my father is rattled when the wind blows from the east

my father is rattled when the wind blows from the east

he is a dashed rock a greybeard

and he is a boy and bicycle

chasing storms he always knew

the air goes green

scabby knees hounding thunder

from the sky

a lifetime of windswept and seachange

attuned craggy mottled locked

in to every 

blister and cajole

what is it like to know the wind so old man

or is it you who are known to them

the mechanic

sometimes we come in limping

our bicycle built for two

having seen better days

somewhere along the way

spokes were bent

heart gears catching

desire a tire tread worn thin

and once brave hearts

balk at the thought of

riding such a rusted beast

for endless numbered days

but thankfully you are a mechanic

and in the corner of your shop

is a patient stool

and I have the rest of the afternoon

to wile away any window of mercy

to once again

put my faith

in your kind and sooted hands

The Condemned

there is a coca-cola machine

now 

in the old crumlin road jail

somewhere between

the flogging post

and the execution chamber.

I did not stop to check

if it was actually plugged in

or just a polite breed of furniture,  

an attempt to remind 

the nightmare is over.

or, which nightmare is over. 

The Hills Have Names

some hills are given names.

there is one called the hill of screaming 

because of a time 

some Presbyterians threw a bunch of Catholics

off a cliff. 

and just across the way

there is one called the hill of harmony

because of a time 

a bunch of Presbyterians and some Catholics bought an old ruined house 

together for £8,000

made their beds and slept in them

until the day they could wake up without war. 

I think this is what is meant by,

“Is this the hill you want to die on?”

penance

a man hurt me very badly once 

today his eyes are wide and still 

and his only wish

is to untangle the knots 

in my hair

one by one

with his fingers

it’s been seven years 

is that not the sentence jacob thought he toiled for rachel’s hand?

words become labored and

tied tight calloused

my brow is furrowed my hand is tucked

I let him touch my hair 

Gregorian Calendar

"it's that time of year again"

fidgeting with our masks

which year?

lungs now with growth rings

the winter of a million dead and no more ventilators?

the spring of choking in taksim square?

the summer of tear gas (any & all of 'em)?

the fall of the DAPL cough, 40,000lb of Rozol later?

for every thing

there is a season

so they say

and every year

my coughs

linger longer & longer

oh and look

you already forgot

about the wild fires

Pleasance

over and over and over the loud speaker

            NO LOITERING

            PLEASE DISPERSE

we are all of us at home

and I am now a woman

who peers out of curtains

with greying hairs

they installed the tower this week

after three more were shot

over and over and NO LOITERING

                              PLEASE DISPERSE

into the night

we are all of us at home

I am grateful

the one of us who was shot in april

where the tower now stands

has a room in back out of earshot

and curtains that peer into a garden

which is where women forget their grey hairs

over and over NO LOITERING

but this time no pleasance

DISPERSE DISPERSE DISPERSE DISPERSE