Make preparations,
Take precautions,
Trained personnel,
Follow all instructions.
Rest easy,
Sleep sound,
Let the children play,
Nothing to fear.
The Lifeguard watches,
His chair a symbol.
We take our comfort,
From his persistence.
Confident of risks,
We slip our guard.
Our precious gifts,
We slack and slowly press.
To rot,
In bloated, black,
Complacent tar,
Of darkened sloppy flab,
The lifeguard dies.
And in his passing,
Parts of us awake,
See now that we,
The reins must take.
© Sam McKeon 2015
Published by Sam McKeon
Sam McKeon is a recluse, living on the remote rugged west coast of Ireland. Currently, Sam’s poetry tends to focus on his inner universe and the moments he spends with the very few people he is in contact with, especially his muse Emily, who has inspired almost fifty poems, tracing the development of their relationship.
The astonishing drama and beauty of the wild Irish landscape is also absorbed into his writing. This can lead to some weird things, but mostly it leads to deeply passionate works stitched together with tender reflection.
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