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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Poetry by Lorraine Carey

Lorraine Carey was born in Coventry, England and moved to Greencastle, Co. Donegal where she grew up. Her poetry has been widely published in the following : Vine Leaves, The Galway Review, Olentangy Review, Dodging the Rain, A New Ulster, Quail Bell, Live Encounters, ROPES, North West Words, Sixteen, Stanzas and Poethead and is forthcoming in Atrium, Picaroon and Launchpad.
A past winner and runner up of The Charles Macklin Poetry Competition, she was a runner up in the 2017 Trocaire / Poetry Ireland Competition. She has contributed poetry to several anthologies. Her artwork was featured as the cover image for Issue 15 of Three Drops From A Cauldron and six pieces were featured in August’s issue of Dodging the Rain. Her debut collection From Doll House Windows – Revival Press is available from www.limerickwriterscentre.com. She now lives in Fenit, Co Kerry.

 

 

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In Bloom

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The snip, snip of hedge clippers
sent me hurtling
into your well kept garden
as you mowed lawns, clipped back
the mammoth hedge that bordered
the gorse lined stream.

One year I painted border fences,
feathered with firs and shrubs,
the creosote splashes,
stubborn streaks on my clothes,
the oily tar a stoking memory,
smoking, never burns away.

The lush green, gentle
river’s rush. The whins,
the broom, hydrangeas in bloom,
rhubarb sprouted in patches
like high kings.

Yet indoors, the dark mould
formed dot to dot clusters,
squatted in ceiling corners.
Skirtings home to years
of neglect, velvet dust
and spider webs.
Radiators yellowed
with each new year,
the smell of must
and brokenness,
permeating each and every room.

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Crab Claws

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They lay scattered,
broken on the marina path.
Splintered shards of claws,
still salty,
the sweet meat torn
from limbs, cracked open
like Christmas Brazil nuts.

Pincers tipped a burnt umber
gulls arched overhead
with their shrieks of disapproval
as I crouched to check
for leftover flesh
and walked off
craving seafood salad.

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Legs Eleven

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She brought you to bingo
to slice through numbers
with a black marker
on Monday nights
to keep you sober
and from the vodka
slumber.

For company,
for your own safety,
to keep you out
of the kitchen drawer
and the cold, blue bathroom
that didn’t have a key.

You collected the bottles
maintained your nails and
highlights, everything else
on a landslide, slid away
and your only break
from those four yellow walls

was into a big book
and two fat ladies.
The wolf whistles pierced
pensioner concentration
in the musty parish hall.
Kelly’s Eye, key of the door,
and all the others.
The call lodged in throats
waited to rise and shout,
the black slashes
marked a full house.

A sneaky trip for mouthwash,
then back to front seat denial
and another bag search.
The yellow walls heard
the coughs to muffle the breaking seal,
the broken spiral of a new litre
to where it all went wrong.

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Shoal

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