Haiku inspired by two old ladies strolling along Fifth Avenue ,New York City, incorporating a commentary on our times and a measured response to the politics of President Trump
“Wouldn’t you think they
would take his Twitter away?”
“I know! It’s simple.”
At the Library, New Ross
From my window desk, perched
high above the grey slated gables
I pause for thought, seeing spires
rising above the town, my view
tumbles towards two great rivers,
joined now as one, gliding gently
through.
I came to write peacefully,
to avoid distractions,
the well-known, oft cursed,
enemy of poets and writers.
Yet how can I ignore young birches
as Autumn colours grace their leaves
while they cradle in their golden grove
an amphitheater crying out for a voice
to proclaim aloud sheer joy that I live
near such a scribbler’s sanctuary?
The trees tremble as a soft breeze
flutters leaves, then wafts me back to
work where the very blood of words,
fresh ink, flows.
Ó Kevin Connelly 2018
The old people said…
illness runs in families.
They knew who was likely
to have heart or lung disease,
who might yet be afflicted.
The old people said…
when someone had an operation
things often became worse,
as if the body being opened
the cure became the problem.
The old people said…
the time would come
when you wouldn’t
know the seasons
but by the leaves on the trees.
The old people said…
these things and more
and I didn’t believe them, because I was young
and I didn’t believe them, because they were old,
but now they are gone and I am older,
now I understand what the old people meant
when they said illness runs in families,
when they said the cure by times becomes the problem,
when they said the seasons would only be known
by leaves on the trees.
Now I know the wisdom
in their words when
the old people said…
Like lab rats racing
we are on the treadmill
of history, forever chasing
the illusion of progress,
from Guernica to Barcelona.
3 Public Parks, USA
On Boston Common the squirrels
are shy, darting away, barely visible,
ready to ambush the Redcoats,
should they dare to return.
Around Central Park the squirrels
are such exhibitionists. They
prance, peer, pose precociously.
Aerial antics delight their audience.
In Washington Square the squirrels
are quite simply, laid back. Stretched
out on branches they listen to the music,
basking lazily to the busker’s beat.
Much too soon there were no more seen,
the time had come to leave for home.
After all you know what they say,
“Three squirrels and you’re out!”
K Connelly, Midtown Manhattan July 4th 2017
Old scars
Dead men tell no tales
but old scars do.
Each one begins in violence
then settles over time
into another forgotten one.
Scattered around out of sight
some of them, others not
really invisible, more
likely so familiar
as to be unnoticed,
almost unseen.
There are times when some flare
to life. Time heals
it is true, but
changing times, if for the worse,
can revive old weals,
as arthritis in bad weather
becomes again a curse.
I hear that old crackling creak
getting to my feet, finding the remote,
switching off the sound
of an election debate,
silencing those damned old scars
never quite gone away for good,
once and for all.
Here be keyboard warriors
Riding across the Great Plains
of Qwerty they are masters in the saddle.
Words become weapons to wound,
especially the already weakened.
Hunting down the honest,
targeting the truthful,
they circle grimly around
ready to take them down.
Here they make their vicious stand
laughing as you try to wrestle
invective, deflection, deception,
with mere facts leavened with
truths thorough and profound.
Against their legions of straw-men
you have but little chance.
They learned from their evil master
“if you must tell a lie,
make it a big one.”
Normal People
lead normal lives
and have perfectly
ordinary people all
around them. They
are never troubled
and bad things
only ever happen
to other people
and they are
never other peoples
other people. I’d
love to know
some ordinary people
but I don’t.
Michaela arranged it. On the quayside
in old Cambrils she sells tickets
to seekers after thrills, those
who would glide above blue waters
lit by shimmering summer sunlight.
She passed us over to her two friends
on board the smartly sleek speed boat.
Once beyond the harbours arms,
once out on the open water
they prepared our safety harness,
our tackle untangled, our ropes made ready
while we watched, staying out of harm’s way.
They smiled in friendship and aloft we went.
Our big, beautiful brightly coloured
parachute became our sail.
The rope holding us to the deck
became our shared umbilical cord.
Together in the breeze above
we smiled and laughed in delight
as we gently turned along the coast.
Changing patterns in the sea were visible now,
forty shades of blue water beneath
and above all so peaceful and serene.
No adrenaline rush this, instead we
were content to let the water, the air, ourselves,
gently flow.
Firstly, they cascade clear, cool, water
down carved stone stairways while
splashing spouts soar through falling
fountains, mist becomes mesmerising.
Then, they shine bright lights through
endless drops of water rising, falling,
colours chasing each other, dazzling
the eye, spectrum becomes surreal.
Finally, they add music, pouring perfect
notes through water, through light,
liquid notes creating a crescendo
of
colourful
cataracts.
