Poem of the Week: SÚILÍNÍ GORMA (pale blue eyes)

SÚILÍNÍ GORMA (pale blue eyes)

There is nothing left but the

brush of possibility,

the rattling moan of a train

that cracks its metal knees before

leaving, the confidence of

a chin and its thin pair of lips

singing an ancient Irish song

even as they are sealed

with silence.

There is nothing left but the

gentle lullaby of grief and

majesty, human helplessness

that was scraped off the roof

of the universe and thrown

violently into the beauty

of a body which bleeds

all its sorrows from

every hole.

There is nothing left but the

warm sheet of ocean that

shows its shoulders to green hills and

lonely stones, the voice of a

crowded cemetery at the top

of a hill, hidden within the others,

waiting to guide

a pair of brave shoes up

its winding roads.

The ashes scattered over

the sea, chase seagulls and

grey tales, unfold the

crumpled maps of a journey

and dive into a nordic

tangle of streets,

homebound.

As they fall, tapping their song,

they announce the

unwillingness to succumb

to the drop,

the premeditated return

to the crib that awaits

beyond life.

There is no remedy for

life, but there is the futile,

soothing light of a

gentle hand that brushes

the ashes of greed

off our cheekbones.

The ray of pale blue eyes

that hit the sun,

and sparkle.

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