Reblog: Memorial 1 and 2, by Stephen McGuinness

1.
Remember
The human.
A curse on
The uniform.
Isn’t it enough that
He is dead?
Torn from his
Mother’s grasp.
Rent asunder,
Ripped,
Shredded,
Buried.
He shall not
Grow old….
As if he had
A choice.
Glorious dead?
There is no glory
In fear, in pain,
In cold wet clay.
They are all the same
These memorials.
Old men cry out
For the next generation
To poison.
2.
Don’t poison my boys
as we were poisoned
with dreams of freedoms
that never occur.
Heroes puddled in blood.
Monuments, graves to visit,
murals to the dead.
The notion that they
can gain by sacrificing
themselves for a nation,
as if any scrap of ground
is worth their beautiful lives.

Continue reading “Reblog: Memorial 1 and 2, by Stephen McGuinness”

Writing While Walking, by Stephen McGuinness

Stephen McGuinness makes me happy humans were given the gift of words and thought.  To read more of Stephen’s work, please visit poetry with a small p. “Quiet confounds me. I search through a Clam-tight mind To find something, A thing, a piece, a collection Of words, to explain, To describe, to myself Most of all, what, If anything, is going on. Hush rushes, quietly, Through … Continue reading Writing While Walking, by Stephen McGuinness

Rhythm and the Fear of Death — Writing from poetry with a small p.

By Stephen McGuinness I feel my footsteps Count down days With chimed strokes Resonant, reflective. A sinus wave hearbeat Synchronous vibrations of Train beaten whispered Words on tracks. Calm, a balm, a salve. Chantors: ancient haunting Mantras, dripped holy oils. Smoke in tendrils, lifting, Rising: one, two, three, Expectant tension then Reassuring: four, exhale To begin once more. Repetition, confirmation, prediction. We seek out rhythm, … Continue reading Rhythm and the Fear of Death — Writing from poetry with a small p.

February 7th 2018 — Writing from poetry with a small p.

By Stephen McGuinness Hanging yellow smoke, Remnant of blue coal Fire, retreats, yields ground To offered stars, becoming Magnificent in abundance. Time, slowed with motion, Allows a reluctant sun, Lazy with sleep, to Couple with a blind, Impatient world. Warmed colours run, then, Easily into one another. Streaks of glaring light Shower brazen stripes Over bleached winter streets Burdened with yawned Traffic, ploughing heavily Towards … Continue reading February 7th 2018 — Writing from poetry with a small p.

Rain on my Face — Writing from poetry with a small p.

It isn’t until I read Stephen’s poetry that I realize how dry and dull life can be without words like his to lift the heart, or make one cry, as the case may be. He has never yet failed to bring a smile to my face or tears to my eyes. Few people are as gifted as Stephen McGuinness. Fine, cold rain paints my face. … Continue reading Rain on my Face — Writing from poetry with a small p.

November Evening in Dublin

Originally posted on Writing from poetry with a small p.:
? Dry leaves of sycamores have Fallen to the navvies’ excavations. Evening, cold, is rolled across The city’s winter-glow gloom. Unlit Christmas, manhandled Into place, hangs sullenly, waiting For the sparked, switch-flick That turns it on to life. Cyclists, in their righteous Superiority, glance over fearful Shoulders at dark behemoth buses That push and press… Continue reading November Evening in Dublin