An Easter Wind

in the maze of morning
light congeals
like crystal cuckoo spit

eyes blink
slick with sugared sand
a nursling of mine nestles
in sweet straw asleep

silken hammocks
green deep beds spider webs
and ship bells ring
deep down deserted fishing ground

good-will runs out
on their neap tide
but their songs shine like sun
saves me from sloth and sin of suburbia

a balm of bumble bee hum
sooth an ear that’s heard
the whistle of to many roads
beneath my wheels

mountain voices
feels like miss carol king
crooning softly
on a stinging skin

the easter wind creeps in
a chilling crack of window
mr mellow jockey
spills piano notes from my radio

a flashing twist of road
tapers out
towards a memory
called she

     -Dave Kavanagh

All-Hallows Eve


Drunk on 
autumn’s grape 
and pear

October flourishes 
a careless brush 

Spatters blood 
across a naked 

And scatters debris 
at her feet 


In his passing 
tosses faces 
to the air 

Sends palmate 
shadows tumbling 
on the green 

A wildness lights 
his grey and amber eyes 

In the skies 
summer’s shine 
fights the dour dark 
of winter days

His voice is heard 
from the bow waves 
on white lace seas 

And through the 
susurrating branches 
of wind winnowed trees 


Death he paints 
in shades of red 
and burnished 
copper coins 

The blood 
the gore 

The glory of 
the ill defined

The ragged threads 
of dead men 
hang from sycamore 
and maple. 

The worlds ablaze 
with setting suns 
and pagan’s holy songs


Until he packs 
his gay portfolio 

Erases all the vibrancy 
the dancing fools
the painted clowns 

He frowns 

And with a breath 
of gale 
the green is skeletal 

     -Dave Kavanagh

No Room At This Inn

The population
of a mid sized town, float,
in the wake of
a slowly churning super-tanker
named procrastination.

Sombre men in pinstripe suits
and the crime
that Thomas Mason,
handmade shirts represent.
(Resent that comment all you want you cunt)
Its vile you stunted, bearded judge
of the human condition.

How dare you wear that skin?
When others swim ‘til breath betrays
and water morphs to sky,
another problem solved,
one less head to stamp an evil name upon.

Do you know the fear of war?
The doctor in Allepo
hunkered in the air raid shelter,
the hand he holds already cold.
The mother screaming,
ripping, rending.

Refuge for the refugee,
they can’t all be fucking jihadist
sent to subvert our claim on Eden.
(one of them is your next Jesus)

This paradise of shit and filth
and tongues that spew raw sewage
into the blood stained Mediterranean.
They look too us for life
and all you bastards do is fight,
Can’t you see the ocean rising.


-Dave Kavanagh

A Goodnight Poem



Across the lake of Pasithea,
On the last breathe before sleep-
I spy a dark shadow nymph,
to take me to a fettered deep.

A demon and Nadier bow,
Tango to the west and east.
Chandelier of spider legs,
a diaphanous centre piece.

Lake becomes a sprung dance floor.
music flows from tin wind-chimes
feet on chinks of warm moonlight.
tap poetry in staccato rhyme.

The pieces fall where they will
sleep creeps down the rose clad wall.
The shade of death claims all he owns
as shadows settle in shattered bones.


-Dave Kavanagh

A change in gear, not my usual type of write

The Needle Drops

Faith weighs less
than despair!

Depression drops the needle
and I prepare
to battle thunder storms.

Nastiness creeps and crawls,
fouling shoe leather.

Burnt crude stinks
Like cultured death.

Disease flourishes, where its foul flora
sticks to the bottom of stew pots,
sickening babies in tin-can camps.

A hurricane
races hope across the bay
hope lacks conviction.

Isn’t that always the way?

It rains shelter, stick rafters,
and iron sheets.

Streets are washed to muck
But no one’s leaving anyhow.

Evil is
the weight of expectation
that crushes an island nation
lost to blind demons.

Even the sun here
falls, disgraced

Heat dries corpses on the sand
where recently feral pigs
are the only things fat.

And hope evaporates
in the face of God

-Dave Kavanagh

My Muse

My muse holds
the grit of arctic ice
in her teeth.

Travels south
with Brent geese

On ancient routes
guided by the light
of dying stars.

She is a selkie,
black and sleek
in the waters off
the island coast.

Further in,
spawning salmon
tracking home.

She is the words
that fall
from other mouths.

The reconstructs
of other tongues,

The dissonance
of city sounds
in black sand ears.

She is the sound
of summer nights,
life scuttling in
the undergrowth.

The hare the fox and stoat
and every flea
that bites their pelts.

My muse is
every breath
under Frozen sheets
that shield
a darker face than mine.

And the dreaming
of a boy, that shares
my chest,
my blood and bone.

-Dave Kavanagh