Concentricity by Shane Vaughan

Says she,

what’s the purpose of life if it falls like chestnuts to the fire, to be roasted and devoured by little mouths unaware of their parents’ debts, where the random fall of seed can make or break a tree, with fruit picked by fingers reaching out like tentacles, feeding, until the leaves can’t grow, until there’s no more gifts to give, until the child becomes the parent to the child.

Says the philosopher,

what else have we but lives like tree rings marking time, concentric circles enveloping concentric circles enveloping concentric circles enveloping concentric circles

Shane Vaughan is a writer of poetry, prose and plays. His work has been published in The Pickled Body, Unbroken Journal, Poetry NI, Roadside Fiction, Silver Apples and elsewhere. In August 2015 his play, Jacqueline, ran in the Cork School of Music. He works for Ó Bhéal: Cork’s Weekly Poetry Event as an administrator, and also runs Stanzas, an Evening of Words, where he publishes a chapbook of new writing every month. Visit him at | |