POEMS - Patrick Carton performance poet and storyteller

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High hopes keep the farmer floating in his field
Bo Peep gone to the canyons for her strays
crop walkers, talkers would be better off in Brussels
bindweed creeps over trellises of tears in the wandering of her ways –
tillage is too much toil, scalping the soil with a swinish spade
folding furrows on the forehead of her brow
stern as the scrape of a big swing plough –
I propose to plant a vineyard vainly
plainly impossible on so flat a field
and too cold to grow good grapes
I traipse through tangled hedgerows
beating bushes with my blackthorn
stick to what you know might be a motto for a madman
too foolish a fellow to follow so desperate a dictum
he’s gone to gather wool on the watery slopes
he hopes to meet Saint Michael the Archangel searching for his sword
he has thorns in his hair – he’s quare
there – that’s them there at the window
strange as it seems, he teems tears



His Legacy

His legacy is laughter
his legacy is tears
his legacy is loneliness
all down the long, long years
his legacy is silence
on the shingles of the shore
his legacy is sometimes less
and sometimes it is more

There’s no young man at the counter
there’s no young man at the bar
there’ no young man making music
on his rock’n’roll guitar –
oh sometimes you might see him
in a face that’s in the crowd
or sometimes you might hear him
in a word that’s spoke out loud
somehow you just sense  him –
he is there and then he’s gone
like the water in the river
or the words of some sad song

We are walking, we are walking
we are walking on the way
he’s gone on a bit before us,
quite just why we cannot say
we are flowing, we are flowing
we are flowing to the sea
we are flowing in the freedom
that is his legacy.


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