Standing at a crossroads No sign posts in sight Do I turn left or right? In danger of getting lost in the middle of the night Dark clouds loom on the horizon Gathering in the northern skies Halting progress forward The distance from home can be measured in miles I take a look over my shoulder Gazing back over the journey I’ve been on There is no going back now The time to go backwards is gone
Liam Flanagan is a 47 year old living in Galway on the west coast of Ireland. Degree in English and Philosophy. Teaching Diploma in IT. Ten years experience working in the IT industry. Likes Sport, Music, Film and Politics
I wake before the sun. The warmth of the covers leave my body and I walk into the cold and the dark. My hands wrap around my mug and it fills with hot coffee. If I had woken when I had planned, the steam would be rising from the cup, But it’s not. For a moment, it’s just me in the silence and the cold and the dark- reminding myself that it’s almost morning.
Then, I hear my son’s feet touch the wooden floor three rooms down. He loves the morning in a way I can’t understand. For years, I have tried to wake early enough to get a head start on day Before others are awake and need me. He, in his innocence, has taken this as an invitation to spend quiet moments with me. He lays in his bed, listening for my own feet to touch the ground so he can come and find me.
Some mornings, when I am bold enough to stay asleep longer than usual, I wake to the sound of gentle knocking. Then, a small voice breaks through the sound of his tiny fist against the door. “Mom, you slept in on accident.” It’s never an accident.
But in spite of my longing for a quiet That belongs to only me, perhaps these days are the best I’ll ever know. These days are without any moments to wonder whether I am making good use of this very short Window of time I have on this planet. Instead, it is just me and the cold and the dark
And the little man who loves me more Than the warmth of his bed.
He sits at the table beside me now, pulling out the marshmallow bits from the cereal box. I pretend not to notice, gazing to my right Through the wall of windows overlooking Livingston Bay. The sun is rising in the distance- Running toward our sky to join us.
Meow you say to let me know you are on your way Movement sleek and elegant Claws retracted reserved for going in for the kill A silent assassin with teeth as sharp as blades Kept in good order For the hunt and the tearing of flesh On the look out for a bird preparing to soar He must come from a good family A turned up nose to a chicken and ham slice Preference is for the taste of mice Purr to express contentment and satisfaction A feline who bides his time before jumping in to action!
Haunting scent hangs heavy in heat memories of forgotten evil moonlight bathes pieces of alabaster all that remains now a-da-na-ta soul no more souls so we may live souls that live to serve a-da-nv-do spirit unseen we move in the scent of mimosa
A poem based on the first short novel I self-published in 2013, Mimosa, on the ancient lines of protector and taker in the land of the Cherokee.
Deborah Horton Writing 