Long Lost Love and Winter Chills

The frost that bites my nose and the turning blue of toes,
The rose, the snow she spills,
Lost love and winter chills.

The Christmas lights that twinkled, happy smiles from happy people,
Winter moon she beckons still,
Long lost love and winter chills.

The ragged tramp alone, in a doorway does bemoan,
Alas for the tinsel thrills,
Farewell to love and winter chills.

The time that Christ was born, another child, a frozen morn,
A world of bitter pills,
Long lost love and winter chills.

That winter night did pass, and found frozen to a glass,
His hands did clutch a memory, of a child and a life now passed,

No kindness shall be found, cardboard box upon the ground,

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poem by Fergus Michael Condron
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Blue Noodles And The Silver Moon

Twas christmas time in Oxford street, we shopped for presents, trying to be discreet, carols and lights that end so soon, blue noodles and the silver moon.

The cobbled street's of Tunbridge Wells, each time we kissed, it rang the bells,
love is all, when all cocooned, blue noodles and the silver moon.

Riding elephants on a Thailand beach, tsunami heartbeat and gentle feet,
blood red sky and clouds that swoon, blue noodles and that silver moon.

Summer in Paris, arms entwined, I loved you so, for you were mine, caress the louvre, mime the rhymes, bastille gate's they sense a crime, wicked feats condemn and soon,
blue noodles shiver beneath frightened moon.

Barcelona nights of a fashion lust, a tapas dawn and velvet crush, sense foreboding and creeping doom, blue noodles choke by a crying moon.

So tell me then, what changed your mood? I hoped to seek of a heart turned crude,
we said goodbye and I thus conclude, farewell blue noodles, adios sweet moon.

poem by Fergus Michael Condron
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And What of Me, If I should Fall.

And What of Me, If I Should Fall

What more can I say to thee, on wounded heart and bended knee,
October winds caress my hall, and what of me, if I should fall.

The yellow photo that cannot talk, the cup of wine now turned to chalk, summers touch the king of Saul, and what of me, if I should fall.

Distant echo from the past, love so true on blood stained glass, that frozen kiss at the midnight ball, and what of me, if I should fall.

House of paper and cotton buds, beating heart and mental thud,
My name on red and cindered walls, and what of me, if I should fall.

The old church on that windswept hill, Heathcliff shivers with frowning chill, swallows song and sky so tall, and what of me, if I should fall.

My blue sea with its whitewash foam, October streets and home alone,
Unto the breach with yelling call, and what of me, if I should fall.

Cloudless forest on barren land, self destruct by noble hand, my sword is sharp and steely raw, and what of me, if I should fall.

poem by Fergus Michael Condron
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See The Snake In Her Eyes

Look into the wind, your empty thoughts wrapped up and thrown out in the bin, the igloo was cold, you should have been told, life can be good if you don't have no soul. The pictures that fall from your marshmallow walls, keep reminding me of times, out on the street, no skin on my feet, the blood opens up from hands and thighs, and yet I remember, yet I remember.
See the snake in her eye’s.

The dentist he smiles with a toothless reply, neon lights like a hawk, they gazed down, sodden, brazen only to frown. I'm fumbling around, lost and stupid around on the ground. I've come to the end, the sound of waves crashing a remarkable friend. But long distant pier, and some more frothy beer, curled up in comfort before she dies, and yet I remember, yet I remember.
See the snake in her eye’s.

The world, she's looking in, but I have to remember, she's just made of tin, she smiles as she crawls, up and down my marshmallow walls, sucking the sweet, caressing my feet, but they have no skin, extra blood is an added treat. Sense the tingle, even the needle. She sends me high, yet I remember, yet I remember.
See the snake in her eye’s.

So now, I cried by the walls, of Jerusalem walls, wish to climb and linger and I long to fall. I talk to the tree’s, for they talk to me, just make a nonsense of it all. I dance with the crows, for they are so bold, so black and so very old. Temptation calls, they point to a cross that makes me look so small and dross, I find my own nails, dipped them in such a holy Grail, the Grail has no time and throws me back to rhyme and rhyme. So I must seek the way back to the street, where my love I trusted to blue skies, yet I remember, must always remember.
See the snake in her eye’s.

poem by Fergus Michael Condron
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Neath The Shandy And The Light

Away with your poetry and sing a song instead to me, make it real of love and lust, can you perform or turn to dust? Have you ever felt the spice, when the women you love, can turn and smite, and do you know of that great pain, will if you can, then write again.

Be ashamed and write you cried, or am I talking to a man beside, a man so tough he cannot cry, but can write of shite, behind words and hide.

Have you walked out in the streets and cried to strangers you have yet to meet, or are your rhymes just in your mind, you wish for love and wish for time’s, a women’s scorn is an awful dread, I kid you not, you wish for death. For once they hate you and say to go, go sing your song to Allen Poe.

Men are weak and women strong go see it written by poet or in song, they destroy when lust has gone, find the Spartans, and hear their lonesome song.

Women are great and you know its true; they get rid of a fool, a fool like you, you think you own them with your mighty thrust, but the jokes on you, is love like lust?

A women hold’s you through the night, it’s pure and simple like morning light, but do we hold that cherished orb, or do we abscond to a distant whore, she may be a drink, or a horse to bet, the nights great heat we scorn obsessed, no real man will ever heed these lines, for men are men and lost in time.

When a women say’s you are the one, she will hold you and you know it’s done, her beating heart for you alone, will defend your weakness, defend your home, but if you let that beating heart, be alone each night and after dark, she will conjure and she shall plan, you shall cry alone and not be a man, until in the pub and with your brothers, shall say, don’t worry you will find another, and herein lays the path of men, who cry to mothers, moving in again.

poem by Fergus Michael Condron
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