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Showing posts from September, 2015

Both Pods Now

© Shers Gallagher 2015

Thrills and spills of cafĂ© 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

Barking Mad

© 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

She Peers Inside Each Window

©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 tainted 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?
Aisling Books

This Valley

© 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