Visions of a road

23 male, poet, writer, wandering soul. If you read any of my poetry message me and tell me how you felt

[visionsofaroad]

Where the sun leaks in - 26th of September 2020

Where the sun leaks through the green plants we share.

It spills onto our varnished floor

It splashes onto our white walls

It illuminates the little smudges and stains on our glass table where he have rested and sheltered and loved.

The crumbs from morning tostadas con butter. Where we warmed the chairs and I stared as the sun seeped into our pot of honey.

Sat at our shining table, lush trees outside held up with a pure blue sky.

My mother to my right and my guapa to my left, golden. Sparkling in the autumnal sun.

A golden brown cup of tea rests in front of me where warmth, milk and honey mix.

The reflection of this bliss, this joy, this utter warmth is heavenly.

[visionsofaroad]

An afternoon in Baile Brigin - September 2019

An expansive, affectionate sea hugs the sand.

Rusted iron bars and broken bricks

Screaming by a train wakes up the afternoon commuters

Sleepy in the pale sun

Big white eyes against dark faces, hunched staring down at battered glass screens

Peeling paint of shopfronts

The afternoon brings

Youth on bikes etching through groups, not gangs, of bored, glazed eyes. Older men, red noses and stinking breath step off the path to clear the way.

For the crowd of bustling youth in sky blue jumpers. A hoard of cackling, blonde hairs, freckles, black hands and white headphones, pink phone covers in the orange blotchy hands of girls. Shouting, pushing, whistling through.

Wrappers tossed into the road like glistening confetti

Another school day over

[visionsofaroad]

The spectacle of summer

I spread my heart thin like butter on toast.

I search through memories of loving and being loved.

We are all doing A O K but how long will it take? Until the tea goes cold

Until it crumbles again, until the grips of winter push us away and freezing rain drops wash away the tears I will have to shed. Because. Of. You.

Do my hands still ache for the symmetry of yours?

The future looks like a freezing cold sea fret. Unclear, blinding and cold. I know I may have to learn to love again. I know I may have to face that awful lonely talk.

But now I will bask in the warm red sun, stroll beside the sparkling sea and watch the cherry blossoms dance. Listen to the deafening birds sing and sip and sip and sip on sweet cider.

[visionsofaroad]

Goodbye then

I

Your eyes welled up with tears as you stood in the shadow of the front gate with your pale face.

We walked down Grafton street to St Stephens Green like a man walking to his execution.

You put a brave face on things as you smiled and laughed and I couldnt bare to look at you.

My gaze drifted through the blurred crowds on this crisp, cold and clear winters day.

II

You left me in the cold of the winter

When the skies were heavy. I was left on my own in that dark corner of St Stephens Green.

Warm tears ran down my face and you hugged me. We walked together back down that busy street and as I turned right you kept on walking. One last hug.

III

I walked to the cold north up Westmoreland Street. As I moved like a ghost I watched the crowds across the street at the old bus stop. I searched for your coat but couldnt find it.

When my heart was heavy you were gone, gone, gone.

[visionsofaroad]

Sometimes I fall in love with people on instagram

Sometimes I fall in love with people on Instagram.

Sometimes I look at cheekbones dripping skin and lace and lips.

Full, as the sun set oozes over the neat brows of a wonder.

I press my lumious screen twice as I fawn, fawn hopelessly over tropical trees, black sunglasses and ink punctured into astounding bronzed skin.

I can only hear the wind howling beyond the rectangle in my palm. I dream of her full lips that I know must taste of honey and brighter longer days.

I can almost smell the flowers of the perfect summers day the photo was taken, the perfect proportions of flesh and lace, the perfect filter to make my body ache for the stranger on screen.

But it is a February night, monotomy tomorrow, wind outside. I will never hold them hips.

[visionsofaroad]

Warmth and home

The purest smile, gold light and long shadows

Heaven is just that, trying to catch the leaves of autumn

From staring up at her

From sad lonely days shuffling by the liffey, counting the colours brown, red, yellow and waiting to return to her

To standing tall, wiser and laughing, looking down on her

To grey roots, strolling softly in the boyne valley, through Ledwiges garden, a blackbird sings to her

Leaves falling around me on this crisp, clear day

Days grow colder, but warm tea to help

From my best friend

All I have, all I am

[visionsofaroad]

Euston to Chester

Euston to Chester. 1 August 2017. My back turned on the Londoners in shiny suits. The brunettes with bone structures and men with tans. Who never look outside their bourough. The sun split the trees and lit up that DLR carriage. Plastic bags of clothes hung over my head as we soared through fields canals and passed over the back gardens of little houses. Little worlds and little lives beneath. The gentle summer sun lit up flourishing green plants under that blue ceiling. Through black tunnels and past rusted old chunks of distorted twisted metal. Milton Keynes, Rugby, Crewe where the tops of cars were lit by the kiss of the sun. Beauty and beasts wandered on and off, girls in leather jackets and dip dyed hair and fat men wobbling away. Cruising. Gently through what still looks like a green and pleasant land, tamed, trimmed and sleeping.

[visionsofaroad]

Dark Crumbling Bricks

A free day. The DLR swooped and my poor heart was pushed around inside me. Feelings sweletering to the surface. I walked through brick lane from hipster shops to a mosque. Ink scarred the black walls caked in smoke and paint. The Dark bricks of London looked down. As I crumbled in a stare. The peeling black paint on the seats outside the Duke in Deptford looked up at the smoke  that filled the air in front of our laughing faces. Little words of Turkish. The anarchist. In this world burning up she came to me from the sprawl of Istanbul. Black flowing hair, metal on teeth. We wandered Cambridge under the shining heat and the banks of the Thames and her cool froze the summer sun in the sky. Dark eyes with purple venom to frame them and the palest face. Braces twinkled when she smiled at the word KEZBAN. "Dont be silly" Life was breathed into me. Little laughs and little texts. The moonlight in my heart.

[visionsofaroad]

Oxford Saunter

Oxford Saunter. The clouds are over  the rain is only left slushing my shoes And city church of oxford is illuminated. at last. Trendy teens saunter in the sun bustling. The rustic becomes popular and ripped denim is sported on ship street. A girl hymns and quietly sings outside the city church. So quiet the chatter of far east wanderers overpower the strumming and melodies. "Hmm m m... somebody like me" Ship street in the sun and the shade. What lives we lead in the cool summer breeze. And the hot summer sun. And that longing summer shade.

[visionsofaroad]

Placa Felipe Neri

Three Trees. Reaching for the searing sky. Ancient bricks stacked brown and yellow. Carvings of hideous faces in every shadow’s lair.

And in that magnificent space where the sun struggles to kiss the flowing fresh, fountain. I looked to the walls and overheard tongues and guitar strings wailing. Through a year I wandered in awe around that hidden sweet square.

I brought her there, the only place I ever brought her. In the winter cold, with men huddled in the corner. I told her the famous story. Where ghosts are lined up against a wall and smiled in the sky, that long lie. Or was it the children who listened to roars from above? Crushed in screaming dark terror. Wailing in silence.

She listened in wonder as the lamps glowed a winter glow in the dark and silence of the night. I laughed and sipped a beer with two hands.

But shes just a ghost now. I sat for an hour on the fountain wall and looked up to the tops of those golden walls and watched the passer by wander through. Spectres still stare from the walls at the phantoms that pass by. Placa Felipe, where a piece of the passer-bys soul is cut from them as they wander through this timeless haunting square.

[visionsofaroad]

Rumble

Rumble Bright lights beam down as I sit staring at the screen of my phone Plugged in as the mouths of others say Everyone is staring down. Faces illuminated and still A chico beside me has a big beautiful bucket of crimson roses tied up with a big red ribbon. Pure white jeans and shiny shoes like the moon. Slick oiled back hair Sipping on a tin can covered in a green plastic bag. A couple sit opposite dreaming down. Aching through tunnels of blackness Whispers in toungues Buzzing light beside me Trains Trains, everyhere creeping over the earth This one is whizzing through a mountain Underneath where they say God gave Jesus this earth Running from the sea Lights flash flash flash Proxima Estacion Les Planes

[visionsofaroad]

Drip

In the heat of that night time train Her wandering eyes found mine My heart raced. Darting from the black moonlit nothingness outside To her olive skin that dripped. My mouth was stiched and sewed in silence As she dripped, dripped, dripped away into that black moonlit nothingness

[visionsofaroad]

Smirk

Meester. He smirked as he turned to his short speckled friend In light cool blue shirts and oil black wavy hair. Don't pretend. Crushed pencils and a chair knocked over Always smirking. Red brick every where in this timeless school Sitting at desks and on desks, bleary eyes. Dark pool. "Can we be in your class?" A spark, a push, an excitement Boistrous boys beating Life bursting out the seams Rowdy self assured but so fragile

[visionsofaroad]

Tiph pt2

Tiph Pt2 I We strolled In the sunshine in the sweet springtime. Excited smiles and pints. Smooth whatsapp messages after long tired days and plans to look forward too in this too big, too sad a world. I kissed you On the cheek in the night time. The right time. Soft, dim, dusty light in Marina. The room without a window. Leading me back in a dreamy daze, a hot light to ward away the creeping scared fingers of grinning dark snakes. With my eyes on hers there is no better time. That last time. Heat and long curly reddish hair, like fire. Two eyes staring hungrily up into mine. Soft and pale and sweet. The gentle sunlight was as gentle as you. In the morning time. Pictures on the walls of Avignon and an empty kitchen with no milk here. Looking for affection when I've lost my way. II Empty spaces where words should have been. As I walk in the lonely kiss of the sun. This terrible tram stop. The dead souls surrounding us dont know this romantic tragedy. Winter and spring have come together. Now, what have you done? Now, what have you caused? These unspeakable feelings.

[visionsofaroad]

A poem about water.

Water? in September 2014. I. Red and black backgrounds. Bold white lettering. "Jobstown protestors facing garda trumped up charges". Huffs and puffs and the clenching of jaws. Jeers and cheers. Carboard signs waft around heads. Smiles are cracked and cocked. Uneasy aggro. A boy with a beret sells a newspaper to an old warm crooked woman. Big shoulders brush past and calloused hands are shook, these old heads cant believe their tired eyes. Tracksuits strut along-side skinny black jeans and county colours over the mossy tarmac. Step by step, megaphones crackle and excited cheers erupt. A not so sinister carnival. You can taste the anger and the hope and the expectations and it is the sweetest of tastes in this September sun. II. Across a street are lurking flouresent jackets, in navy and black with hard expressions of resent. Little red blotches under those heavy navy hats. Heavy rubber boots laced up. A precise almost robotic concentration on a scene unfolding in front of them they cant quite believe. A hard leather belt, cold metal ticking cuffs and a plastic bottle of cruel liquid. Blue and present as a black shadow cuts off their brows and eyes, leaving blank black caverns to search in. Blank. Bang. This scene will be played out a thousand times, on the screens of phones and computers, on the cold pavements of obscure housing estates on the edges of an uncaring urban sprawl. The stand off. and the push and the grab and the bark. Erupting from behind big men "No way"... "We wont pay". Where Joyce wandered and women are pushed to the floor. The O'Brienite agents hide their faces pushing inhuman metal pipes down into our brown clay.

[visionsofaroad]

Tiphaine

Pt.1 Aahh bonsoir tambien. She followed my limping leg into a shop and smiled her warm smile. She doesnt pronounce the H at the start of a word. Red shiny curly hair, down on her big soft coat. Pale like nothing down here in the dusty depths of Barcelona. In a cafe I splurged stories about cold Kildare nights and we strolled past the yellow bricks and little shops where indian men stood staring out on to the street full of huddled blank figures. A collection of characters. Long Whatsapp messages and drinks in an Irish pub. Another day, France Vs Ireland. She quietly whispered that she wished she was Irish and said sadly that the crazed French rugby fans around us ashamed her. I just laughed at her. And later on en el barrio gotico over golden cups tears formed in her eyes when I told her about Ireland. She stole a pint glass as we stared through the twinkling golden lights that reflected on our cold blue window. And we looked out onto the street like Indians dreaming

[visionsofaroad]

Adeiu Angie

Soló Solò and a kiss of your teeth. A gentle breeze of mojitos and latin dancing. Eyy siiiiii que pasaaa y this kiddd is killiiing meee yooo elongated sentences from this oily haired mehica chica with skin like the sun itself.

A wide smile and glutonous appetite, a sun beam that had shone all the way from ELAngeles to the old streets of SanCu. We sat together at that estacion in the dwindling sad sun of October.

My tastebuds travelled around the world when I was around her. Salsa, cream, peppers and a bang and a fizz my mouth had never before grasped, a language through taste and cool glistening honey coloured beer. Libertat life life life.

A glinting sadness and a lost look, this niña had flown away from something and would look away nervously at vulgarity.

Soledad Mexicana.

Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark... This strong zapatista girl.