Feature of the Week-PS Conway, An American Poet with Irish Roots

We are thrilled to feature the poetry of PS Conway, an American Poet with Irish roots. We hope you enjoy his work.

PS Conway returned to poetry in 2020 after a far too long hiatus from writing. Sadly, yet serendipitously, the Covid19 quarantine created a much-needed space for words; words that attracted an ardent online community of readers. PS finds fascination in language birthed from dark, literate, and emotive places. In the last 26 months, PS has been published in 12 literary publications. In his free time, PS fancies himself a rock star, jamming on his drum kit, and a wannabe sommelier, savoring Napa cabs with his wife Susan.

Socials:
Website: PoetrybyPS.com
Facebook: facebook.com/PSConwayPoet
Twitter: ps_conway
Email: psconwaypoet@gmail.com

light and shadow

I pace along stone fortress walls
looking to the forest at small
herds of deer grazing in the space
between light and shadow.

Oisín clings to my leg, eyes welled
with tears, a wee fawn with the soul
of a poet, he mouths your name,
and I shake my head ‘no’.

as for me, this warrior’s heart
lies lost in memories of you,
as entwined as moss taking root
‘midst worn cracks of this dún.

but know this,
my most solemn pledge,
sworn unto the gods…

our love is beyond time, and no
black curse, no conjured slight, will e’er
halt my search; I will find you and
return you from shadow
into the light.

the storm

hold me fast, my love, for I am frightened
of the coming of the night, safe in our
snug seaside cottage, sheltered from the storm,
the raging tide summons – and I cower

under the covers like a child, fitful
in this turmoil, swift shallow breaths like ice,
throat so dry, and I thirst, I thirst for life,
for the spring-tide of my youth, what shall suffice
save forestalling the coming of the night
with its dark schemes, its furtive machinations,
to steal this life, this soul, from me, from us,
this soul, a toll, my final oblation

who will tend me in the darkness, tell me
all will be well, you will be well, scatter
the ghosts that haunt this fearful mind who dreads
the end, drowned in night’s ebbed ebon clatter

then silence, all is still,
peace settles ‘cross my heart

dry your tears, my love, the storm abates
the full moon awaits o’er the sea, holds my eye,
she is beautiful, she is warm, and she calls
my name gentle ‘long hushed surf, like a sigh

she

she proffers up her imagination
unto the currents of moonlit breezes
seeks conjunction with like-minded dreamers
who behold the heavens and know beauty

she views horizons
yet knows not limits
only potential
for further creation
she knows full the ache
how true genius craves
to plant wildflowers
o’er Algernon’s grave

she shall not be small ‘neath vast harvest skies
denies being small ‘neath the eyes of a man
tessers so swift across space and time
ever-rewriting her fate with a pen