I was baked in the sun,
Until tired on the inside
And red on the outside,
And it wasn’t fun
For anyone involved.

I baked brownies in the oven,
Until gooey on the inside
And hardened (slightly) on the outside,
And it was awesome
For everyone involved.

One of these two
Is appropriate
For Instagram.
Can you guess which?

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The Dead Heat

I melted in the dead heat
To a pool of skin and sweat,
No wind blowing a warning
Of the coming of Hot Death.

I melted in the dead heat
On my way to work a day,
Hot Death on my trail
As I walked the stony way.

I melted in the dead heat
And tried not to let it kill,
The Hot Death threatening
To spread the heat wave still.

I melted in the dead heat
Through water and through clothes,
With no protection from Hot Death
Who victimises most.

I melted in the dead heat
As Hot Death took a stroll,
This city not quite on his route,
Yet still he took his toll.

I melted in the dead heat
To a nothingness on the ground,
So take a warning to run away
From where Hot Death is found.

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An Irregular Irish Summer

An Irish summer lasts three days.
Sometimes, if we’re lucky, one per month.
We get high temperatures
And we complain about them,
And then they go away,
Replaced by a wet patch or four,
Flash floods and lightning storms,
And a chill in the air in July.

But not this year.
Blue skies have burned bright
For much longer than we expected.
They think the water might run out,
Or the elderly will shrivel up
And turn to giant walking wrinkles.

The stones are literally splitting,
Children cannot sleep for the heat,
And, for some reason,
Teenagers walk around topless.

No one knows why,
So please, don’t ask.

This is not a normal Irish summer.
Everything is warmer,
Everything is brighter,
Everything is much more pleasant
Than we ever expected it to be
And no one knows how to react.

Most importantly,
We don’t know how long it will last.

This could be gone in a week,
A month,
Two, maybe.
But I doubt that.
This feels like it will never end,
Not gradually at least.

Winter will come,
Snapping into place,
And we’ll be frozen there,
Bed sheets too light,
T-shirts worn as scarves,
Parched for water.

Just. Like. That.

And it will feel normal,
Like that’s how winter always was,
Sudden, unexpected,
Snowy and frozen.
As if we get that sort of weather.
As if we’re that lucky.

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Early Awakening

Sleep will come,
And sleep will go,
But mother please
Don’t make it so,
With your early alarms
And wanderings for tea,
Letting them go off
To awaken me
With a repetitive tone
That has no end,
Subliminally hinting
That sleep’s no friend.
That might be so,
And if it’s bound to be,
I’ll defend my hours
Of unfriendly sleep,
Until it comes that I must go
And always without morning glee,
With a mood that needs a mend,
And dangerous thoughts inside of me.

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I can’t force my focus
Like a lens on a camera.
It comes and goes
In a flash
And I’m left waiting
To capture the moment again.

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The countdown has started,
I wait by my phone,
For the message to come
That you’re finally home,

So that we can unite
Like we used to, before,
Over coffee, my friend,
Whom I always adore.

Homecoming is happening,
It’s oh-so-close,
After way too long
Of missing you most.

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Nothing Like It

There’s nothing like waking to a screaming baby,
The same one who says your name with delight,
Or crawls over to you to speak some gibberish,
Or who sits in your lap to break wind,  mid-play.
Your whole body springs to life, ears splitting,
And you want to be annoyed, except for that time,
You know, when she ran to you for comfort,
Or tried to share get crackers and water,
Or sang along to your favourite song, the first one she loved.
There’s nothing like any of it,
And that makes it okay.

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