Gargoyle of Notre Dame

They put me here
to protect Our Lady.
To keep a beady eye out
for scoundrels, evil spirits.
Those medieval minds
unsurpassable in superstition.

Contrary to popular opinion

I am not the devil's wingman -

grotesque as I may seem.

I am a keeper of safety,

guardian of sanctuary.

The cathedral's secret security.

to ward off danger or enmity

(the water spout is just an excuse.)

Centuries pass and I, in my cement state

am pressed to observe.

Look how I slump and slouch.

It's boring being a stone look-out.

I have watched this city 

full of beauty and fierceness for too long.
Remember 1789?
I couldn't count
the heads that rolled by.
And the 1800s...the tricoleres, canon fire,
that small wiry guy
intent on pomp and glory,
the buildings fallen around me.
And then the Germans.

But she stood despite it all. 
Here was the heart that harboured
the lost in her forest of faith.
(Not to mention a lovable, malformed, wretch.) 
Cherry blossom shade, rose window blessings.

On the banks of the Seine, a place to rest,

space to lessen the grief of the ages.  

City of light, city of sin. 
Ile de la cite -
this one beautiful thing.

Now a fire rages behind me and she burns.
Mon Dieu!
I am powerless to stop it. I weep with you. 
But in the embers, solace abounds. Proof
that people still care 

about beauty 

even now.

What to do?

Light a candle, begin, believe again. 
Don't make a stone of the soul, 
like me.
Isn't that everything
here on earth?

© Siobhán Mc Laughlin

Notre Dame's gargoyles protected the iconic Cathedral, and the city of Paris, for centuries

Siobhan is currently taking part in NaPoWriMo poem a day challenge. Twitter: @siobhan347

Listen

Listen.

The air is an orchestra

conducting sound.

Listen.

Cacophony of birdsong.

Blitz of traffic.

Glorious gurgle of water.

The shock of day

slamming like a door. 

Listen.

The thrill of laughter.

Giggles of children.

The ticklish whisper 

of footsteps.

Listen.

Sweet staccato of a voice.

My voice. (Pause; Tears.)

The jubilee of words.

 Listen.

Heartbeats.

Music. 

40 songs richer

now.  This is what it sounds like

when doves cry. 

Loud as love - 

the world, all new

purring 

in my ear.  

Siobhán Mc Laughlin

Deaf woman hears for the first time

Siobhán Mc Laughlin blogs at http://www.a-blog-of-ones-own.blogspot.com 
and is currently participating in the NaPoWriMo challenge  of writing a poem a day here: 
http://www.napowrimobysiobhan.blogspot.com

With a Kiss

"When I got off from the subway, a lady told me the war was over, and I went into the street yelling. I saw the nurse and she was smiling at me, so I just grabbed her." - Glenn Edward McDuffie, sailor pictured in the iconic photograph 'V-J Day in Times Square' by Alfred Eisenstaedt, on Victory Over Japan Day (V-J Day) in Times Square, New York, on August 14th, 1945. 

Unfold the reel
in black and white bustle
a hurray of a kiss
seizes the day.

Times Square, Hollywood romance,
good news a heady current in air:
It's over! War is over!  Sighs, shouts, cries -
and everywhere
the confetti of tears.

Life resumes in revelry,
hearts swoon in applause.
Hello sailor, lost, now found.
Two people take a bow, say
love is the only how.

Hallelujah, horizons ahoy.
World can go on. Life will
go on!

No obelisk or stone statue to remember -
one man and woman’s fame
cemented by impulse, a default affront
to the rigid machinations of war.   

And like Romeo, thus he dies,
with a kiss, with this kiss,
forever on our lips.

Sailor in famous kissing photo dies.

©Siobhán McLaughlin

I'm a writer of poetry and prose and blog at : http://www.a-blog-of-ones-own.blogspot.com

Find me on Twitter at @siobhan347

The Standing Man

The standing man
fills the square
with his silence

as a prayer, a plea,
a peaceful affront
to the violent protest

The standing man
still and regal
as a statue,

his quiet vigil
a solemn salute
to the truth.

The standing man
without scream or siren
is dangerous

like a sword in a sheath,
powerful as a punch
pummelling the gut.

The standing man
a picture with the force
of a thousand words,
a no that can’t
be quelled
with shouts or shots.

The standing man
no longer one,
a priest to pilgrims
he has become
hundreds;
their silent stand
the loudest sound,
the most moving act of all.

Erdem Gunduz’s protest

©Siobhán Mc Laughlin

Aleppo

An old man sits in the town square
smokes his pipe, reads his paper
feigns normality
in the place where sirens blare;

a hundred dead a day.

A young man kneels in the dirt
where his brother was shot in the head
on an errand to buy milk
in the place where shells split air;

a hundred dead a day.

An old woman wails on the doorstep
of her rubbled home with
fourteen family members gone
in the place where bodies rot in the sun;

a hundred dead a day.

 A young woman kisses the bloodied face
of her husband, his body three weeks
dead and decomposed
in the place where snipers pick off people as bait;

a hundred dead a day.

An old man tries to tell the tragedy
but can only sigh and gasp, his pain
flailing the words to pieces
in the place where grief is certain as night;

a hundred dead a day.

Children don’t play outside anymore,
the park full of bodies buried
in makeshift unidentified despair
in the place where war avenges its bidding;

a hundred dead a day.

A group of old men play chess
in a spot of the town not far
from the river that deposits human detritus
in the place where gravediggers shovel endlessly
to close the gaping maw of death;

hundreds dead in days.

© Siobhán Mc Laughlin

The River Martyrs

Siobhan is an aspiring poet who chases many muses with avid enthusiasm. She is of the firm belief
that words can change the world. Her blog is: www.a-blog-of-ones-own.blogspot.com and her Twitter is: @siobhan347