Margaret Kiernan has a background in Public Policy and Social Justice. Writing in several genres including, Fiction and Poetry. Deeply committed, Margaret has attended many workshops and Tutorial led days over the past four years. A list is available. She is published in poetry and creative non-fiction. Appearing in The Blue Nib, Lit. Journal, New Ulster, Pendemic. Literary publication. Black-lion Press, Vox Galvia, Culture Page. Shortlisted at Fly on the wall Lit. Journal. Also, on-line. She is a Member of Over the Edge Advanced Poetry Org. Galway. Ox Mountain Poets, and Irish Writers and Poetry Centre, and Writing.ie

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Lube Puncture

On the street, it looked obscure
one nicely maintained beige door
once opened, another world

high domed shed, half ceiling in glass
with the sun- filtered dappled light
casts shadows upon the bench

that stood along one wall, greasy spanners,
oilcans, pincers, giant pliers, while underneath
my shoes stuck to the squelched floor

the air reeked heavy of oil while blue shiny
posters pinned to the wall, showed mountains
in snow, Alaska Or Mont Blanc

Johnny K. was well travelled they said,
A map of Europe covered the back-wall
this garage I avoided, most of all

He repaired bicycles wore a row of writing pens
in his top pocket, watched words Maxol, Castrol
on the side of cans

Puncture repair outfits in slim yellow tins he sandpapered
the tube, spread evo-stick out matched the patch
squeezed, while fumes gagged

Nearby, two ancient rusty petrol pumps languish
stand as witness to days when cars came by
now they flake away, a little bit each year.

His days driving hackney
A silent wife somewhere
all about him was shiny, greasy

With a yellow eye like a crow
head bent, left to right, he calculated
What? I’m not quite sure, even now

Rumours flew and small ears heard
enough, I mostly brought my bike
when my brother was around

Ball-bearings, squirted by a long spout can
he rattled the spokes into form
spun the wheels, skidded to a stop

Many sized bolts were housed in the wood drawer
scrummaged through hastily, sought silver
bits to mend the hoop

His oily words I resisted
grateful though I was, to get the bike
mended, as deafness filled my ears

He was a tiny dynamo, filled with sharp quick steps
always wore a suit, slippery as an eel, coiled
like a spring.

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Wolf-

As Witness -Nov.2020

Does desolation roam your street?
scoffed odds rumbled
wind cries through ravines

life and the backroad shift
left or right, far-sighted
switching could save life.

Babble on the Wi-fi drips energy
from back in time,
that reformation, why pilgrims
might forget how to move
to one side
genuflect, or not?

November trees shiver,
shaded month of the dead, as
we wait to hear the number,
now gone.

I stand and watch the night sky, believe in a God
that has a blueprint of those stars
can whip the lines to logic
secure the ground beneath me.

Keep those mountains for wolves
above the canopy of the trees
as torrents of balm
drift by.