ROBIN MCNAMARA - POEMS

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. 

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​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 Fisherman

​The 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.