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.
Dennis Moriarty
The Watched

The wind sings her softly plucking
her feathers
As if they are the strings of a sad
Harp weeping.
Hers is the musicality of movement
The half seen
Half imagined tilting of the wings
The lyrical poetry of flight.
Occupying the space between two
Mountain peaks
And the glacial water of my eyes
I watch her
Spilling her colour bending her body
To the shape of a cloud.
Her breast strings tremble
My mind spins
And her tail forks my head open
As she becomes the watcher and I
The closely observed.
My eyes the drained lake of the watched.

The Business Of Mourning

Death has dressed you today
In your mass on Sunday finest suit.
I stand on the fringes of your passing
Gathering my thoughts
Assembling the words of one final line
Of defiance.
Advancing I can see your penny weary eyes
Are closed
Yet still I bow down under the expectation
Of your stare,
A look a thousand words or more cannot
Adequately describe.
In your left hand you clutch a crucifix shrouded
In the rosary beads
You kissed each night at closing time.
A small fan
Turns it's cold prayer on the sterile silence
And I wonder,
Shall I embarrass you in front of your god
One last time?
Shall I? Shall I? Yes, I think I will and I advance
Creeping nearer
And nearer and nearer until only deaths 
Rank breath
Comes between us and I lean in, anointing 
Your forehead with kiss.
And for the first time, the last time, you neither
Flinch nor try to turn away.
I walk to the door somehow expecting you
To follow
But you are already gone. Our business here
Is complete.

Eden’s Last Temptation

I work these August harvest lanes of hedgerows
Plump and laden with blackberries,
The bloodshot eyes of god detailing each
New revelation.
Ripe and juicy, oozing temptation, I come upon
Bruised bramble lips
My fingers tracing the origins of sin.
I reach in
Determined to pluck and plunder but the hedgerow
Recoils scratching 
Like a wild cat in defence of her young.
I yelp withdrawing my hand,
Stigmata spreading and setting its stain. 
Undeterred I thrust back in
To that wondrous garden of the mind where I find
Two ripe engorged berry nipples
That I squeeze and pinch until they bleed 
And my tongue laps,
Sucking and slurping the late summer nectar
Of crimson flesh.
Eden’s last temptation.

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