Dan Cuddy

The Iris

the iris
pale purple
a thin girl
wan complexion
a hint of freckles
just a hint
eyes that peep out
small eyes
certainly a focus
but not the enticing kind
more demure than that
more a chaperone to her soul

take her hand
but press not too hard
perhaps she would scratch
your back in the heat of passion
or just cling tight
white-knuckled on a roller-coaster

though delicate
she is not sickly
just a pale nature
crowned with the soothing
purple of her mind
her affection
be gentle
do not unearth her
she would bloom
in the vase of self-denial
but not for you

The Gandy Dancer Ripped And Roared

Have spent many St Patrick Days
chasing beers and broads
down the green lanes of fantasy
stolen a kiss or two
sipped, nah, gulped a beer or two
even sang when Irish eyes
but I was blind drunk then
sat on the floor of bars
watched legs and shoes pass
leant my head against the bar
or a wall
and just let the world spin its insane dream

today
old as the Wicklow Hills in the real Ireland
where the grief and church
and now the high tech money are
but I am here jingo-izing my Irish self
tap dancing a poem on a napkin
spinning the bottle half-full
eyeing the saucy gals
and sinning
at least in thought and word,
if not in deed

if you're going to be condemned to hell
might as well be for something bad
but
I'm too old to get more than pity
or contempt
in a young girl's eye
so I drink another and another
and another
all ad nauseam
especially in the middle of the morning
when everything that went down
comes up