Requiem (Hope), and other poems
By Brendan Mahon
Requiem (Hope)
A year to the day
She passed away
I miss her
Every day
Get up each morning
You must try, so hard
But today
Fragments of hope
A spring day
The sun shining
Dress up a bit, a shower
Today, the socks match
A stroll in the park
Lunch with a pal
Still, I miss you
I really do
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A Moor’s Tale
The shadows descend
Upon the misty moors
Figures dance around
Kate Bush like
Wuthering Heights
In red dresses
Like synchronised swimming
See Emily Play
He thought
The man in the black car
His face covered
The piper at the gates of dawn
He let her out
In her satin red dress excited
I’ll be back, he whispered
Escape was in her mind
A prisoner in time
Suffer little children.
Run girl run
Don’t stop
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Into the Wild
The call of the wild
Was strong in his mind
He wished to travel
Into the great unknown
Away from civilization
And live off the land
This can be lucky for some
But not for all
The old man said
To the young man wide eyed
The winters are long
Cold and frost set in
Food harder to forage
I know things
The old man said
1’ll teach you to survive
When you go into the wild
To cook, fish and hunt
He gathered his savings
Hopped on a Greyhound bus
Music in his headphones
Like Born to be wild
Or Ballad of Easy rider
And headed out
Tent and rucksack on his back
Into the wild
Maybe something for the weekend
Or forever
Leaving family and friends behind
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The Last Time
I had my first cigarette
At the age of twelve
In the summer of 67
I felt sick and unwell
And said to my mother
This could be the last time
At secondary school
We smoked and smoked and smoked
We got numerous hidings
And slaps of the leather
But we promised the priests
This could be the last time
Our blonde Irish teacher
She smoked: Imagine
We bought her 200 at Christmas
We said to her longingly
This could be the last time
Now I’m a doctor
So I’ve had to give up
I said to a patient
Could I bum a fag?
This could be the last time.
My wife was kind
Kept me on the straight and narrow
But the mother-in-law came to stay
So back on the fags I went
I said to the wife
This could be the last time.
At the Stones in 2007 at Slane
A friendly face offered a fag
I said tanks but no tanks
And the band played fiercely
This could be the last time
Maybe the last time
I don’t know
Oh, no
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Time
Time passes slowly
When you are young
But what is time
Just a word to chime
We get older
The young get bolder
Time marches on
Then we are gone
Like a puff of wind
Time waits for no one.
Brendan Mahon is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am in the Annebrook House Hotel. Mullingar.