Poetry: Dennis Moriarty

Dennis Moriarty is originally from London England but has lived in South Wales UK for thirty years. Married with five children Dennis enjoys reading, writing, walking.
This year he won the Blackwater poetry group competition and read his work at the Blackwater international poetry festival in Ireland. Dennis loves all things Welsh
and speaks a little bit of the Welsh language.

A Taste Of Tuscany

Today you are a shady corner of a Tuscan courtyard
A region of fantasy
The taste of desire seasoned with bay leafs
And oregano.
Your eyes are two grapes ripened to bursting point
The sticky crimson stain of Florence.
You are the definitive shade of cool in the molten sun
Of this summer day
The honeyed flow of your glance smoothing out the creases
In my worried frown
And as I get closer I encounter the essence of herbs
On your lips.
Closer and closer still until my tongue lazily reclines
In the crevice of your mouth
Tasting again the leafy flavours the rich earthiness
Of Tuscany.


Deforestation

I watch closely as she deconstructs
Her smile,
A grimace earned the hard way.
Eyes flaunting naked
Madness,
Lips lisping words that pop and fizz
Dissolving their meaning.
I watch closely as her hands tremble
In the pockets of her soul
And her emotions gather pace
Like a tube train
Hurtling towards tunnels of spite
And bitterness and hate,
Whole sentences
Tangled around the root of her tongue
Blurring
The lines of construction.
Word after word without foundation
In a myriad of confusion.
She pauses
To gather the words around her,
Each one the keeper of another's
Secret.
And I watch as she drags them
Kicking and screaming to the edge
Where, like forlorn birds,
They concede their habitats
To the deforestation of her mind.


The Imagery Of Static

The day is surprised by the rain
That falls
Just out of my reach.
A soft companionable drizzle
Near enough to confide in yet far enough
Away so as not to intrude
On the business of my solitary occupation.
Watching;
The preserve of the unnoticed, loneliness
Solidifying in the veins.
Fields huddled in a grey tangle
Of hawthorn,
Mountains disappearing through cracks
In the hillside.
A day disorientated, light headed and greying
At the edges
Much the way I imagine static on the airwaves
Might look.

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