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Liam Porter


Christmas Thanks

All year I had unwrapped them.
Gifts of time and patience.
Understanding and encouragement.

I saw days that had unravelled into chaos,
packed up again; all those broken pieces
squeezed back together. Spirits fortified.

I had basked in the warmth of friendship,
taken solace from endearment,
then stored each precious moment.

When Christmas came, I replayed them all,
a movie-reel of magic memories.

Then, with paper I sat
to wrap up in words
all I could offer in return.

And simply wrote…

Thank You All.
​

November

November came with its usual
temper tantrum that screamed
and swirled until its wrecking digits
swiped leaves from the trees,
flung them to the ground in a rage
then stamped its feet so hard
it cracked the evenings open.
Seizing its sudden opportunity,
darkness stole through, poured in
like ink in water, twisting tightly
its furious fingers around the day
until it gasped and fiercely fought
for just a few hours of light.

Idle Engine

The engine still idles;
whirrs away in the background,
as the search for the key
to shut it down for the night
gets more and more flustered.
Under fluffed and flapped pillows,
miscounted sheep,
half-formed sentences,
shuttered-down, silent headlamps.
Each new discovery brings hope,
but turned and turned again,
the wheels still buzz and spin.
There is nothing now to do,
but wait until the fuel runs dry.
Lie in the darkness and try,
not to feed it
Anymore. 

Simply Static

Tune in, they said,
but all I found was static.
Crackling, crispy
scrunched up musings.
A ball of wrinkled, jagged paper
rolling around my head.
I twist and turn,
search for clarity
and try to escape
the train of thought,
dopplering as it sped
that scratchy, hissing fizz
screaming ever louder
through my mind.
But I am on,
a different wavelength.
Would that lovely silence come,
if I simply pulled the plug?
Switched off.
For I am out of tune. 

Pulled from a Hole

That laughter, was hard to take
from those who pulled figures
like Drummer, from a dark recess.

Imaginary numbers. They were fake,
but real enough to reel in
foolish leaders far too anxious
to put skin in the game.

For the big boys, it was all
just a game. Chortle down the line,
mock and sing; defunct anthems.

Of course the leaders now,
filled with imitation indignation,
trip over each other to tut tut,
shake their heads and suggest
that this is all big news to them too.

But with their thick skins in the game
they still battered on
with their big cheques
for banks and bondholders.

Many of the small players meanwhile,
don’t even have a supper to sing for.
With barely halfpence to add
to the pence, they wonder now if there
ever really was a romantic Ireland?

Perhaps some men in suits
just pulled it from a hole,
then walked away to leave us deal
with the stink…

Green

They are pale, almost yellow-green now,
those fields. Sporting their new Summer
skin-tight silage cuts, close to the surface.
Prominent among the patchwork duvet
of dark-green, dancing stems
on whom the blades have yet to fall.
Tractors, busily bounce and buzz
like mechanical ants, over and back
with treasure of fresh-cut fodder.
Long into a night where the light
hangs on tightly, like the sleeves
of a shirt, to a clothes line.
Eventually, darkness will prise
those sleeves away,
but morning comes quickly in June.
And, if the rain stays away,
more patches of pale-green will be sewn
on the countryside quilt
tomorrow.
Picture


​Liam Porter's Profile

Learning to Dance

Behind those inner walls
of sheer self-doubt
and inhibitions,
lies the rhythm
that sneaks sometimes
from head to tapping fingers,
drumming out time
as they dance on a table top,
beating out words
on a keyboard.
Beyond that though,
everything is measured.
The trick is to try
to free the tempo
that for so long
had been beaten down,
then rolled into nothing more
than taps of a toe.
The journey from head to feet
is one that is fraught,
with mistimed movements
and always counted steps.
Even when walked first,
hand-held slowly,
through every single motion,
they manage to bemuse.
Trying the patience,
it is time to shift the weight
of expectation, to repeat
and rehearse,
until there is something;
like freedom
of movement.
Until it looks at last
like a dance.

Night Sentry

Sleep eludes me now,
for there are places
beyond the dark
I have glimpsed
in terror.
So, even with closed eyes
I am now a sentry;
a wound-up spring
ready to jump
at every sound.
A knight in pyjamas,
an adrenaline-fuelled
man on edge.
I am the first responder,
and sleep eludes me now.

Scratched Out Day

I have scratched out,
another day.

Peeled away
layer after layer.

Tearing through,
digging deeply,
until each task
was finally, done.

But those long hours
have left their pulpy,
soft, sappy residue
under my fingernails.

So, I sit at my keyboard
and try,
to scrape it all away. 

The Lightning Storm

It was a mismatch.
The fireflies appearing
for a second or two
in the evening sky,
paling like fairy lights
against the lightning storm.
A meek mannered tempest
that splashed its yellowish white
across the black ceiling of thin clouds
over and over, like morse code.
But there came no thunder.
I stood and watched
the spectacular night show,
all picture and no sound.

Noise

There is never
total silence.
The background noise
choosing to scream
when quiet prevails
and I shut my mouth,
but can’t close my ears
or shut the inside of my head
where all the thoughts
batter and bounce around.
And people think
I am sitting quietly,
writing,
but all the while
words are trying
to drill their way out
of my mind onto paper.
They are rushed
and fuzzy, scampering,
trampolining.
It is a circus in there
and those solemn thoughts
are sometimes,
all just noise.

Ploughed Field

Today you were cut deep,

sliced open from end to end,

and everything was suddenly

turned upside down.

Torn asunder, you bled

fresh brown into yourself

until you glinted again

in the September sun.

Overhead, on the wires,

the black music score of birds

silently played out the evening,

and the light of the tractor

flashed amber and warned

of the winter days yet to come.

Comments?

***

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