Tuesday, 6 October 2015

Hush hush - Mag 288

©Shers Gallagher 2015

Hush hush
along the flickering of floating leafy quills
amidst the timeless tree clocks of chirping whip-poor-will.

Hush hush 
to silvery shadows of cats in sleeping caps
that watch the crescent silhouettes of drowsy river rats.

Hush hush 
away from drowning in an age of chrome and glass
cemented into passageways of glittering ash.

Hush hush
to climbing downward into lamp-lit bluish casts
where love is but a byword and romance a dreamlike past. 

Sunday, 27 September 2015

Both Pods Now - Mag 287

© Shers Gallagher 2015

Thrills and spills of café cappuccino 
Drugs of acceptance everywhere
Sunday goers craving blends 
They give themselves away

But now old friends are acting vain
They fixate on selfies and global change
Communication's lost and communication's gained
In using every day

And all those kids they block my view
with dancing cats and dogs that moo 
So many snaps I would have done
But Skype got in the way

I've looked at Messenger from both pods now
From remote speaker, and still somehow
It’s Cloud illusions I recall
I really can’t do conversion apps at all 

Aisling Books / Magpie Tales

Sunday, 20 September 2015

Barking Mad - mag 286

© Shers Gallagher 2015

When she ceased 

from barking 
at the quarter moon
she left to enlist 
in the fight 
against Shell Oil's 
destruction of the planet 
with its sonic blasting 
of the North Pole.

Aisling Books / Magpie Tales

Sunday, 13 September 2015

She peers inside each window - mag 285

©Shers Gallagher 2015

And what is it she sees?   
A little painted family
as busy as can be.
Mama cradles baby
and Papa scans the news
as little boy is playing
with the train beside his shoes
while little girl makes tea
amidst the plastic table food.
Quite cosy is this tiny home
that Father's built for she.
Though rusted out and tumbledown,
it remains a remnant of her glee,
of life once like a painted toy,
an airy Softy freeze,
now toppled into lies and jests
of disenchanted history.

And will the child inside her
someday see what she now sees?
To peer inside each window
with thoughts of destiny
and this little painted family
as busy as can be?

Sunday, 6 September 2015

This Valley - mag 284

 Shers Gallagher 2015

I come to this valley,
its light and shadows
are opening wide 
my once locked and cancerous mortality.
And I notice that,
these days,
there's not much in private

that's left to lose.
My daily walks and shuffles
present such clarity 
of how the haze sets 
in the finest gauze of airbrushed hues, 
so model perfect
that even I now blush.
Dusty paths of uneven earth
grown over with sticks and stones
and clumps of weeds
are those I stumble upon

while tripping not so deftly as before
in the cobbler's make of protective shoes,
my having worn out heel and toe 
on recent jaunts across shrinking oceans
and soulless seas. 

Aisling Books / Magpie Tales

Monday, 31 August 2015

Mother’s Pink Carnation - Mag 283

©Shers Gallagher 2015

I set a pink carnation on Mother’s grave,
but only one 
which will wither in the dry dust 
of California’s unending drought.
Global warming and bad planning
is causing fires in the hinterlands,
in the canyons of dried up lakes and streams.
Carnations were her favourite flower,
her ground now hard and cracked
from lack of rain,
parched and bleached
as I imagine her bones should be,
as her death was 30 years ago 
come this December.
A June bride had finished high school
only to straddle two at the ages of 20 and 21,
till the pill caught up
and gave a few years reprieve
before the others came. 
I loved her dearly,
our fragile flower 
with lion heart and beacon soul,
being more like sister than mother
to her eldest born,
my brother and me. 
I live miles and seas away these days
and have not been back till now,
remembering how she whispered once,
her dying breath my parting gift 
to abate all the misery.
I will not be there, she murmured.
Don’t worry then, I’m in your heart
and will follow your heart.
And there I’ll be remaining.

Aisling Books /Magpie Tales

Sunday, 12 July 2015

I Am Lakota - Mag 278

©Shers Gallagher 2015
...and I paint the world of nature
that stretches beyond the borders
of tracks I run to freedom
as minds much smaller than my own
hunt down and try to capture my horizons
Run, run, run to the expressions of a soul
I paint in a world without edges
flowing into the natural rhythm of things

The bear, the wolf and bobcat 
are like the fox outsmarting its trackers
There is none but the line of creation 
to draw out and sing the song 
of life and breath
Our souls recognize its harmonies 
There is nothing more and little less 
than those symbols of our making
that we creatives learn to colour in-between

Beware the shame makers…. 

They judge what they are not
and feed off the inhales of our exhales
as we migrate with the setting sun
I run, run, run along the edges of created space
I am an expression of the wind carried through a drumbeat, 
penetrating and strong
This symbol of the moment - it is my song

Aisling Books / Magpie Tales