Download PDF Here 13th Anniversary
Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume Four December 2022.
Dead to Cliché, poems by Patricia Walsh.
Dead to Cliché
An apocryphal stain, hanging around classes
Gulping up refreshments in a bold eye
Windows of opportunity shuns entitlement
A rainy reason cuts across the sky.
Terror pervades the burning opportunity
To declare oneself fit for purpose
Relief after paperwork and a spell’s decorum
Bureaucratic selves taunting the figure.
Not to be disturbed, I find myself awake
Repeating styles and forms to discontent
Asking for reviews, slighting forestalled
Repeated letters in the form of glory.
The snake of cars hitting the lights
Time and again, like a Lego attachment
I still must cross, rain or otherwise
Unreliable buses do come eventually.
Cigarette burns a distant pleasure
Being chronically aside is not an option
Screwing the state for a crust now and again
Splitting hairs on a recharger’s time.
Sick with worry, measuring the steps
Of an uphill sojourn, picking the procedure
Of an eye’s breadth, lighting off circumstance
No Organic Signal
En route to disappointment, nay never no more.
Alternative roads converge on a dereliction
Cutting through expectation on a rough journey.
No size or forms can save me now
Supreme power in the country interrogates
En route to heartfelt home, a ticket burned
Holding cards on terror that is rightly yours.
Some deliberated proceedings dot the home.
As yet unfinished, a suitable dwelling
Assuaged by the company, to worry come the time.
Enough room for everyone, hedging bets
Satisfaction on arrival, doing the right thing
Cannot stop me burning, for fair or foul
Some heritage at risk from modern conveniences.
If he shows, he shows. Some sentient remains
Recharged by necessity, a language unlearned
Killer finish, burning the unnecessary.
Crown of Hawthorn
The country’s prize lies in wait
For panic to set in, a caustic revelation
Unhorsing me, petals flowing in the breeze
A favorite yardstick stalling for decorum.
No unnecessary confessions will sweep the floor
Privately cutting through selfsame defeat,
Colons and commas punctuate sudden loss
Tattooed permanently, reminding of defects.
The sun finally burns, not before time
Shepherding animals into growth, a prayer revealed
Some caustic words establish boundaries
Scorching earth over family concerns.
Jokes run dry, on weight of expectation
Doing the right thing is standard procedure
In spite of attitude, misunderstanding vocation
Constantly missing each other, bloodied comprehension,
Some government of the vacant house remains
Disability of the mind a sublime embarrassment
Another cross for the making, burden of proof
To not measure as you would like, disappointment burning.
A house will surely be a home again, given construction
Of eaten windows and blighted cement that is
Better than the real thing, this is surely mine
A domicile kissing the last, a friend in store.
© Patricia Walsh
Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland. To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals. She has also published another novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.