There’s Another Thought….

it doesn’t matter how many
i write a poem
or catch a thought
trying to escape
it will never explain
as I sit on the patio
listening to the thunder
drinking black coffee from
a white china cup
waiting for the rain….
I ask myself,
do I see more clearly?
do I listen better
than I hear
have I acquired more wisdom
than knowledge
down through the years
Hush…. there’s another thought
trying to escape….

Thatcher Doran

City Lunchtime

unrelenting march of feet

unstopping pounding

place to place

human ants smiling,

scowling….to deter

any unsolicited jiving

yet, it’s a time to meet

to greet

a need to eat

a latte …. a Dublin sandbo

perhaps a veggie in a cameo

just squeeze it in

between the noise

the squeal of city traffic

hints of diesel, a sniff of


on the side, the sound

of language…. surfing

on a heavy cocktail

often colliding…. bouncing

off the manic Spanish summer

rushing through the crowded


oblivious to the norm of

city lunchtime

so take a seat….

choose your poison and see…..


Thatcher Doran

To Be Alone, Unintended

it’s a strange experience

but there are times

alias…. dark moments

void of joy

I find myself adrift

in a sea of loneliness

lost, I cannot comprehend….

this Enigma

spaghetti in my head

that mere reason cannot


….even compensate

a weeping from within

some fundamental betrayal

of trust

of love

devoid of feeling

an overwhelming hurt

cold against my soul

to be alone, unintended

Left…. like dry peas on a self

perhaps forgotten!

aware, so much aware

of the impending…. Use by Date


Thatcher Doran

Philistines on a Friday

in the corner

in the leather chair

a glass of water

on a table

round and marbled

I hide

from prying eyes

from dubious tongues

words and gossip

alas, lunch is over

well, almost over

though a glass of red

would go down well

except, those eyes have

a sense of smell

if no other kind…. of sense

tiny minds making lots

of noise… no sense

just that constant echo….

but, I’m too tired to be

even bothered

Friday afternoons are too important



Thatcher Doran




What Sundays Need is Masking Tape!

a latent melancholy shivers

Sunday afternoon….

with all its childhood


the weekend past, way past

its best

Monday morning begins to


tis going back to school….


even now, that same old film


inside my head

the institutional bullying of

the soul

while Sunday afternoons simply


Monday mornings lie in wait

to strip me, peel me of my


still, a feeling of displacement

…..of trust misplaced….


Thatcher Doran