Poems

Belfast Rose

 

Do they not have breasts on Bondi Beach

that you must strive so hard for a fill of mine

across this Guinness foam?

They're the beauties of this Irish Rose.

Yes, your man has told me that before.

 

The beasts of the field, it seems

graze the same. Be it New World or

Old world order,

pub love's the same.

 

So it's praising my smile and clever mind

you are.  Quick on the hop for sure.

Now that's my kind of kangaroo court.

If you knew how weary I am

of these pop gun men

and their Bogside pain

you'd save your fuel for the hump ahead.

The lights in these eyes

are nowhere near red.

 

Have I not earned a break

from knees that won't bend?

I crave the feel of skin that's burnt

from sun alone and blood that's hot

from no more than the sight of a blouse,

two sizes smaller

than it has a right to be.

 

So come and play my wild colonial boy.

But understand, mind

you'll slap no board wax upon this back.

It's Home come morning

and Away for you

 

Don't even expect to walk with me after

through the gunmetal grey

of the Shankill Road.

 

Only your man with a brogue gets that.

 

 

 

Postcard from Africa

 

tells me the Jungle Boy is still out there

sleeping in cars

smashed on township jazz

occasionally creeping close to camp

to whistle our special call.

 

Distance

Omens

Journeys

 

3 sides of a tidal heart

that cannot resist

full moon.

 

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