PATRICIA WALSH

PATRICIA WALSH

The Accidental

Tattooed far and wide, her conscience meandering

through double safety doors, a local boon.

Wrecking to form, an inopportune phone call

the incessant same stumps up the bill

relating to loneliness, smiling this good time.

Dunloe the final gap, geographical rumblings

wishing for application to studies forestalled

hitting the journal come hell or high water

intellectual ability wasted in this time

personal wars quelled for the time being.

Not a great outlet, sincerely overbearing

with ‘it’, or ‘at’? Spiralling out of control

clear publications hardly go anywhere

muscular spectacle over the target audience

biros running out at a given moment.

Required to stay quiet, applications needed,

one member of the gang stands alone,

coming at an awful angle in the pool

sardonic deadlines carpet the unwary

soundness through soap operas perfectly sane.

Wanting to be free, from particular phonies,

a singular film buff lights the way,

being fixed for better personage, one such problem

being straight where needed, an accidental smile

other sides to every equation abide.

 

Institution

Called to perfection, a half-size fairytale

losing fingers on fireworks blot the fantasy

watching the performance compelling within

war on the quotidian a stupid trick.

Inside jobs on television, bored to distraction

map work discarded in favour of own form,

succinct history caught in a web of interest

immaculately bound artefacts punish the sleepy.

Not imparting information, but who is?

Sucking up to the gossips the wrong thing to do,

playing with matches through a hollow eye,

granting leave to smoke, personable find.

Turgid football, on the longevity of managers,

nothing dead yet, not even a sorry mess,

promise for then entrenched talent, a thing of beauty

lasts forever, in these hands, stone quiet.

Caught looking, the boom hits from left field,

swerving to avoid the same situations again,

putting away pen and paper to focus on betterment

reading a music denied to the general skit.

Exhibitions through a divorce, as rumours flare

beaten for a week with such delicacies

parity of form a glut of resentment

running from an institution a correct lesson.

 

Whole Nut

Reminiscing on high, a singular entity

not to surface anywhere soon, an exit cleared,

shunting the retarded into a living cupboard

viewed at a remove, a ringtone demonised,

simple mathematics watered down on spec.

What is left now to follow the rules?

Not to associate left hand with right, perhaps

necessary obligations lazed into the morning,

stopgap accommodation beloved at once

home-bird concatenations restricted in due course.

More family secrets than any other, nicely,

not getting style from another, mercifully dead,

miffed at exclusion, deserved at a glance

prayer for occupation aimed at getting a job

not striving as yet, financial surprises looming.

Humble destinations, productive misgivings

failed at every turn, not wanting to be heard

this parish joke, through marriage and birth,

quietly financing a singular disease

producing once a day is simple enough.

This teacher’s minion, popular all the same

the unemployable sound catches a fire

living responsibly, dark veins of housing

bouncing off indolence, hurting desirably,

the functional terror of a granted station.

PATRICIA WALSH

 

PATRICIA WALSH was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork.  Her first collection of poetry titled Continuity Errors was published in 2010, and a novel titled the Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014.  Her poetry has been published in Southward; Narrator International;  Third Point Press, Revival Journal; Seventh Quarry; Hesterglock Press; The Quarryman; Unlikely Stories; and Otherwise Engaged.  A further collection of poetry, titled Outstanding Balance, is scheduled for publication in March of 2020.  She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and is a regular attendee at the O Bheal poetry night in Cork city.