https://anchor.fm/embed/a6520d
We’d all love to rise from the dead
and snatch a second chance
from the teeth of history.
Which of you would refuse resurrection
and leave the stones in place
until the winter breaks?
My death was cold
and stank of feces
left by swallows fit to glide away.
I never knew how long my death would last
until I rose again from the jaws of a mystery made
before the stars exploded
and the universe was saved.
I left the house of my reincarnation
before the swallows returned
the year they cancelled the Grand National.
I walked out the door
before dawn disappeared, drove through a dream
as if in a dismal draft of corked Dolcetto.
I pitched my leaky tent in Wiltshire
’til forced out by a wife’s thirst
for regeneration.
Winter hardened the road I travelled
as I wished to wallow like a pig
in the hot mud Bladud found.
I sailed back to the Province of my birth
in a ferry beset by bleeding ballast,
into the storm of a tiger’s saliva
whipped by Irish bankers, Roman bishops,
windy politicians and uncivil servants.
The rant of ravaged youths, refugees from famine,
coursed through my bloodstream, out my throat
and stained my pen.
I wrote resurrection out of my will.
until I flew to the city of surprised eyes,
composer’s minds,
mouthful feasts
until I sat opposite my child in Southark
speaking of the Golan, green with cotton,
forgetting Masada and the Dead Sea
and lived to swim again
among dreadlocks, hijabs, sidecurls, pale people
and more
until at last I greet myself
arriving at my own house
in my own skin
and we smile again
reunited over broken bread
and the words of one imagination.
There are stones
in a rushwork basket
by the fireplace
in my living-room
on Whitehill.
Stones
gathered
from the side
of a sea
where
they were subject
to tides.
Now
they lie
dried
together
on top
of each other,
crushing
Road-opening
The Council shut the road outside Crawford Woods
on Thursday
without warning
blocked the way down Church Hill
forced us all to detour
crawlingly
day after day until sundown on Saturday.
They even parked a road-repairing, four-wheeled, monstrosity
– a rhinoceros of a stone-chip spreader –
outside the house of Adrian and Eimear
so obtrusively
we couldn’t avoid talking to each other
for the first time since Halloween.
‘Twas sticking plaster on potholes
for the sake of bumps in the night
tyres in the daylight.
II
On the third, day the cock crowed
before the sun returned,
we could turn left again
to embrace our over-hanging trees
and shadow side.
Shards covered over
at least temporarily,
boulders removed
so earthworms can move forward now
beyond the known universe.
Road-opening without ceremony
an invitation to return to fruitful ways
– the journey of a lifetime.
I love women
I admire women
I am jealous of women
I am enriched by women
I have been saved by women
I love the shape of women
… the flaws of women
I am infuriated by women
I love cooking for women
I am irritated by women
I despair of women
I am tickled by women
I write for women
Women have made me a man.
This is where I’ll put a short personal introduction
What should I say?
On Periscope (bio):
I scope very often. Engage with humans. Playful, Poet, Storyteller, Friendly, Foodie, Gentle, Generous – Podcaster – Copywriter – http://www.paulhomahony.com
On Twitter (bio)
Business storytelling consultant – Podcaster – Poet – Servant – On @Periscopeco – Foodie – naturally ambitious + love to share my contacts.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 