Three poems by Barry Lowe

Barry Lowe is a Galway-based Artist.

He also has an interest in literature and painting having completed a Degree in Fine Art Painting at The Limerick School of Art and Design.

He likes to write when he has the time.

 

Three poems by Barry Lowe

 

Sunday Morning

When I was younger we used to go to mass,

On a Sunday morning at my age those days have passed,

There was an unspoken ritual for the time,

But now that my father is eternally asleep,

He gave me some good advice he’d say ‘thats your’s to keep’,

Monday through Friday are already spoken for,

I’m not a religious man or an Athiest but when Sunday arrives,

I say Thank God for that.

 

The Painter

Crimson is a red an ambiguous colour,

Much at the front like some tempers,

People get lost in a menaning, something I do not see,

Telling one another what each brush stroke means,

Maybe I’m too ignorant, at a loss for words,

Too many critics spoli the broth.

 

When a painting has dried and is left for dead,

It’s put in a corner a sliver of light brings it to life again,

You walk away to let it grow roots,

Suddenly it calls you back up through the earth it shoots,

Somethings just finish itself.

 

 

Temple 

There is a song a de ja vu,

A chill down your spine an I.O.U.

Certain smells to lusten the mind,

Healthy people who say ‘My body is a shrine’

 

To climb a mountain is to reach the top,

If there is no line on the horizon you might as well be lost at sea,

Like a stubborn child you shout and stomp your feet,

I’m going/I’m not going a repitition, its decision time,

It’s not a case of what’s yours is mine.