His
for Noel King
He looked for emptiness in his life
because this had become the fashionable thing.
Everyone was getting their own emptiness.
It was all the neighbours could talk about,
comparing the gaping voids of their souls
like salaries or new cars.
You were nobody without one,
as celebrities fought for the headlines
of magazines and newspapers and websites
specialising in emptiness,
plumbing the depths of the hollow place in their selves
for all the world looking on.
On Facebook, his friends
were all posting updates about their emptiness.
A mate of a mate
uploaded a picture of his emptiness
and it has over fifty ‘likes’ already.
He didn’t look far or long
before finding it, an emptiness of his own,
an emptiness he could be proud of.
An emptiness he could show the world
without shame.
Enough to get lost in,
and get lost he did.
More than he could ever have filled
with the love of a good woman
or a life of good deeds or honest work.
An emptiness he could spend the rest
of his life searching through
and discovering all the nothing
he could ever dream
and then some.
Prayer
If I awaken and you’re not there
I’ll fight off the darkness with this prayer
If I awaken and you’re not there
I’ll stroke the emptiness and think of your hair
If I awaken and you’re not there
I’ll pull up the covers and shut out despair
If I awaken and you’re not there
I’ll offer nothing a kiss in which somehow you’ll share
If I awaken and you’re not there
I’ll sniff for your skin’s scent within the cold air
If I awaken and you’re not there
I’ll enwrap such vacancy with such tender care
If I awaken and you’re not there
I’ll thank loneliness for the love we share
If I awaken and you’re not there
I’ll fight off the darkness with this prayer
I’ll fight off the darkness with this prayer
Australia
At that moment came the first signs
of tears on their way, and all
there was for her to do was to stand up
and to turn away
from the rabble of other voices,
all the clanking and rattling coming from the kitchen,
the ding of the till drawer closing,
face out the window of the café,
look through the couldn’t-be-bothered weather,
through the lunchtime crowds,
zig-zagging
once, and again, and again, gaining the water’s edge,
passing through lush Dutch fields,
past their waving windmills,
around Azerbaijani oil rigs,
through the syrupy air pollutions of Indian cities
and then out over more water, to another land’s edge,
an exotic stretch of beach, her boyfriend there,
his hair grown longer, wavier,
a lighter shade now, one not unlike the sand,
the sun beating down
as he applies a generous squirt of sun cream
to the bronzed back and shoulders
of a girl that went to her school,
that she never got on with,
with whom, though nothing really happened,
there was a tension she couldn’t quite put a finger on.
Copyright © Edward O'Dwyer 2017