2 poems by Philip Byrne

I am that Boy

an intertidal presence,

who glimpses a crab burrow;

pokes bivalves, mollusks;

prods urchins, frilly-

tentacle anemones,

slugs & periwinkles;

with an ear to a fluted shell,

pulse of sea, still enchanted

having crawled ashore,

ambitious amphibious,

dreams dashing

against the rocks.

Wild Flower Harvest

The vibrant blossoms of pink, fuchsia,

lavender, buttery yellows, go mostly

unnoticed on this asphalt rail-trail,

aside, perhaps, glimpsed by the odd cyclist

pedaling to a destination some distance

further on, or when a couple enraptured

in their pheromonal daisy-chain

catch sight of the splashy palette, think of love,

a line half-remembered, a comparison to

a summer day. I alight from my bike,

glove my hands, clipper cut mature tendrils,

only to lighten & not diminish the bloom,

hopeful when I return, bold-hued bouquet in hand

to my hemmed in town house, some sunlight

& floral scent will revivify the living room

into an Eden of bliss & calm.

__________

Philip Byrne was born in Dublin and lives in Westchester, New York. A retired middle school teacher he captures snippets of memory and observation in poems that finds sustenance, rejuvenation, and joy in language. Recent and forthcoming poems in The Raven Review, Beach Chair Press, The Soliloquist, The Argyle Literary Review, and The Westchester Review.