The Ash Heap

skin settled

arms of dust
lifeless lumps
heave your chest
sneeze life into a mug
and the droplets osmose
identity into the urn

lumpy dust into the cup
and later onto the ash heap

patiently await
incineration,
polish silver
wake ornaments
with rotting fingers

alive only in their dying

poem by Sean Godley
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Mandate To The Gales

beat with me beat with me til ive told you of
the western skies and how its there that lies
two maidens one with wrath and one with glee
call them day and night if you so please
but beat with me beat with me like the wind in trees
theyll curse you dylan with their fierce tears and
they have no time for blessings not these sisters
spinsters would apt them best for they take the souls
of living men and bite them scratch them til
they are nought but whispers in the wind
whispers in the wind my friends are
whispers in the wind
and the wind is wild, my friends, it's wild

poem by Sean Godley
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Aphelion

Maybe I could synthesise a fire,
If his moon’s face had, blue-paced, grown a frown,
Maybe, if his wintered kings think higher,
If bone-robes of gold tried long to drown.
Maybe I could synthesise a fire,
If sly crying eyes marred stars and skies,
And had not washed away Sam’s happy pire,
Which wept three tipples true with his fine lies.
Maybe I could synthesise a fire,
If his hills had willed six steep-found ills,
And if his children’s chiding wasn’t dire,
As if there lives some love beyond his wills.
Maybe I could synthesise a fire,
And make nine lines of moonlight moving still,
And if his crazy cats would stop their ire,
And drink their skinny dinner for his fill.
Maybe I could synthesise a fire,
Yes if, beneath these seas, lush fish could breathe,
And each dumbstruck ivy could climb higher,
If some sober men sung well in Meathe.

[...] Read more

poem by Sean Godley
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