Fugitive Fragments

by Mike McGuire

Codicle

yellow_selftie_bowtie edit2

 

 

 

 

Please dress me in my three-piece midnight black
To suit me for this funereal occasion;
It’s apt to bury for it shows the lack
Of colour from my life’s bright inclinations.
So knot a fine bow tie to flaunt my tastes
The yellow one adorned with red carnations
But do not cross my arms or fingers lace,
I’ll not go in a stance of supplication.
On coffin’s silk please place near my right hand
All memories of my childhood and my children
And at my left the greatest dreams I planned
Achieved or not, they formed my apperception.
The volume of love’s plague and grief won’t fit;
Good riddance then, I’m finally free of it.

Two Eagles

Aspiring poets like myself searching for our own poetic ‘voice’ are advised to practice by emulating admired poets. This exercise has been found to heighten awareness of personalized delivery, leading to the development of one’s own individual voice. I share this tip with you good reader and the following attempt:

The Eagle
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1851)

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

~

The Eagle
by Mike McGuire (2014)

His wingtips sensing here and there
Through abstract tightwires in the air
Foretelling foe; foretasting fare.

Fraught talons taut on brittle branch
Absorbing tremors, haunches flinch
Then savage dive with deadly clench

Virus

Ebola_Virus

 

 

 

 

In a heartbeat
of lust-like licentiousness
a deviant microbe replicates
as parts of its sum cleave
with global generosity

Its sundered progeny hide
among invisibly merciless
hosts of mephitic atoms
aiming without targets
miasma sans frontièrs

Breathlessly we breathe
shun lover’s kiss of death
a close hug comforts none
grave world mulls end of life
in a heartbeat

Living Large

adobemac november-10-2006-flickr-creative-commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes when living large we meet a squall
Or turbulence perturbs our arrowed aim,
Quite commonly some barrier forestalls
Or vague hint that our path might end in pain.
At other times approaching zenith nigh
The altitude has queer effect on sight,
We squint to see if we have gone awry
And then we find a stop-sign glaring bright.
Instead of hedonistic fame and power
A better gauge to measure life’s success,
Would calculate time used to smell a flower
And calibrate health, love and happiness.
A barrier can serve us to remind
We’ve left the purpose of our course behind.

Writer’s Block

notepad_pen

 

When asked his most feared thing
Papa Hemingway replied – a blank sheet of paper
Today that same pale page is mine

Sappho wrote – What cannot be said, is wept
Yet nothing flows fluidly from my mind’s eye
My soul’s ambrosial reservoir unfilled

The Bard declared – The purpose of words is to give them away
So I am the beggar starving with a hunger to host
a poetic banquet where all may gorge

But because Bukowski said -
Writing about writer’s block is better than not writing at all
I offer nothing but these thoughts this day

Covenant

rain-gif-animated-window

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Raindrop
Solitary portent descends
kisses a juiceless seed
Life waxing to awaken
in aromal ozone air
Silently

Cloudburst
Vital giftlets illimitable
penetrate fertile earth
in ageless intercourse
Essence of ichor oozes
Energy

Rainbow
Shining soil’s saturated soul
marinates in sanguine fluid
Damp dirt pungently exhales
as vaulted hues signal
Covenant

Haiku Fugue

grape

My hunger desires
to taste the flesh of firm fruit
on my sensile tongue

Read more…

Seamus Heaney – In Memorium

Seamus Heaney is dead a year today -

Seamus Heaney Song

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Read more…

Medium

Originally posted on A is for:

Medium

Medium

Some search for ghosts in
attics and between
stones
but writers know
to raise the dead
you only have to
paint their words
upon
your tone

View original

Beguin

hair pinkearmuffs

 

 

 

 

The way your freckles danced and winked
at my droll teenage wit
and how your yellow hair ensnared
one eyebrow raised to quiz
Remember how your tingling spine
synced to a Hendrix riff
you played me Chopin’s Polonaise
with graceful flicking wrist
Those warm pink silly earmuffs
gave winter walks a hue
bikini blue was cheeky you
though you blushed de rigueur
Your warm palm always on my knee
when driving Dad’s old car
soft leather seats whose creases kept Read more…

On Irony

Originally posted on Fugitive Fragments:

fishyin_fishyang_yinyang-555px6

Defect of mollusc germinates
Pure pearl of phosphene sphere
Effulgence from pestilence
Adonic from diseased

Albino fawn is ostracized
It dies for its own gloss
Travesty anomalous
Another Hephaestus

The burden of uniqueness
The gift that comes from blight
All paradox of nature
Ironic archetypes

View original

Sybarite

4cc60847c1692b03196aa882a4205392

 

 

 

 

 

My sybaritic seducer
Whose tongue-tipped lips
Lick wickedly like warm waves
Annealing my malleable resolve
And raping the corpus of my stoic soul,
Cease your torment of my long-healed wound
And let it be; for I exist content, quite whole, alone,
My memories the marrow of my firmly steadfast bones.

Fire Art

That troglodyte I egged him on as quizzically he held
The brand that fell from cavern hearth just as a quake occurred
He focused on the smoldering tip, brow furrowed, stick upheld
I screamed out in my voiceless dream and magically he heard.
He took a sheet of withered bark and peered as if amazed
Then with the firestick in his hand he drew across the grain
With one more geometric stroke a thickened eyebrow raised
As there before his startled eyes a crooked cross was stained.
I bellowed, woke and all the blankets from my bed were cast
I’d seen the perfect pyrographic act my dream had urged
A fire now blazes in my blood to learn and use his craft
It’s in my DNA, our genes through double helix merged.
I still can sense his firestick though I use electric brand
I drew another cross today, his touch cloned in my hand.

Crois Ard copyrighted bright

Refoulement

Refoulement CC

Australians all let us find voice
For we are being deceived
Our country’s politicians foist
Their scorn on refugees
Send Tamils to Sri Lankan camps
Like Jews of history
On UN stage, the world will rage
But blame not Aussies please
Our politicians act for selves
Ignoring of our pleas
I need the watching world to know
THEY DO NOT ACT FOR ME

Shakespeare Today III

Introduction:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:

(Shakespeare, Sonnet 30)


Shakespeare Sonnet 3 Final

While writing plays for public approbation
On youthful lovers or a woman’s temper
My whole life I have hid my real vocation
For my true calling was to be a jester.
For Seinfeld I’d with much ado play George
Or even be straight guy for Ray Romano
I’d swipe the stool from under Victor Borge
Ventriloquize with Yorick’s empty cranio
Rude Sarah Silverman – I’d tame that shrew
I’d act the ham – let Russell Brand be droller
Midsummer nights with Tina Fey would cue
Crude jokes about my codpiece from Ms Poehler;
Perchance to pilot on prime-time TV…
To flee or not to flee to comedy?


Previous:

Shakespeare Today I

Shakespeare Today II

 

See Naples and Die

Naples Final3

In a damp Naples lane
a young Dutchman grown old
keeps his eyes to the ground
for the day’s glinting prize
of a bright orphaned coin;
his bottle is brimful
of love’s hurt and loss
stirred to venom within
as he lies down and squints
at a void dark and vague
that resembles the graves
of his catacombed heart;
and the billboard above says
‘See Naples and die’ Read more…

Enigman

Eduard_Kasparides_Dubrovnik_bei_Mondlicht_1915
Voice presentation via Adobe Voice

One step from moon’s wan halo
a man can disappear
if no one saw him walk away
then was he ever here?

Perhaps he’s glimpsed by moonglow
some trick of eye-blinked night Read more…

The Ballad of The Septic Tank Tomb

nun3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Saint for whom the place was named
Forsook their dirty souls;
Their mother’s sin for birthing them
Now barred them from the fold.

They sat apart and cried their tears
They knew their shameful state, Read more…

Found Poem – Mein Kampf

From Mein Kampf by Adolph Hitler (Chapter IV Paragraph 5)

 

MKtextHighlighted

From the very first moment
I came to love
with a feeling of youth
a thousand more things
the marvellous energy
my heart’s strings entwined
inseparably connected
inwardly contented
blessed with a feeling
for beauty

Trio

Rowan Taw has resumed blogging her poetry after a lamentable hiatus so I will forego a new poem this week in order to assist the universe in carrying out the necessary re-balancing. I offer you now one from the archives, Trio – the first poem I ever blogged. I was biased in selecting it for you because I will be spending an evening with one of my Trio next week at an Opera Australia staging of Georges Bizet’s Carmen.

opera paris

In great halls they enchanted me,
Three women – dulcet sirens
Awoke my heart, made life restart
Without us ever meeting.
They looked at me – no, stared at me
Their gaze intense with passion,
My essence surged when first I heard
Their voices, tones exhaling as
They came to me, reached out to me Read more…

Steel String Melodia

Samuel Beckett Bridge, Dublin.  Image by Salim Darwiche CC A-SA 3.0

Samuel Beckett Bridge, Dublin.
Image by Salim Darwiche CC A-SA 3.0

The wind inspires a city bridge
to raise its baton signaling
the tautened harp-strings to begin
an aria whose strains of air
use euphony while windsong tunes Read more…

Seashell Haiku シーシェル俳句

SeashellWidow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Widow picks seashells
She’s in harmony with them
They are both hollow

Their empty homes bare
Bereft of life and substance
Spirit washed away Read more…

Crossroads

there is no truth at seventeen
seen needles and the damage done
seen fire seen rain seen cocaine brain
seen wounded veins and straight white lanes Read more…

Bridge Keeper

bridge3

Fragile bridge ahead
Leave behind all troubled thoughts
Only dreams may cross Read more…

Eidolon

Behind eased eyes
an aura appears
flares and rarefies
like the afterimage
from a bright light
shifting and shaping
to gaseous lace
or eerily esoteric
fairy aeriform.
Into the dream
wisplike she springs
finespun and sparse
fashioning a face
from a lifetime ago
to be touched
one last time
before vanishing
to the void.

00b

 

Shakespeare Today II – The Sequel

ShakespeareSonnet2

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So doth my tights now hasten to their end
Though only aged five hundred years or more
They’re now past mine ability to mend.
O loss! their colour Read more…

Needlegate

camel

 

 

 

 

 

 

Psalms in prayer from a parish in Prague
Muezzins mustering from mosques in Mashhad
Incantations in India, Read more…

A Fortunate Man

Originally posted on Fugitive Fragments:

fortunateman

My son is dying, dark eyes fever-flared,
He bravely smiles as we await his fate.
72 virginal houri abide
Visage veiled but vaginas revealed
Or 28 pre-pubescent puerile pearls
If such preferred, as promised by Hadith.
The vest bears down its weight and cumbrous heft
On fading heart of this my blessed scion
Compressing tread-marks of his final steps
On venerated path through ancient dust.
I watch now from this place to the bazaar
Where wretches beg and fallen angels profit.
Honour will be paid to me for loss;
Tribute will be brought and I will feast;
His act speeds my path when my time comes.
A muffled
Holy
rumbling roar of rage.
Still-twitching parts from those of lesser worth
Fragment and reek of vile impurity.
Clouded in blood-mist their blackened meat
Stains every desert star to crescent moon.
Lacerated limbs lance wall and roof
Mangling men reviled like scorpions…

View original 66 more words

The Syrian Rap

Hysteria in Syria
they’ve lost their equilibria
it’s causing wide dysphoria
no food and getting wearier
no water aid criteria
some praying to their god Allah
and others to the Curia
depends on their insignia
But everyone is angrier
Assad has monomania
he’s fixed on his dystopia
while all around is bloodier
His wife is getting bitchier
her greedy hands are itchier
for dresses from Pierre Cardin
or trendy shoes from Louboutin Read more…

The Brain Has No Nerves That Feel Pain

A brain has no nerves to feel pain
so medicos rest their case here
the hypocrites of Hippocrates
engrave this in stone as fact.
At a laboratory in my mind
a sample of cerebral cells
are observed to divulge
Read more…

Shakespeare Today

ShakespeareSonnet1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I consider every thing that grows
Is modified genetically today,
I wouldnst ere have giveth thee that rose
With GE strain that causeth skin decay. Read more…

Haiku – Sculpture Series

3cIce sculpture will yield
its fifteen minutes of fame
hot in the city Read more…

Thoughts from a Bog

a day in a bog

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the County Clare
there’s a spot I know
where a curlew calls
from a berried rowan
as a hurried stream
joins the salmon-slewed
broad Shannon’s course Read more…

The Sound of Silence

 

The unheard tree that falls in forest far
The probe of sun’s long finger at the dawn
A dancing leaf succumbing in the Fall
An opening bud’s slow-motion waking yawn Read more…

Russia Haiku

vladdabad1

Revolution failed
Power and wealth for the elite
workers paid in grain Read more…

Spice

Caution: Suggestive content

400px-SOLOS lic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I shut my eyes and wait till you draw near,
My senses vie for auras you’ll dispense;
I do not feel for pulse or strain to hear,
Your first trace comes, as always, from a scent Read more…

Mysterious Ways

220px-Rugendas_-_Aldea_des_Tapuyos Wikipaedia2

 

 

 

 

 

In pagan lands with purpose grand

They build a church or two

And educate the cannibals

To abandon human stew.

They show them how to join their hands

To kneel on bended knee

And explain the impropriety

Of yawns at homily.

They give the men some loincloths Read more…

The Crisis, The Fox and The Wardrobe

foxy_gentleman_by_sailorangi half

 

 

 

 

 

When I was a wealthy broker I dressed dapper, mode-de-jour

Then some greedy Yankee bastbankers ended all my haute couture.

First a margin call at Barclay’s, next old Lehmann biting dust

Even blue-chips like Armani saw share values slump and bust.

From the penthouse to the poorhouse was a fall that left me bruised

My creditors fought for my Porsche Read more…

Happy New Yapping

Grand_Duchess_Anastasia_Nikolaevna_selfie_smallPS

Year of the Selfie
makes it impossible to
photobomb yourself
Read more…

On Irony

fishyin_fishyang_yinyang-555px6

Defect of mollusc germinates
Pure pearl of phosphene sphere
Effulgence from pestilence
Adonic from diseased

Albino fawn is ostracized
It dies for its own gloss
Travesty anomalous
Another Hephaestus

The burden of uniqueness
The gift that comes from blight
All paradox of nature
Ironic archetypes

 

Hoc Didici

Hoc Dedici

Madiba Haiku

Cape peoples hark now

Xhosa tata Madiba

binds you to his path

madiba3

Fade to Grey

img_7x500

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pied tombstones circumscribed

by misted mountain nearing

under adumbral clouds.

Pressed down by black umbrellas

timeworn melancholy mourners

slate-faced under chrome-combed hair Read more…

PlayStation haiku

ps3

Grand Theft Auto 5

Out today and hindering

Poetic ventures

Rhapsody in Blue Ink

By Pablo Perez [CC-BY-SA-3] via Wikimedia Commons5

 

 

 

 

 

 

To pour a poem onto page
select a well of ink
try one with mood
or brooding shrewd
perhaps a wistful ilk

Some brands can have a tad of fear
or fourteen heartbeats loud Read more…

Book review: Silver Linings Playbook by Matthew Quick

silver_linings_playbook_cover_book2Did you hear the one about the Irishman who read the book AFTER he saw the movie? Well, he found a different and much more interesting story. And it wasn’t a Rom-Com.

Quick’s debut novel is a brilliant inceptive; a gifted work. It is told in the voice of the main character, thirty-something former teacher Pat, a mental patient who has just been released from a psychiatric facility into his parents care. The use of Pat’s voice for narration is inspired. His childlike utterances are both frank and funny. The author brings the reader inside the jumbled mind of a Read more…

Syriana

Untitled work © Neamat Badawi - Syrian Artist - by permission: facebook.com/thesyrianart

Untitled work © Neamat Badawi – Syrian Artist – by permission: facebook.com/thesyrianart

The Love of Art
and
The Art of Love
will
ever outlive
War Read more…

Seamus Heaney RIP

The pen now idle

a way of telling silenced

next Tollund Man dies.

.

From furrow fertile

blackberries ripe each August

anniversary Read more…

“Digging”

Mike:

Valé Seamus Heaney, Bard of Ireland – Mike

Originally posted on Sigurlaug S:

The Irish poet Seamus Heaney has died aged 74. Heaney received The Nobel Prize in Literature in 1995.

“Digging” by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s…

View original 91 more words

For Lona

tp_sunrise_edit_large3

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