When the poet died

When the poet died
the keyboard lost all its notes,
the black and the white.

The slippery green frog
and blue horses
were the poet’s own song.

She talked to stones,
felt the deep sting of a wasp,
knew loneliness too.

She passed this way,
playing high in a wild sky,
attracting the sun.

Not for her the fumes of the city.

Published by

Paul O'Mahony

I'm Paul O'Mahony (Poet). On Twitter you can reach me @Omaniblog A father. I work as business storytelling consultant - Podcaster - Blogger - Live streamer via Periscope - Foodie - I love to connect with people. . Live in Glanmire, Cork Ireland Europe linkedin.com/in/paulhomahony

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s