I’m in a rainy mood today…
Inside my Head
Welcome to my mind
The cold, dark, often empty place
Until the voices start
Then it’s as if I’ve been fed liquid bliss
The world inside becomes rainbow bright
People I have known all my life, changed.
I don’t recognise their shining faces
Their pleasant ways, so happy
Did they feed on an overdose of sugar pills?
Ghosts of their former selves
Wound up, let go, clockwork toys
The other side of the coin lets the dark out
I can see black clouds above their heads
I feel the need to run, but where to?
How to get outside my head?
Walking the streets I saw ghouls, ghosts
Floating above the people
They walk backwards in front of them
Trying to touch, teasing, pulling faces
Trying to get their attention
This is where my darkness lives
Inside my head
The dead watch me with envious eyes…
For visually challenged writers, the image shows a beach in the half-light, bounded by dark dunes and holding a silvery pool of water that mirrors the sky.
I was beginning to think
I had left my mind out on the rain
It’s beginning to rust
Like some old hard drive.
Time to take a walk
Grab the flip flops
Feel wet sand
squidge between my toes
That magic moment between
Light and dark
Maybe I will be lucky
Find that silver doubloon
Hidden on the beach.
I stood watching
the sky painted water
Feeling something more
than sand between my toes
Could it be, dare I look?
Whatever it might be
I pushed it further into the sand
Something to look forward to
I found this the other day when choosing a selection of Anita’s poems for the book we want to publish, and it seems to fit with all that has been happening…
Have you ever had one of those days
when you feel as though you are made of glass?
I am having one today.
I can feel small pieces slipping away as I walk
I am broken, disappearing slowly
I can almost see the pieces glistening behind me
like a trail of breadcrumbs.
Will someone follow and put me together again?
A charming ne’er-do-well returns to his haunted Irish hometown to uncover the truth about his mother in this “supernaturally skilled debut” (Vanity Fair) and turns the town–and his life–upside down.
Having been abandoned at an orphanage as a baby, Mahony assumed all his life that his mother wanted nothing to do with him. That is, until one night in 1976 while drinking a pint at a Dublin pub, he receives an anonymous note implying that she may have been forced to give him up. Determined to find out what really happened, Mahony embarks on a pilgrimage back to his hometown, the rural village of Mulderrig. Neither he nor Mulderrig can possibly prepare for what’s in store…
From the moment he arrives, Mahony’s presence completely changes the village. Women fall all over themselves. The real and the fantastic are blurred. Chatty ghosts rise from their graves with secrets to tell, and local preacher Father Quinn will do anything to get rid of the slippery young man who is threatening the moral purity of his parish.
A spectacular new addition to the grand Irish storytelling tradition, Himself “is a darkly comic tale of murder, intrigue, haunting and illegitimacy…wickedly funny” (Daily Express).
From the first word of the powerfully written prologue, I couldn’t stop reading Himself.
I fell completely under the spell of this mysterious story, all about the living and the dead and the search for truth in a quaint Irish village.
The star of Himself is Mahony, a young Irishman searching for the truth about his birth, assisted by the colourful characters and ghosts in Mulderrig, a place with more secrets and mysteries than most.
I loved the way the people in this story speak, such wonderful vocabulary and fascinating insight into the minds of Irish people. What at first seems light-hearted banter, soon changes into dark, menacing humour and a terrifying journey as Mahony uncovers the truth he seeks…
©Jaye Marie 2020
For visually challenged writers, the image shows a sky full of dark, stormy clouds against which four large birds are silhouetted in flight.
Dark fallen angels
Painted by my father
Locked for weeks inside his studio
I would leave food outside
Never see it vanish
Empty plates returned the same way
As if by magic
My father had become invisible to me
All but his voice.
Like the four horsemen
Let these black winged creatures
Enter our world
Hearing his voice this way
Gave me the chills.
Could my father be
calling evil into the world?
After he died, mother said
We should burn it
Send whatever thoughts he had
Back to where they came from.
I could not.
The painting hangs in my studio
Where I hear my father’s voice
As I paint dark clouds…
What is it good for?
History speaks of war
Souls lost to man’s envy
Rights demanded for this and that
With no platform
The desperate, the outnumbered
The small voices never heard
Dismaying, forcing me to pray
Words feathered into dust
Hope jeopardised by the threat
Of history repeating itself
Unless we put a stop to it now…
(For visually challenged reader, the image shows a woodland scene, where blue butterflies are sitting on the forest floor among tiny mushrooms. Tall trees are visible in the background)
As a child,
I never had an imaginary friend.
If I did, I would want him
to live in this blue wonderland
so I could visit, stay a while.
Where mushrooms grow
in their own sunlight.
Delicate blue butterflies
whisper woodland magic.
Secrets for me to keep
Tall dark trees stand guard
Keeping magic where it belongs
I have seen through these eyes before
Memories from a time
that do not match my own
Images in black and white that fade
With each passing day
Old photos hidden in a shoe box
Time stamped by age
No longer valued, faces there
Consigned to the past
Their names etched in stone
My life now on hold
My time spent taking notes of all that passes
One entry underlined on each page
I know that face, a young girl
I put her age at ten
Is it her life I am witnessing?
Or did I live it all before…