Poetry | Grimbeau

Pedal Extremes

Go barefoot,

unstockinged or socked,

as often as you can!

Even if

like me

you have

grotesquely twisted gnarled toes,

suppurating scabby nightmares,

wear your feet with pride.

Feet are wonderful,

if you have some

Flaunt them

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Lassitude, Come Home!

When tempted to run for pinball

do yoga breathing, stand on your head,

and whistle down the wind,

play games

with lazyitis, and why not!

The grizzly nonsense of dossy

dissipation, the thin dry horse

tethered to the crossbar outside

The Molten Slipper Saloon

disaster’s old recipe

Table on the meal when you get

Back home if you have

got a home at all.

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Chisholm Trail Dawn

Join me as I slink to twig the silver

dust away from the campfire’s embers.

See the fire glow: teaspoon it to flame,

Carefully perch the tall, crimson pot atop,

askew atop that is, and dig the day’s

latrine with that small yellow plastic spade.

We are on the outskirts of the craic of dawn.

Scantily clad tidings of cheap skates and

Square war-jaws, cousins to sleep’s hazel

snacks and myxamatosis of your mind’s eye.

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Calendula

Now,

confound

dermic night flakes,

and,

through air

smoke blizzard,

blink molten dawn

short

to be

Indian summer,

and stroll

pondering

bullfrog Michaelmas

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On an oil sheet that hummed of bog,
we watch for the tide to be right and
the fires on Spike Island to cease.
In the corner shop we scrounged bread and cheese
and were told the ‘the borstal boys had been busy again’.

So waiting for relief from the relief
of the Southferry road I sat under
the wide sky of Ringaskiddy exposed
to the gaze of passing motorists, uniforms
and other gawkers amusing a bitter scallion

My fellow penniless wanderer joined the free library
and returned with a copy of ‘Death of a Naturalist’,
which we took turns at reading aloud
to fill the time and that of other idlers.

At the same time a bomb stopped
a ticking clock in the North.