The days we didn’t play
Poems by Laurence Meehan
The days we didn’t play.
A bottle of vodka and a few cream cakes.
The eye-liner would cover her mistakes.
Nobody would see her spin or smell the 7up laced with gin.
On the floor now throwing up…passing out and screaming in.
This is how our days begin.
Her lunchtime coma would arrive - To give me peace for a while
…played with cars and hugged some teddies.
I’ll be fine, toys make me smile.
--------
Soon she would rise for her evening swansong.
A trip to the bathroom, more eyeliner put on.
Ready to fool the world about what was really going on.
Kaftan to hide the shape of a woman broken disturbed.
Fear and anger - everything so perturbed.
He was far away working and she drank to forget.
Alone in the home …with just a child to regret.
--------
Chips for dinner, Then back to my room to stay away from her torture and gloom.
Crawled under the covers of the top bunk.
I didn’t know she sick
…didn’t know she was drunk.
--------
Only some years ago on the day passed away she told me she was sorry
…for the days we didn’t play
I know she meant it
I got my mum back that day.
////////
A grand stretch in the evening
There’s a grand stretch in the evening.
The trees sway in summer breeze.
A queen bee is surveying the honey crop
Nearby children chalk out some fun.
The adults cooking and drinking some.
--------
The city park is a beating heart with games a-foot.
A motorcycle exhaust echoes against the dry buildings.
A distinctive hollow to the traffic in the simmer of sunset
Chatter of some girls passing by – “hello “one said to me unprepared
Looking back at me with a twinkle in her eye.
--------
A nearby pub is serving street side.
Heineken gazebo shades them all in green.
While they surf and turf by the roadside.
They laugh at almost everything.
--------
When was your first summer holiday?
He said to her – a cold pint in his hand.
“I’m not sure”- as a mo-ped breaks her memory
“Corfu in ‘82 – oh wait ...no! it was Malaga before that with my mother”
He smiles at her mentally dusting down old photos
Shading her eyes with a cupped hand to look up at him
“Do you fancy another?”– “I” “make it a gin!”
“A double? “– “I” “yes…”
“There’s a grand stretch in the evening”
////////
A Chemical Burn
A moment’s courage or a lifetime of regret
That’s always been the choice
Never a safe bet.
--------
Distinguished Gentlemen in smoking jackets
Contemplating whiskey brands and cigarette packets.
Changing the world while they’re at it
Like Joyce, Tennyson or Beckett.
--------
Stale coffee on the 9.16
First class is full.
The place to be seen.
--------
Briefcase faces with political expressions
A young lady by knee
No hiding indiscretions.
--------
Through tunnel the smoke clung
To the carriages and gentleman
Roaring notions far flung
In laughter and sessions.
--------
The engine trundled down Appian Way.
It’s the season to come, conquer and play
For these gentlemen who govern
these gentlemen who scorn
These fine men… to trappings they were born.
--------
They reach the Blackpool coast
Flags, bunting and ice cream
Summer dresses and sandals on most
As the grand engine halts and its brakes scream.
--------
Smoke rises from the undercarriage
Like the ghosts of the lives left behind
Rising like spies
From some distant marriage.
--------
The entourage makes haste
To the pear and the surf.
A contradictory place.
Full of water and thirst.
--------
As he reads his rehearsed lines
Full of empty promises
You can hear some heckles
From the doubting Thomas’s
--------
Still, Freedom had been won.
Spirits were high
A get out of jail card.
To get him by
--------
First day in office
A single white page
Hi John, it’s Claudine
Your wife at one stage!!
--------
He continued to read
His fingers bleed
The words said it’s over
With nowhere could he turn?
--------
He was caught red handed
With a chemical burn.
Laurence Meehan is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am, also on Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel. Mullingar. All aspiring and fun writers are welcome.