Robin McNamara is a Poet living in Waterford City, Ireland. Having had a number of poems published in local newspaper, Waterford Today, various anthologies and in online publications like Spillwords and Scarlet Leaf. Working towards getting a first collection of Poems published in 2019. A former Journalist with Insight Magazine in Dublin. Robin studied Graphic Design, Advertising & Business Studies whilst a student in Dublin. He left Dublin in 1999 to live in Copenhagen, Denmark for a number of years and returned to Ireland in 2004. As well as Poetry, Robin writes for a Soccer blog, The Anfield Talk, where he writes articles about Liverpool FC. He also tried his hand at satire writing and had six pieces published by The Rochdale Herald. Notable works include, “God’s Waiting Room”, and, “Solstice” both Published online by Spillwords. God’s Waiting Room. As he sat in God’s waiting room And cast his mind back to the past When he’d thrown a disenchanted glance at the moon And wrote about a love that didn’t last The folly of the path he took Was lost in irony a bitter sigh The words carved from mind they mistook And threw a jaundiced eye Over toiled work he’d thought Would May the spring day brighter With a way of words that couldn’t be taught His later pages stayed much whiter Than what was said before As his mind grew feeble and old Dusk danced and came to the fore The fire went out and in crept the cold. A New Tear.New Year’s eve, Tears of last year, Long gone. The smokers ash, Long scattered into, Forgotten winds. Your shadow lingers, Whispering to me. Bottles clink, Cheers for a new year. Have you gone? For how long? I’ll stay strong and, Forget your grip. Homeless City Street. Frosted sky. Glittered stars. Barking dogs. Footsteps pass. Horn beeps. Smokers cough. Plastic cup. Rattling change. Distant sirens. Flashing lights. Discarded wrappers. Drunken mumbling. Hot coffee and cigarettes. Cardboard pillow. Passing looks. Coins clinking. Just another day and night. The Deep Well. I go to the well everyday, Sometimes drawing water, Other days none. The well is as old as the oak tree, Upon the farmed land under, Rained skies. When I draw water, I am nourished. In times of want I have, The deep well. The FishermanThe sea swelled and splashed Against the hull of the boat With its green net mountain Disappearing into foaming waters The fisherman’s hope and security An old sea dog salted And weather beaten from a Lifetimes toil upon the waters Times of hardships furrowed upon the brow His story told by scarred hands He respects the sea Which has taken many a soul Bowing his head in mournful grace For comrades long gone by In this forsaken element Names inscribed on the memorial wall Baptised at a tender fourteen Saltwater dripping from forehead As his arms ache from the harvesting Proud to be gone from boy to man Conquer of all that rises from the living sea Shimmering and glistening on deck Pride on his fathers face Now decades gone, no more to come He will be spoken of in years to come His eyes as deep as the Ocean Have glanced their last trip. The Water Tap.First it was a drip,
The plaster didn’t hold. The bolt rusted to brown. And the dirty water, trickled down, even more. Hot and cold the taps, No longer recognisable. Shining silver, no longer gleamed. The water just, Simply. Dried up.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Categories
All
|