Diego M. Sieiro

Trois Poesies

 

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At the R.B.

 

A cute little bow tie, binds sorrows to rock.

Let the river of memory swallow them both.

Mementos of joy being pulled down,

 to sandy depths of oblivion.

 

Watery distortion reveals abstract shapes, 

painted abrasively where laughter reigned.

Turning caresses into irregular shapes,

of bright colours.

 

Nothing moves yet it changes,

if the knot was firm.

 If not,

little sorrows float to coast,

to un-rust.

The bastards can hold their breath for ages.

 

Redundant

 

An email arrives

Asking to fish someone out

From the barrel of promises to break

One name after another in a blur

At times one of someone I knew

 

Collect paperwork, Crunch numbers

Get a figure

It is not thirty years

Or ten, yet those

Pop up now and then

 

Carefully staple explanations

Of how much a life of work is

worth, it is what the paper says

And not a dime more 

 

Print forms and gather signatures

It all comes to two cheques

At times given with heartfelt

Sorrow, relief, shame, regret

 

At times accepted in despair,

Joy, fear, laughter, anger

A hug, a good bye, some drinks

And what not, best wishes

Will see you soon, not

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at the Village

I put my hands into the fire

To feel the warmth

Today

Knowing that I will feel the burn

Tomorrow

 

There is nothing to do in this village

But to drink

 

I see the scarce forest,

Across

Receding as if afraid

Of houses made from stones

 

The rocks pray at the feet of the windmills

Begging them to never stop dancing

 

The mist rolls like a sea of milk

And floods this landscape of nightmares

As a weakling sun escapes the hills

With surmounting strength

 

Nothing changes here

Only them windmills keep popping up

As people continue to loathe me

In the land of my ancestors

 

Masking jealousy and envy

With drunken friendship

 

If my blood is one with the streams

That kissed these valleys

Why am I told to leave?

Why we all had to go so long ago?

 

Only to return to find

Hypocrites who befriend crooked priests

Building their staircase to heaven,

With lies.

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A friend of the macabre from way back, Diego M Sieiro writes from Ireland.

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