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The Woman Who Turned into a Tree
Her girth thickened,
Imperceptibly at first.
And then her arms – so used to reaching
in dance or despair
chose to stay with cupped palms
upward and fingers splayed.
And soon she was happy where she was.
And the birds sang in her
and other shy creatures
nestled into her.
And she spent her time
taking it all in
and giving oxygen.
Frances Moore
Technophobia
I haven’t the face
For Facebook
And I don’t have
The gift of the Blog
I couldn’t tweet
If you paid me
And I don’t understand
The iPod
TikTok’s a bit
Of a mystery
As is this thing
They call Skype
I’m not smart enough
For a Smartphone
Guess I’m just not
The technical type
My own mobile phone’s
Antiquated
And is really
Just fit for the bin
Still, we have lots of text
Which isn’t
As yet
A mortal or venial sin.
Oh, there’s nothing wrong
With my text life
I’ll have you all
To know
When it comes to a quickie
I’m furious & fast
And a hell of a man
To go
But, hey
I’m not a text maniac
Like some of the youngsters
I see
They’re having text
Morning, noon & night
Over breakfast
Dinner and tea
And if they’re not texting
They’re tweeting,
Downloading or surfing
The net
Or maybe they’re blogging
Skyping or snogging
Some cyber-space friend
They’ve just met!
Me, I just can’t
Comprehend it
All this techno stuff ’s
Over my head
As long as I live
I won’t get it
And for sure
I won’t get it when dead!
Which reminds me……
When I die
I want this on my headstone
Carved clearly
Under my name
He had lots of text
But as for the rest
It damn near
Drove him insane!
Gerry Moran
Castalia
She was there that September
like dove light hovering
about the art room,
her mermaid hair moving
in crinkles and curls
down beyond her shoulders
tipping her waist.
She was there that following Spring
before me on the side-path,
sprinkling glitter from her fingers
that touched every part of my body
and lingered for days.
She was there for early summer too and
we had hoped, all of us,
against hope
and then
she was gone.
Celebrate the passing, came her wishes
bring wildflowers if you can
let it be Dia de Los Meurtos.
And then…
she lay on Castalia’s octagonal floor
that became a sea of orange and rust
and yellow marigolds.
Sugar skulls abided to ritual,
the Prague child at the altar adorned
her willow casket
while friends when they glimpsed
her Derby hat and boots wept for the
palpable presence of her soul.
Beyond, in the amphitheatre
fire dancers circled
with flaming sticks timed
by the drum,
a lament
to her passing.
And all that afternoon I searched along
the hedgerows
for the wildflowers, for her wishes,
and then,
she was gone.
Claire Mulcahy
