3 Poems about my Grandmother. The fall from grace.

ODE TO AN IRISH GRANDMOTHER

Oh Grandmother,
My heart.
Patron saint of our family.
I see you as a luminary,
O f solitude, grace and strength.
A woman who’s hands
Have borne the work of men,
And whose hips have done the same.
Whose lips have tasted poverty, yet,
Fed her children gold.
What sights you’ve seen,
What fears you’ve felt,
Yet still you’ve soldiered on.

Oh beacon of the Irish heart,
Oh heroin of same,
You have built a strong hold,
Around us, that never can be breached.

Oh Grandmother,
My heart,
Oh patron saint of unity,
Gather us together in

Matriarchal arms and smother

Us in tea and biscuits. 

AMAZON WOMAN

A vague and putrid essence

Assimilates into cold bed sheets.

As a mighty Amazonian takes her fall.

A warrior woman.

Laid slain in week old pyjama’s,

And we like pygmies huddle round her,

As though she were a shrine to lost greatness.

What sickness is this?

Grasps the strong and makes them weak.

Touching all around it with its ferocity.

It will not sleep,

As anger, madness and panic creeps through

The veins of all around it, all that touch it.

The warrior woman becomes bound by it.

Succumbed to its devilish charms.

We cannot bear the weight of this great woman.

Fallen so heavily onto such moistened earth.

What do we do, but wait and let her waste away,

As she always wanted,

Surrounded by nothing but her own murky memories

Of a past no one else remembers

Of a time no one else is from. 

MEDUSA

A matriarch of sickness

Spilled upon the bathroom floor,

Spread across linoleum

Like hardened butter.

Snapped heartstrings

Plucked from their core

Broken in shards around you.

It has come to this.

It has come to shove,

Because all you did was push.

Force us out of pity into anger.

Penetrate our open hearts

With steely resolute bitterness.

I admired you once,

I even hated for you.

I will always love you.

But nothingness comes to the rescue,

As we watch you squirm

And shout

And abuse

A bird on its belly,

Fallen from…

From what?

Never from grace.

But into degradation

Self inflicted.

And the open wounds

Of those closest to you,

You decide to salt.

A matriarch.

At least the shadow of one,

Morphed beyond recognition

Into a medusa,

Your snakes hissing and biting

Turning us all to stone.