I am cutting ties
that I knotted to a faraway soil.
Exiled no longer at the tiller
of a long beached fishing boat
that bobs only on the legends
of ancient waves.
Those fluent in soul-breathing,
the Celtic poets,
those wind-chiming lyricists,
are pulling me
to the bottom of Lake Erie
where drowned sea-captains still quote
what the Irish once wrote.
And here’s me, even today
caught by the mouth
from their linguistic fishhooks
yet cutting myself away.
I am a handmade citizen of a land
that is my own meat and gristle,
a subsoil am I
and my father and mother
the grubbing worm and the turtle dove.
Still Irish, but rootless
with no anchor in Galway Bay.
I have cut the trap lines
become a jobbing teller
of tall tales,
not a keeper of any traditions
planted by hands not of my own.
And if once in a while
I lapse into the sod and bog-speak
of my unlearned brethren
it is no literary affectation
of a better education,
for I remain this common creature
determined to be tied to a smaller rock
of my own choosing.
creased mind uncared blank
ashen visage dumped unclaimed…
dry tears laid subsoil
September 5, 2019
Syllable count : 5/7/5
Checked on howmanysyllables.com
Reference song : Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles
I look at an empty page,
Demons attacking, ranting,
Feelings of rage,
My heart no longer beating.
Sunk into a sea of turmoil,
Tranquility no longer being,
Now beneath the subsoil,
No longer seeing.
Days of splendor diminished,
With each breath I take,
Less I am finished,
There is no mistake.
I want for your happiness,
But it kills me inside,
Longing for your caress,
Tears will not subside.
When will the pain be lifted,
When will I live again,
When oh Lord, why me I cried
I cannot finish this …….
I love you.
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