Born and raised in Dublin, Ireland. Favourite poet: Sylvia Plath.
Broken fire-red fingers
claw to a distantly fading morning –
the desperate scramble
to escape a crumbling ruin:
Night.
A vacuous event horizon,
exponential in pointing to collapse –
that critical moment
of an in-folding probability:
Black.
Hawks propose plausible flights of fancy
until their negation by uproarious hunter shouts –
their lofty tangents
crashing under gravity’s wrath:
Dead.
Earthbound on a spiral string
the final turbulent moments expand into chaos [...]
Categories: Other
- Published:
- December 16, 2009 – 1:03 pm
- Author:
- By Ross McCooey
Out of place sun shines over a picket post cemetery
leaning against green hills.
Neatly tended lawns lay carpets of soft
and respectfully uniform sorrow
while watch tower trees are manned by keen observing birds
singing to pass the time.
Visitors are frequent, coming to browse the many headstones
sighing in sympathy with the loss of so many;
respectfully negotiating the tragic minefield
set [...]
Categories: Poetry
- Published:
- April 30, 2009 – 1:15 pm
- Author:
- By Ross McCooey
The fevered dance of common garden fly
busies about the creaking laburnum;
a mating rite, a dispute over territory.
Taking curious precedence over the crowded daisies
this ritual plays out to an old piano’s opus.
Envious magpies sweep by lacquered ivy;
green and swaying in a summer evenings breeze
the leaves are laminated in a soft, warming light
as playfully they jump to [...]
Categories: Poetry
- Published:
- April 30, 2009 – 5:41 am
- Author:
- By Ross McCooey
Through delicately latticed branches the morning sun is rising,
gently lifting the nights residue fog.
The harbour where peeling boats used to lean
is filled full with a sparkling blue.
A portrait uninterrupted, a fresco renewed with fresh breeze.
Through easy skies a playful bird dances a rhythm all to himself;
such a care-free fellow, no need for human quarrels.
On the [...]
Categories: Other, Poetry
- Published:
- March 25, 2009 – 1:43 pm
- Author:
- By Ross McCooey
Through wintered forest I come upon deep pools,
each one a beautiful darkness, each one deep in their wonderment.
I could lose myself so happily in these waters and succumb to the blissful purity
of the unknown, but the forest holds my attention.
Lazily I drift along dirt tracks worn and traveled by poetic musings;
there is no signpost, no [...]
Categories: Other
- Published:
- March 2, 2009 – 11:53 am
- Author:
- By Ross McCooey