Mike Keane

Black Ice Poetry 21 Mike Keane

The dansant in the dark side of the mind;waiting for the secret to arrive, stark naked in all of its glory, the frills hide in the layers of fat, the auld bones snap in a creaking grip on reality, a slow handshake loose in the grip of old age;grow tall and wise before the mind weeps, wet in the dampness of a soft day;dance around the mother giving birth in the shadow of pain lost in the backroom, the black shawl hanging on the stooped shoulders looking through the ice window;let the music ferment in the fingers of rage to a strange melody of the blues;the trees dance in a swirling sway of the wild wind blowing in the darkest hour before the dawn in the dreams of the crispy leaves, the misty fog of youth laughing in the face of old age on the rocks, a stray wolf howls at the full moon hanging in the weeping sky, the birth of a boy lost in a child, the bleeding tears leak through the furrowed skin, gone in the head of half past dead in the glint of the full shilling, hanging on to a frail sanity by the skin of the cut teeth, sleeping stark naked on a bed of rusty nails caressing the aching skin;walk the lonely path you always walked hand in hand with the beloved mother holding the glass jar, the after-grass green in the envy of a great man to fork hay in a better time lost to the past;too late to stamp on the brake in the crash of the stonewall, the crispy touch warm on the heart to lose it all in the blink of a blind eye, the blavk knots cutting into the tired mind, love at first sight in a glance o'er the cold shoulder, wash away the sins in the kiss of the purple heather;sat on the cold slab in