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Showing posts from February, 2013

Icicle Shadows

©Shers Gallagher 2013

Shadows of icicles drift rhythmically 
throughout the lateness of winter
and into its frostbitten nights. 
They blanket the soil and bury its past 
deep within the Terra Firma
that we have dug our feet into
-- so deeply --
while praying for spring to come. 

Aisling Books

Old Crone in a Dark Mansion

© Shers Gallagher 2013

She lives in a dark mansion,
alone and forgotten by everyone
but herself.
She lived with another in exile
and all was good until he died.
That was not discussed in the contract
of her immigration, 
a clause that perhaps he would one day die
and leave her altogether.
She keeps one light on now,
one light only,
to spare the utilities while 'nickel and diming' the dole 
to the nth penny.
The car he left her too, 
but it does not run, 
it being rutted in the road and lacking for petrol.
They'd planned to pave its trail,
but so many sidetracks had occurred along the way. 
And she is no longer of the age that her beauty will save her.
She remains the ageing crone that can only be pitied in fiction, 
in a Flannery O'Conner novel. 
Aisling Books

Forbidden Fruit

© Shers Gallagher 2013

He saw you there, 
forbidden fruit,
forbidden as the day's ride away from home. 
He called and you responded,
your answer as delicious 
as a collect call full of change. 
Aisling Books

Terminal Wasteland

© Shers Gallagher 2013

No longer burning up,
no longer freezing down,
no longer a body of wasteland,
I am freed of the prison of personal destruction,
from the itchy, pockmarked and sickly feeling 
walking close to death.
I have survived to kill the virus
that had encamped under my skin.
And the weight is returning,
the weight is now returning.
But my hair is falling, 
falling out like from a fall-out shelter.
Oh my, oh my.
What's to become of it all? 
It'll grow back...surely.
I'll kiss the sun.
I'll see the day again
to re-embrace life after all this nesting
in a terminal wasteland. 
Aisling Books

Hush...the Halls of Sleeping Poets

© Shers Gallagher 2013
the halls of sleeping poets like columns of ancient Sequoias, seeding their voices through the mind song into whispering leaves of paper centuries years old.  The library is a forest trail of trained muses who empower the imagination  wherever they sprout.  Aisling Books