Monday, June 1, 2020



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.


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 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.

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