Martin McKenna – 2 poems

Four a.m.


their words are this;

theirs and ours, all for lone-

minded thought that the one

has come, to speak at last


after all these years, come

in from the toil of stitching

a patchwork reality and time

onto polarised segments

of truth in hollow minds which


still need told those heretics bones

purge for us, and ourselves alone,


yet look, hark, their angels sing

all just words, words all these things.






spirited hounds

leave no stone unturned,

haunt fair game

in nature’s realm.


as growling tails shake uncut

the dog is wagged.

rather than tricked


by that greatest trick

know it does not exist;


the shot foot drags

as limp as this fox tale,


tattered and old; gets told

and retold by those who hold

key to these gates of hell.



Martin McKenna