Tags » Irish Writer

The language of loss

The streets are calling,

in whispered words

I don’t understand.

Cries of children bleed

from rainbow chalked

hop-scotch squares.

Tiled motifs of grief,

mosaics scattered… 269 more words

Irish Writer

the bones of poetry

a mystic spider
Creeps
across a
page
and weaves
silver and gold 56 more words

Poetry

the bones of poetry

a mystic spider
Creeps
across a
page
and weaves
silver and gold

a tongue
Licks
sacred lips
and truth spills
in waterfalls
of ice cool… 42 more words

Irish Writer

Question

was
it
a life
worth
living

don’t
ask
me

i was
only
the
destination,
never
the
journey.

-dave kavanagh

Irish Writer

Seven Days

a morning of loud cries

days of sunshine

nights of starry eyes

-dave kavanagh

Irish Writer

Desolate

On a once green hill,
a white house dims
into the mesh
of a snowstorm.

The roof of blue slate
faded to grey.
Wind sings a death march… 127 more words

Irish Writer

summer pariah

dapples of silver
falling on scorched pavement,
silver coins that dance
in the shimmer
of June heat. 85 more words

Poetry