are cuts all over me
Though not nearly as exquisite
I am etched with imperfection
Fill that chalice with the beverage of your choice
And it will pour out of all the holes
I lose everything, down to the last teardrop
See me balanced there
Arms like twigs, stretched out
Against neglected framework
So thin, just trying to hold on
Squaring myself for the next assault
Brittle glass trying not to appear weak
Every stone hurled
Has marred the original beauty of the pattern
Leaving jagged holes
The dings and sorrows
Escorted by slings and arrows
Forming lacy crystalline webs which creep across my soul
The glass is barely held together
And will fall to pieces with the slightest touch
Walls protect fragile glass from what lies without them
Don’t touch me because
I’m not unbreakable
Are you
Someone that loves,
Accepting my passion,
Allowing it to flow from me
Like wine into a Waterford wine glass?
Will yours flow, too, into that glass,
Sharing with me, the time,
The place, the love?
Are you?
The verve of sensation and stylish variety-
Moves deeper inside where the rage of my heart
Defines my displeasure, yet tears me apart
To know what remains is derisive to fantasy.
And perfection is seen as exclusive not mine,
But this, unobtainable nightmare surveys
The pangs of anxiety my frustration plays;
And thwarted still further in search for divine.
As Goddess of Dance you have tip-toed or two
Performing a solo where dances and dreams,
Prepare me an ending that waking up seems
Like death as it is, and I’m losing you too.
Visiting promise to find you're not there.
Is love's great despair just a vanishing act?
It loyally behaves but I'm dying in fact
Devoting this love to a trance anywhere.
It absconds to a Waterford crystal mirage
As Lord of the Dance in a sequel to this,
The moment I wake isn't one I should miss
Proposing to fit into her entourage.
Craft the perfect setting
Crystal Waterford Flutes
Candle silver holders
Clean soft-color linen
Classic Dom Perignon
Choice city views diner
Couple kissing completes
Ma lied to me about using credit cards
she'd taken in my name, notices
told the tale. I let them repossess
my car to keep post-Uni plans
for the Emerald Isle, which I liked to consider
my homeland. Filed bankruptcy at twenty-four.
Felt like I could handle city streets and what better
way to find yourself after learning how little you know
those who love ya. The boy from Dublin English School
and I battled sticks at Stephen's Green, went on
to teach and I did my time at a school
in Waterford run by a Canadian lunatic, which
I now recall as one of those best of times, sniffing
good and hard at the marker board to cloud my mind
from fear, pints of Murphys before class some mornings.
Meant to say cans because ya don't walk with pints,
though I probably would have. So I made it through
and liked the authority. Fast-forward
and boy-man from Dublin English School said
come teach in Italy they've got space, and before
I could blink at the roses he'd shoved me
so hard to concrete for reasons unknown (pints actually),
that I absconded to a pal's in Leeds and started dancing
(fork in the road). Missing Dublin so I called myself Dallas.
A childhood friend came to Leeds at Christmas, later
married the pal who'd put me up (fork had potential). No need
to bother about cliches on meant to be's, anything
can happen. I went home with a multitude scattered on winds
forgave my Ma with a distance. Didn't know
which one to pick so I built a wall and started Grad school
for Counseling. But you could say I was haunted
by equivocal longing for that green place. Aced
my first exam in Intro to Pharmacology and ed off
to clouds of smoke for eight or nine years and they were good
ones and I let go of notions that things need finding.
Things come in curious ways to fall apart and come back
together. What better way is there?
Be A Plucky Poet
Just go through life being your complete,
entire self.
You may get more than a few
head bonks and conformists who run
like the plague from you.
Would you prefer to be plastic
or rather stand out sparkling?
Like beautiful Waterford crystal
unique and shining on a shelf?
A true individualist who speaks
their truth openly.
I call that, quite close to holy!
Be that plucky poet with a
disdain to be like other poets in
the sea..
November 8, 2019
~ Panagiota ~
Dry afternoon, floating breeze upon the hips of the earth
Languid bodies in lawn chairs awaiting rebirth
or the hum of mosquitos
to signal it's time to go in.
To go in, to forget about this perfect afternoon, this ecliptical night
Lips to sip wine out of Waterford crystal, plastic forks to go with the plates.
Squirrels sneaking up to drink water off the pool cover
Tree like the four corners of the world shading us
We have no brain power on this lazy day and a conversation of this tree ensues
It's west limb is a menace to the house, the roof, and all mankind in general.
The consensus is split sharply in two. Half say: "Tear it down" in murmurs about forthcoming monster storms,
half groan in disgust at the thought of killing a living thing.
A lone peach from the neighbors tree has tempted us on "our" side of the fence
-this too is talked about in great detail, as the earth spins, the tide pulls, we age silently, night taps us on the
shoulder, the mosquitos hum - and with our dry eyes, just adjusted to the dark, we bid good night...
A field of stones
Hidden in an ancient wood
Stones white and shiny
Bleached by decades of history
Names long ago forgotten
Carved by a man in a dark shop
Each letter lovingly engraved by hand
The names are now barely readable
Eyes have to strain to see each letter
They were worn down by unending winds
Plastic crosses mark some of the graves
Where stones were placed at one time
Now long missing or destroyed
No names to mark their passing
Who were these people?
Did they die in the heat of battle?
Or did nature take their lives with a fatal disease
Were they mothers, fathers, sisters or brothers?
The grass was neatly mown at one time
Flowers planted years ago still bloom
Trees shade the graves from the heat of the sun
They show that someone once cared
Now they are ignored…forgotten
Except by a few who wander by
Yet, they don’t stop
They stop and look at the stones
They don’t know the names
So the deceased are left there
With just the weeds and the animals
They only ones to remember them