Words That Dance

Darragh Ginley

I 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

Summer Waltz

By Colin Heaney


Lush green spills peridots over the fields of delight, and the children dance and play and echo ruminations of joy. Daniel stands at the crest of the hill, hands in his pockets, eyeing with an envious eye, watching with a watcher’s watch, scolding with a lecturer’s scorn. The pickpocketed sun taunts his isolation and from some dim cavern his parents’ voices hold weight; beasts of hatred. He lowers himself, crouching, hands still salvaged in his khaki pants. 
“It goes like this, Patricia.” The girl twirls, invoking merry go round polka dots. 
“Tag! You’re it!”
 “You can be Spider-Man, I’ll be Batman.”
And who was Daniel? He snatched at the grass, at those little hairs of viridescent beauty. His hands plucked and plucked and a tempestuous onslaught of tears rocked the boat of his disposition. They fell; they landed; they were swallowed by the dirt. 
The other kids, lost in the harmony of playfulness, paid no heed. Daniel was out of earshot, and beyond their eyes and thoughts. He was a shade enveloped in the fog of a Victorian graveyard. He might as well have been in the clouds. But this was not to be his homestead, so he tore tufts from the earth. The earth that neglected him, tossed him, abandoned him to lonely solitude. He was making good progress, watching as green waves parted to reveal the filthy under-layer: the real world. 
He would have continued if not for a hand in flight, a hand that landed on his bony shoulder. He peered around. 
Moonstone eyes sparked the flint of existence. “Hey, I’ve seen you around before. What’s your name?”
Daniel swallowed bitter stones. “Daniel…”
The boy offered his hand. “C’mon. You can be Green Goblin.”
The clouds danced away on the ballroom sky, and the trees shook in merriment. The voices carried all afternoon.

Coffee

By Daniel Healy

Alkaloid warmth, broth I ponder,
The sweetness, of my caffeine enriched meander,
Surging, inciting, faro-style heat,
My thoughts are racing for a quick sneak-peak,
For enticing mania, xanthine induced,
Brings cups full of brilliance in one dehydrated loop.
For a contraindicated, syncopated, heartbeat that’s endured,
A smiling blue sky, a dachshund that’s yours,
On top of a hill, a floral chorus sing,
Opportunities are but a fleeting thing.
But down comes a tumble, and like Jack and Jill,
Comes rolling down with a shrieking shrill,
The missteps of finding Havana at desk-side,
To try and awaken that slumber induced side-eye,
But for the lashings of sweat that sure do come soaring,
I’ll be sure to repeat it all again in the morning