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‘Birds of a feather’ he never grew old and boring
fun sensitive oozing sincerity
a gentle and playful creature
life ain’t gonna last.
he knows.
but he won’t give in.
no point.
the fluttering pages of a book in the wind.
it’s happening right now.
time has everyone trapped.
even him.
his laugh is contagious and brings cheer.
he knows as I know.
we both know.
we’re connected.
the others don’t seem to know but we do.
‘Love is’
love is not just a word.
love is movement.
love is effort.
love is energy.
she loves as she’s been taught.
and there was love in abundance. a loving family.
they love each other as a moon orbits a planet.
steady, regular and secure.
she is my world.
she is my muse.
she is my drug of choice.
‘James’
oil and water don’t mix.
neither do human beings without connection.
today I met a friend.
he is vibrant, positive, sensitive.
talented on the world stage.
friendships expand our worth.
there is nothing more satisfying to the ruminating mind than to find substance in another.
It evolves us.
Comforts.
Anesthetizes.
‘Safety in numbers’
the problem with hanging out in large groups of people is that your percentage chances of being in the company of an ape is increased exponentially. i’ve always had contempt for large groups.
how much intimacy is going on there?
how many are associates and how many are true friends?
large groups are perfect for the automaton.
the walking dead.
group sports exactly the same.
cheering on your fellow countrymen to show the world your collective pedigree.
where we’re from we can jump highest, longest and run quickest.
wouldn’t you like to be like us?
‘Aloneness.’
triviality all consuming.
the neediness.
the wisest seek solitude leaving menaced souls striving aimlessly towards the abyss.
today he is free.
the roaring wind and smell of gasoline
intoxicating serenity.
the splendor of it all.
the benign influence of pure air.
open spaces.
on the road with a head like a box full of nothing.
‘For Will’
his talents were shared by a kind hearted Dub (Dubliner). he whistled like the birds and fit like a glove.
beneath his exterior glowed a spirit of the ages who had battled himself and come up trumps.
an artist, observer and possessed by words.
he lives in a world created by dream.
alone I am not as he pens his next verse.
there’s others like me who are both blessed and cursed.
our world he enriches with his passion and flare
for the poet is among us and his soul he does bare.
Martin Lynch
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