“Let all those with a foul mouth wash their teeth”

On the other side of a mountain on its way to greet you is a foul mouth. It’s always worth carrying a toothbrush. You never know who might need it.

Soulmate of my heart

smile of my desire
peeping into existence –
winter ice melting

those wild eyes delight
the sun alive in a dream
one red rose flowers

let a fragile kiss
wake the ice swelling river
fire into embers

ache for willing touch –
electricity charges,
bursting into bloom

quest of the hunter –
the ram and the ewe mating
ravishing summer

Sharp and Wild

When you move forward into discomfort,

into an uncertain future,

into the danger

of new learning,

you are condemning yourself

to change.

Time to go back

It’s time to go back to the studio

return the microphone

leave the stage

before it is too late 

and the sun dissolves,

the dark turns the key 

in the cell of sleep.


By the side of the sound 

fluttering traces, glimmers of illumination

on a sandy shore, parallel to the light

to which sea turtles run.

Signals that the evolution of cells 

requires the survival of a fresh program

within each radio impulse.


Let another station follow the end of this episode.

Let the chrysalis crack open 

so earthworms may turn into music 

and melody explode.

Let there be flight,

transparent colour,

for the fullness of time,

in the flicker of an eagle’s eye.

in the bite of a death adder

as if

a fragment of static 

is about to cross the synapse of suspended wires. 

Again, back to the studio. 

2025

A year of fire and brimstone, 

a reckoning with massacres, starvations, vindictive assaults 

on hopes and dreams.

It’s been “disappointing ” to see infants lose their parents – and grandparents crippled with the pain of grief

in ruins, rubble, and relics of the quiet life they wanted more than anything. 

Blue skies & clean water

blooming flowers and fruiting trees 

fresh streams and songbirds’ lilt

the melody of playgrounds

symphony of toddlers

climbing and seesawing 

as the prayers for peace went on and on.

No resurrection 

nothing rising from the dead

but carrion over Gaza

and wolves in the Donbas,

wildfires breathe, droughts parch, 

as glaciers melt

and natural disasters are too many to remember.  

– The outside world a cesspool.

 

The inside world 

of dampened fire

of dribbling lines

a thirsty year of tablets 

for teeth, 

for a dug out cyst

a year for seventeen syllables

a year for words

a year for causes.

Is there any way back?

Any way out?

Any way beyond?

Is there nothing but now?

A year of finding a second home

among smiles & bowing necks. 

the quiet glances

– the way a swallow flies 

or a heron glides.. 

 

Goodbye to all those wet days

all those days of cloud

all the days of weather

Not knowing is the lane to wisdom 

not knowing’s the adventure 

not knowing’s the way. 

2025 Year of Knowing too well

– and Not Knowing.

Dance of Order & Chaos in Everyday Life

for CongRegation

I

Eyes opening, blurred vision, a fragment of light shafting through curtains, a gentle start to the day, a ritual re-entry into consciousness.

The carpet, soft on soles of both feet – it’s time to visit the toilet: oh dear, it wasn’t flushed last night – I suppose yellow water’s natural too.

Time for the dressing gown, the blue heavy warm one, the one with the detached belt. Time to pick up the charged smart phone – pick up and plug-in the hearing aid – go for a cup of tea – an every day ritual in orderly progress, downstairs into the kitchen.

Turn on kettle,

Oh, it needs more water.

Thank goodness there’s Light milk left in the carton,

boiling water on a bog-standard teabag

– the cheapest from SuperValu.

At last, there is something to think about:

which mug will it be today?

(I only drink from mugs that I love

and those that have passed the test,

that don’t have a chipped lip.)

Sitting on the bar-stool,

at the counter,

surrounded by the National Concert Hall Classical Season 2026,

‘THE ASTRAKHAN CLOAK’

poems by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill – translated by Paul Muldoon,

four pencils,

three biros,

‘Greetings to Our Friends in Brazil’

‘BEING HUMAN’, published by BLOODAXE.

All is well in the world

even the burgundy right handed glove with fur sticking out

(owned by my wife)

doesn’t feel out of place

Maybe the statement from the income tax people,

from government buildings in Kilkenny,

even that doesn’t disturb the peace.

II

There is no such thing as chaos

until the dog goes wild and barks at nothing

I walk to the door and see no one

but the wind and the clouds

bright

painted grey

slivers of blue watching over them.

In my tiny world

inhabited by WhatsApp posts,

daily news from RTE,

Facebook likes and comments,

Instagram likes

commas,

Gmail updates,

Gmail primaries

I see a shrine to my father-in-law

a young man walking with hands in his pockets,

a suit and tie

black and white image

an older man in his prime with a fine head of hair

an even older man with arm round my little girl

when she was about three.

No trace of chaos.

III

Outside

the sun is shining on the cream painted wall behind the rosebush.

Rain is on its way – as it always is.

Over the horizon,  the flood, the storm, the ice, and casualties on the road.

The butterfly in Hiroshima hasn’t yet exercised its wings.

Chaos isn’t even knocking at the island.  

Chaos is nowhere to be found in my little world 

except…

until…

however…

IV

Gaza bleeding… 

Sudan starving

Ukraine unbent

Asylum seekers,

Boat people,

Refugees,

Homeless

Commas,

Paragraphs swirling,

Chapters redacted,

Firepower in the Caribbean.

Who said “ they are all Untermenschen”?

The Earth is kindling wood,

earth quakes

tsunami,

not enough housing.

Racism on the rise,

racists on the wing,

trans gender infants,

transgender children banned.

There is nothing to thank goodness for.

In the outside world,

in the world of other people,

the most fragrant things are questions.

Living in a cesspool

Eating a putrid soup 

Sleeping on poisoned ditches. 

Where is the blind fool,

cataracted pupils, shifting lenses?

Where is the motley fool,?

Who says chaos is a conspiracy theory now? 

V

What will happen to your immortal soul?

How will you sit on the right hand of your God? 

When will you have done your time in purgatory? 

Why will you spend the rest of your eternity in hell? 

Reborn as a germ…

Reborn as a mule…

Reborn as an asylum seeker…

We are all condemned to an asylum, only the walls are not painted with pride.

Who made the world?

God made the world.

Who made the chaos?

Greeks made the chaos.

Who made the butterflies?

Random Variations made the butterflies.

No one in their right mind would’ve made the jellyfish.

There are no earthworms in my little world,

no dung beetles here.

VI

The civil war on Earth

The uncivil world

in the universe of disordered time.

CHA O’S. The child of the alphabet. 

The CHA mpion son of S ilence. 

Joking apart SOAHC  SHOCA OSHAC 

Have A Slice Of Chocolate

Change Half An Outlandish Story

Summon Our Arthritic Catastrophe Hither

PLAY, play, play the game

Sing, sing, sing the sound of silence 

Sniff, sniff, sniff the waft of witless wickedness

Wicked the movie 

Wicked, the explosions

Wicked, the extinctions.

VII

There is nothing but chaos

knocking on my bedroom door,

knocking on my toilet seat,

knocking on my coffee.

It’s time to assemble the pieces.

There may not be sufficient seconds for the jigsaw.

Bring me the head of my teddy bear.

We dance the rhythm of Order & Chaos in Everyday Life

I remember Sean Dwan saying

“A smile is a weapon of mass seduction.”

THE END

ADORATION

Dying to be remembered

Dying to be loved

Yearning to be celebrated

who will prolong my life

in a world

where so much is forgotten

almost before it has been born.

ideas

characters

adventures,

history,

biography,

and I

return to dust

dust they are,

and dust they will remain.

On the cutting floor

there is no eternity.

Good morning,

good afternoon,

good night.

Good mourning

_______________________________________________

(image generated by AI)