Darragh GinleyI can’t write music,
But I speak words that dance.
Waltzing from my lips,
Words that clap and prance.
Verbs that whistle,
Nouns that sing,
Adjectives with horns,
And bells to ring.
A jolly troupe, a sad band,
Howling a spectrum of feeling,
So loud and so grand.
They chant, they croon,
All night, All noon,
Giving rest only
in days come soon.
Soon, this moon, beneath I’ll lay,
And in my throat, the words will stay
By Daniel HealyWhat I taste when I’m awakening,
Is weight of warmth that smothers kindly,
It wraps me in the mother-ness
And holds me with that firm kind-ness.
It speaks to me when seldom speak,
It holds me when I’ve lost my hold.
And when the warmth outside now dims,
It smothers me with feelings bold.
When the nightly watch begins,
To hold me in the ether still,
I walk around and seem to think,
Why stumble from this subtle thrill?
The fall of day brings seldom back,
The feeling that we’ve come to lack,
And when the blindfold draws a-still,
I wonder where the subtle thrill?
Chanting thoughts of warmth and merry,
Bring forth something quite contrary
Of what the morning seldom brought,
For subtle warmth is what we sought