Hello dear readers and followers, here’s a re-posting of a poem I wrote in September 2017, and as is my way I have revised the piece for today’s Throwback Friday article.
A Distant Ship (Revised)
Am I afraid, or am I being slowly discouraged.
Dismayed by the emptiness in my wavering heart.
Am I consumed, or am I being bodily starved.
Eaten by the cells of my inner sentiments.
Am I senseless, or have I been possessed.
Devoured by the recess of my lonely soul.
Am I swimming backstroke behind a distant love-boat.
Drowning in the wake of the passing recovery vessel.
Today’s Throwback Friday poem is a rewrite of a piece original called “Living On a Knife Edge”(Feb 2019). This poem was one of two, that I submitted to be published in March 2020 , but the other poem was accepted ahead of this piece, and here today I have again revised the 2020 poem.
Living On a Wooden Bridge (Revised)
Fire, fire, there’s raging fires
I need help to stamp out the flames
Burning down this old timber bridge
A traveler’s last causeway to the edge
Carrying today’s harsh realities
Spanning a lifetime of dreams and fantasies
Rain, rain, there’s a Noah’s flood
I need help to stop the cascading suds
Fill the sandbags with riverbed mud
Plug the leakages with woolly rugs
Ring out qualms and doubts
And accept the charity handouts
Warning, warning, there’s a heatwave
I need help to see through the shimmering haze
And peer into nature’s fiery atmosphere tonight
Where millions of her fireflies are alight
Forcing eyes to hear the sound of flashing delights
Gathering above the bridge to be the world’s new sunlight
“The Hosting Of The Shee” a poem by William B Yeats, sung by the Waterboys
The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare Caoilte tossing his burning hair And Niamh calling: ‘Away, come away’ ‘Away, come away, away, away’.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare Caoilte tossing his burning hair And Niamh calling: ‘Away, come away’ ‘Away, come away, away, away’.
Our armsa-wave, our lips are apart And if anything gaze on our rushing band We come between him and the hope of his heart We come between him and the deed of his hand.
The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare Caoilte tossing his burning hair And Niamh calling: ‘Away, come away’ ‘Away, come away, away, away, away, away…’.
Over at Weekly Prompts, the Weekend Challenge word is: Traveller … please visit their wonderful site by clicking on >> Here Today my poem is about those annoying companion travellers.
Over at Moonwashed Musings, Eugi’s Weekly Prompt is: Phenomenons … and for Weekly Prompts the Wednesday Challenge is: Coincidence … To visit Sue & Gerry’s fabulous site, please click on >> Here My poem “Phenomenal Anomaly” coincides with both of the “Prompts”
Ivor.Plumber/Poet 