David Prendergast – Three poems

???????????????????????????????David Prendergast is from Claremorris Co. Mayo Ireland. He happily resides with his wife Tracey in Massachusetts where he is a full time musician/songwriter. His work has appeared in the last two volumes of “ROPES Literary Journal”. Thegreenrovers.com Finetunedj.com

A Bottle Of Smoke

I took the time it takes to smoke three cigarettes
and gave it to these lines instead.

The great builders made marvels,
erected columns and chiseled letters
they tried to fight time
with statues that still
reach across the centuries to slack my jaw.

The great poets too,
armed with verse in faded books,
send a bottle across the centuries
to cure my soul and trigger
the same synaptic impulse in my brain.

But time always wins,
beats mountains, oceans, stars, history, and
my important life too.

On my back in the grass sunlight of a July evening
Through the leaves of the trees I saw shapes in the clouds
As they formed and passed
We’re more like them than statues or poems.

II

No art can tell you how it really, really feels
to live a bird flying, wash a dish, or to go to bed
alone for the first time after your true love dies.

The great builders and poets sent it off to others.
The important part is in the knowing, witnessing,
experiencing, living.
I don’t always translate it or filter the inspiration into form.

I took the time it takes
but maybe next time
I’ll take the time it takes.

III

Puff of smoke.

Old Man

Skin like thin paper that might tear.
Brittle bones of porcelain,
in a lumbered gait that feels
the wait of decisions and years.

Swing closed the eyelid folds
over wet blue eyes filled with
the thousand yard stare.
He knows he can’t traverse it

Parentheses around the mouth
that cover every word he says,
so it’s only an old man complaining
instead of the content of his words.

It’s work to breathe breath
wide berth of the narrow chink through the fence.
Is it life or death on the other side
of old age?

As Rough As A Bear’s Arse

The Celtic Tiger malled my town.
Scratched hollow house scars across the land
and sank his teeth into the Irish identity.

In those days I got up and worked.
I ordered pizza and drank Uisea Beatha.

The Tiger became a worn out rug in the EU’s mansion.
Her cubs ran or became the cat in the bag, Titaniced on the local lock.
The lap of luxury one moment to rushing for lifeboats the next.
Nine lives my hole.

In those days I got up and worked one way or another.
I drank beer from a can.

500 new Steve’s Jobs in Cork.
Put on your false face and bob for apples, bite at snap apple.
Only a few win and it never tastes like Emain Ablach.

In those days I got up and emigrated like my fathers.
I drank Guinness.

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