Dave was born and still lives in Loughshinny, a tiny farming and fishing village in the coastal North Co. Dublin. He has been writing since he could hold a pen in his fist. His work has seen recent publication in a number of anthologies as well as online at sites such as madswirl.com and Medium.Dave was the originator of The Blue Nib and now plays second fiddle to the more experienced poet Shirley Bell who has taken the editor’s chair since issue two allowing Dave to develop other initiatives to encourage the writing and reading of new poetry. Dave is married with two wonderful kids and splits his time between Ireland and the island of Fuerteventura. He is currently working on a novel and a first collection of poetry.
The air tasted of the estuary;
wind wiped its eye;
wielding jagged edges, segmenting
sound. Slicing children’s voices; carried
away over a play-ground
History hurried by;
shoulders hunched, sloping
The river rising,
painting stains on ancient gabion.
Shushing -as the gritty susurration
of a heel striking sand.
A Pause; a breath held
in the vacuum before the storm.
When clouds paint shadow-maps
Darkness. a prophesy or possibility.
At the confluence, where blood meets flesh
Perched in storm-light, an émigré,
landed, yet cruciform for flight.
We greet, strangers
in the anonymity of a private room,
where family albums
shout accusations from empty pages.
Revelations, I knew you.
In shadow and shape.
-my own face.
the half seen outline
of a once familiar place.
The healed skin of the quarry
in monochromatic outline;
Keloid scars of claws made flesh
in greened tufts; hoisted too the clear tops.
Of trembling yellow gorse
shimmering; on a windward breeze
The sea returns
the intensity of storm light bouncing
along grey repined walls.
A buzzard lifts, pinned to chalk
path of travel, tracks
air; pierced with plaintive calls.
She speaks of desolation;
The sign is over grown
of trumpet vine.
Sand and gravel, visible
for sale; erased,
beneath it’s blue and white
A vixen crouches
coat soaked to the hem
of her own precipice,
cold dark water paints her face
in perfect symmetry. The last men bolt
the lock and turns the quay.
The Hardness of Geometry
Painting the brilliance of sky. My core touching the softness of elder bark in a frantic, static shock world of arc bright white. The wind up here is sharp and pungent, redolent of hops and burnt grain and diesel fumes. My tongue craves surf and salt and the tang of marsh and mud. My nose the clean stink of razor fish and clams. Mouth tasting in anticipation, chowder and pan fried mackerel.
I am blinded by reflections, glass bouncing a million tiny suns in a billion shattered directions. Men sitting on lunchtime pales and struts. Rivet herders, city fellows that sing songs of Philadelphia streets and fast cars, scarlet molls and gangster rappers. Nothing here of sheep on green banks or black and white wisps chasing whistles and fleece back to cirrus framed barns or the silence of my land.
The lemon blue of the dollar clashes with the hardness of geometry, uprights blinding sight of rivers and lakes. The world seen through a matrix of welders art and rivet guns and bolts as wide as Mary’s waist.
Men up here walk on the edge of nothing, whistling suicide as they ride girders through swaths and slashes of turquoise sky.
The metal road heaves and all I feel beneath my feet is the song of deck boards. And a prayer whispering home, calling exiles back to the quietness of a lovers arms.
I Still Can’t Kick A Ball Straight.
(Conversations with my father)
This occupation of sitting
with legs dangling off hay bales
will pay no rent
when you can’t get up or leave the field.
Your voice is just a faraway now,
a teasing wind that scuffles dandelions
sends fluff and thistledown
tumbling across your emptiness.
Ernest is a washer woman
scrubbing the worn denim in your eyes,
and your workaday wise, on cracked lips
leaking lies -that fed us when soup was thin.
Your crackling grin. You said I adore you,
the way birds do to sky or fish to sea
you carried me on shoulders that sagged
under the weight of growing old.
The air tastes
of the first day of laryngitis,
or the unexpected stench
of rancid butter.
The sea regurgitating,
in violent reflux,
as wave on wave
sucks and heaves