Poetry By Connie Sheeran

L5th student Connie Sheeran has produced some excellent performance poetry from her attendance at the Performance Poetry Club on Fridays from 3:40 – 4:40pm. We are very pleased to share some of her poems below and hope that you enjoy reading them as much as we have.

1. To those drifting clouds we shook in
Silvered drenched, patterned skies
That have peeled from semicircled oceans
Strange that we bow to its child,
That ground with yellowed fingers Aged with nights in winter white,
The cold, a silent whisper.
Here we plough to Earth’s delight,
The oceans above a memory
Distant to our sweet sweat
And the tears that flood in wrinkled faces, streak away the dead soil, muddied.
Now these pinked hands, stiff to wooden bows, fire, beneath a trench, yet on that day the shovels still plough.
So, this age of blood is gone,
Yet it streaks the feet we plant,
Each step, to march to its infinite sodden music.
The roots we pluck, the writhing bodies reaching to the everlasting, the heat bathing each leaf with drips of ambrosia. May each, each with toxin fuelled trunks, be blessed to child beyond themselves.
But most are not.
Each time is a burden, a wait of spring. Some will die a fate to their kin, Like the slipping mercury.
But, a tendon can hold them, with some the shell of others, but one cannot scream again to the sky, the oceans.
 And now the ground upon which a head will lie, in the forest on a dark and summered night. The worker, with bag in blistered hand.
The sleeping wisps, fed to the golden stars.
Waiting, a premature oath to distant family.
Each looks down on the man,
Branches swoop to dissuade his journey, cold to touch with darkness’s self pity, yet when he wakes broken feet billow dust to the reddened dawn.
And again, waiting, waiting for the loneliness to subside.
2. Stood upon the plane of consciousness,
Staring out beyond the horizon.
Blinding shame, the white light.
The silent, stillness of the world.
Forever dead, ones lost life.
The ending is a fitting punishment,
Our Mind stronger than our body,
At the end it crumbles,
Like dirt beneath his blooded feet.
And the burnt houses that he sees
Streaming from blackened skies
He had seen the heavens cry down,
Anguish felt as angels wept,
The last site of destruction.
The ash that fell blanketed all.
The ground became his bedfellow,
The Cracked earth stained red.
No reason can be given,
Dragging his body here, left alone.
Lying in a charred village that he once called home,
Left to suffer, isolated.
Death’s unknown friend.
That face of sorrow,
Held the beauty of human eyes,
With the glint of sun and memories,
As he drew the last gulp of life.
Nothing left, but for a deathly kiss,
His life was meant to cheat death,
Not to feel bereft.
That eternal rest of lifelessness haunts,
In the dimly lit silence one can
Hear him taunt with whispering,
Counting: The Timekeeper.
3. Time stood still
No breath of air coating child-worn sleeping glass
Mirrors no more reflecting their mistress
Precious moments of the silence where not one stirs
Simplistic solidarity of embraced warmth, a lover beside
Yet when the night is gone
Savage beasts rip porcelain masks,
And shattered dreams litter life’s grave
The sky so begins to scream

And these birds in morning’s call that chirp with hidden wings

Lie with Lowly feet on snow laid branches above
So each can hold a string of life
To porcelain masks
And like banshees they can wail
But only heaven knows their call
For man is an broken being
And with blood on our hearts
birds can hear our heart sing
Thus When one hears the chorus of dawn
They do not speak but answer
For days come and go in seasons year
And some of us shall fall
4. You stare at me selling the tube with solitude
Baby-faced but deep with veined lust
For what is unbeknownst to me.
I buy her eyes with grace,
Dark with Irish green, no accent upon the metal-encased teeth nor pierced rose.
You remind me of a ghost,
a soul I passed in the delirium of a day.
Still we sit eyes locked with light.
The train halts, returning those home.
I dream of her now, the silhouette, with her black eyes still locked on me streaming from oval faces,
the reflected sunlight haunts.
 The scene smells cunning yet soft like a black ocean or a bloodied one,
with dead fish still upon the lapping top.
With semicircular pinpricked hair her oval is raised
Above the worn teddybear fabric of childhood.
The mangled hair flees from the new dark and now she is sane.
For though one sees the angelic depth of fear,
It is not her that looks for it beneath the sleepingbaged body that now fills the creeping warmth of sleep.
I release the coin with a tear.
Still she sleeps.
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