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Long Waterford Poems

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The Story About Not Finding Yourself

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?

abuselifetravel

Form: Free verse

A Waterford Pennsylvania Field of Stone

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

deathinspirationalintrospection

Form:

Language breathes. Dictionaries opened their doors to thousands: petrichor finally named, gigil crossing oceans from Tagalog hearts, morto carrying Irish embarrassment across continents. Each word a technofossil in reverse and not debris but seed. Where analog crumbles into digital decay, new phonemes sprout from chat windows and kitchen tables, from Glasgow to Manila, Waterford to Johannesburg.

After warm rain falls
petrichor naming something
we always had known

The mouse jiggler hums on desks where we WFH, pretending presence while bed rotting through Sundays, doom-scrolling until brain fog sets in. A chatbot asks if I'm still there. Ghost kitchens feed nobody's neighbourhood. We've made words for our hollow industriousness, our productive stillness, our illuminated solitude, each term a hard pass at something we cannot quite refuse.

Screen glow at midnight
even the AI wonders
if we're still awake

But listen: teenagers shout skibidi at nothing and everything, absolutely delulu with joy, their rizz and aura untranslatable to us, perfect in their imperfection. A girl shows her butter skin lewk and someone says she ate and left no crumbs, bet. In Dublin, they're morto over spice bags; in Kuala Lumpur, tapau your nasi lemak with kaya on the side. The mouth remembers before the dictionary does. Alamak, how we've been speaking new languages all along.

Grandmother's recipe
lumpia rolls carrying words
the page can't hold yet

Perhaps this is the burnt toast theory of linguistics: what seems lost makes room for what must come. The broligarchy names itself. Gen Alpha coins snackable for their fractured attention, honest about their inheritance. Climavores choose with conscience; we practice eco-minimalism like prayer. Generative AI makes prose while we make slang, both of us biohacking meaning from the ruins of the old world, both of us marvelling that anything grows at all.

Sharp-sharp, we greet
this shoogly train of language
hold on, enjoy ride

educationwords

Form: Haibun