the sun is sparkling, the rain rumbling, and we badly need some poetry...

Monday, 18 April 2011

S.P. Flannery - Three Poems


Boar tusks pierce
the abdominal wall
to spear the organs inside,
remove discarded flesh,
the rest left behind
to perish under the sun,
but the smooth inner coils
still have life, pulse on
those competitive blades
until constriction flips
the male beast on its back,
lying near a rotting log,
sounds of dogs in the distance
become closer to lost parts
that are retrieved to reunite
with the whole child,
a funeral pyre lights next to
the roast that will feed
those who grieve and keen.

The Pianist

When I press the keys,
those white and black wooden
blocks, no song echoes out,
I wail and pound, but
my fingers cannot create
notes strung together to
please the ears.
I have the same bones,
muscles, and tendons;
they are not clubs
or hammers to deafen
the tunes produced when
the cords are struck,
but he must have something,
whether from nature or nurture,
to be able to glide above
those keys without touching,
a dance of digits
few see because they
sit transfixed, transported
from their theater seats
into a world of auroras
curved along the black and white
remembered stars of closed eye lids.

The Hill Mound

Rain beads on the weathered blocks
of stone hauled up the raised knoll
built to give a noble view
now covered in creeks of mud.

Three teams tow with hand-spun rope
while ground slides under damp shoes
made from fallen hart-beasts' hide,
gifts from their life stricken sire.

He died in the autumn war,
in defense of the clan's herd;
lithic points rest in his chest,
shards carved by a banished son.

The ash they entomb when snow
covers the eastward glazed mound.
Three drawn spirals direct his
energy towards hidden planes.


We circle the eroded hill
to capture an image for
books to pass amongst our friends
of sights found on calendars.

Even with our modern tools,
the builders remain unknown
to everyone but those who
dwell between shade realms shrouded.