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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

3 poems by Dennis Moriarty

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Dennis Moriarty: I am 54 years old and live in South Wales UK. I am married with five children and six grandchildren. I run a contract cleaning company with my wife. I love to read, write poetry, walk in the hills of Wales and delight in the Welsh language.

 

 

 

 

 

Freeze Dried

 

A crack shot of wings in the valley
The buzzard’s solo flight into winter.

Ice settling old scores
And the riffle wind’s recoil is cushioned

By snow flakes on black ice, danger well concealed.
Two eyes cut from a sheet of polished steel

Each one calculating the dimensions of a cloud
And a sudden sharp intake of air,

A split atom of frost blistering the throat’s
Delicate membrane,

Holds the moment,lungs heaving under
Swallowed time,

Let’s go, exhaling a vaporous breath of silhouettes,
A jet plane heading for warmer climes,

Dragging it’s entrails across hectares of
Freeze dried sky

 

 

 

Tonight

 

I will dream you one more winter.
A hoarfrost
To replenish your tired eyes
Snow flakes
To soften the corners of your voice.
I will reenact
Old memories purely for your
Amusement
And I imagine your laughter will shatter
The windows.
It must be of winter that I dream for
I know how you loved
Those long dark nights in front of
A fire
The ritual burning of logs and the flames writhing
In an ecstasy of passion.
I will dream you a hearth and logs to burn
A chair to sit in
A song to swallow and a pipe to smoke.
Tonight
I will dream you alive again.

 

 

 

This room

 

This room has aged me in warm ash
And scented candles.
A shrine to popped pills and too many
Bottles of wine
To lost days and undiscovered nights.
Sat here
Listening to the rain I am an effigy of
All I have ever been,
But that clock, oh that clock with its
Nervous tick
And sinister hand shakes, has always begrudged
Me my limited time.
Yet this room is a comfort, an old friend who
Has kept me safe
From insurgent forces and the damnation
Of conflict.
Still this room continues to age me in worn leather and
Furniture polish
Leaving me silent and philosophical as a cat
Minus eight lives and counting.

 

 

 

 

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