Mo’ Poems Week 5
Mo’ Poems Week 4
This blog is a labour of love, and it will always be free. Over 1,000 people read every post which is incredible. And if just 100 people donate €2 it means that I’ll be able to continue doing all of this for another year. So if you like the work, it would mean the world to me if you considered making a donation. Thank you to everyone who already has this year. There’s no expectations, as ever, and I hope you have a lovely week. Donate here
There is also now a Thoughts Too Loud Podcast!
And just like that we’re at the end of Mo’ Poems Movember. It’s been an absolute pleasure sharing all of your work – thank you to everyone who took part and supported
Alas – here we are. The poems are poeming! I hope you’ve been enjoying them. This is your last week to donate so please do if you can!
Take a read through and enjoy. If you want to donate to the fundraiser it’s your last chance! You can do so here.
Mo’ Poem #27: David Hynes
If…
You’re nothing if
You can’t get a good job
A great car
Meet a beautiful girl
Provide a home
Raise a family
Man Up
Boys don’t cry
And then you wonder why
At their own hands, young men die
Mo’ Poem #28: Daragh Fleming
It’s not all men but
it’s enough to warrant a white-knuckled make-shift duster
intertwined between fingers
because the man walking behind has been walking behind the whole time
and their only protection is keys
It’s not all men but
it’s enough to share a live location in a taxi
because your sister/mother/friend can’t relax, see
there’s been too many stories of the same thing,
a man thinks he’s entitled to a body that’s not his,
a lack of consent brings about volent swings.
It’s not all men but
it’s plenty.
What good is sharing a post if the intention is empty?
Jump to defend because it’s not you, or your friends,
but if you’re any man on the street then you’re potentially a threat.
You say it’s not all men
but let me ask you this,
when you get battered on the street
who’s at the end of that fist?
It’s not all men
you’re right, well done, we hear you
But it’s always a man –
it just makes you uncomfortable to hear it.
Mo’ Poem #29: Ais Quigley
The tears fall
behind closed doors
shower curtains
bed covers
where no one can see
hear
or respond
because I’m the strong one
the man of the house
the brave face that people look up to
courageous
steady
manly
unshaken
when it comes to everything
except saying how I really feel
so the tears keep falling
behind closed doors
shower curtains
bed covers
where no one can see
hear
or respond
until one day
maybe I’ll finally see
no one has this bloody life thing figured out
Mo’ Poem #30: Em Egan Reeve
Mo’ Poem 31: Stephen Mathew
Polite
Huddled in that ICU,
Staring at death,
I had chosen to be polite.
I smiled at the people I knew,
I asked them, “How are you?”
And I remember small talk.
I remember faces, and I felt them.
Pity? Sympathy? Sorrow?
While surrounded by the smell
Of bandages and antiseptic,
I chose to be polite.
I did not cry, scream, or wail.
I ate the food kept in front of me.
I drank the water as tears spilled into them,
Politely,
Because the pretense of normalcy mattered,
So visible under the wreckage
That death had caused so politely.
And so, when I saw ‘it,
My mother’s dead body, I
did what she had taught me,
As a child,
“Be a good boy. Be polite.”
Huddled in that ICU, I chose to be polite.
Mo’ Poem #32: Jack Phelan
Day Dreamer
Clouded sky.
Rain drops,
Off the window,
They hop.
Cars drive by,
Stealing my attention.
I’m sat inside,
Inner – tension.
Coffee made,
Candle lit,
Pens laid out.
Another, sip.
Journals,
Diaries,
Notebooks.
Laptop open.
Overwhelmed with tabs,
But I can’t close them.
Passing sound.
Up, I look.
Once again,
Dead stare.
Lost in that,
Window glare.
Click refresh,
Nothing has changed.
Phone lights up,
Internet exchange.
Frustration,
Bubbles.
I need to get this,
assignment done.
This is supposed to be,
an easy one.
Flickering flame,
Scented candle.
Deep inhale.
Self shame.