Your Field Of Dreams

I slipped onto the stage that Wednesday night,
our audience in rapturous applause.

I bawled my way into their hearts.
The Path I’d come was a long, nourished, winding road.

The midwife grinned, concluded her Service,
and tucked away her fears.

I was born to cry,
it was not time to speak.

If you’d known me then,
you’d have judged me unique.

My father, the bookseller, could not bear the pain
of reading my mother’s face
as she bore the body language and every laboured move.

My father slurped his pints, with friends,
in Murphy’s bar on Catherine Street
until he was turfed out
to meet me on another stage,
with Respect 
– before the cock crowed.

If you knew me then,
you’d have counted me (Eh) a child with Potential.

After that start, and before I came to greet you
I joined the club. Together we chartered “Excellence Born From Fun”.

You, my friends, you know
the way you came into the world of faltering phrases.

You know
the years at school were not enough to wipe the jitters from your heart.

You know
what it’s like to be married to Trepidation, to be caged like a tiger separated from her Confidence.

You’ve lived on stages and danced with clogs
on floorboards creaking for flight.

Today, of all days,  let us join together and thank the gods.
This online day you come divorced, divorced from the Demon Doubt
that on your stage once reigned.

Come here, dear friend, from every field of Earth.
Let us separate together
from a spouse that vowed the worst on you, that vowed you’d fail

and celebrate.

Un-vow that contract with Trepidation
It was made under duress
Annul the marriage of unlike minds
Cast off the shackles that hold your larynx tight.

Arise angelic audience
Arise and sing together the lyrics Smedley sang
Your “Song of Champions”,
Champions of the World.

You know what it’s like to be a flower born to bloom on stage.
Rise up
and Promise
Promise you’ll trust that sweet melody of Integrity 
that’s growing in your field of dreams.

Emerging from retirement

Emerging from retirement

(for my good friend Robert)

At last I can go to work,

and make my own dawn,

cast off the grip, the drive, the contract of employment,

like hedgehog wake from hibernation,

like black grizzly bear resurrect from torpor,

no longer follow the politics of prose,

nor feign fellowship with routine strokes of stratagem and strategy,

awake with a hawk’s eye,

dive like thick-billed murre for cod and worms,

from the coast of a new land

from the marrow of bones too rested for their own good.

The people who have ideas

The people who have ideas
breathe, touch, imagine the best,
the same way eagles fly 
on air blown in streams that flow
over waterfalls, whirlpools, lakes – 
into backwaters,
into oceans.

The IDEAS I met
in the home The Quiet Man built
(alongside the Cross of Cong)
have all come
clad with strings and baggage,
stubble and eau de cologne
from Jo Malone.

A few carried by musical instruments,
some with a stoop,
the odd one with a straight back,
looking for company
and the like.

Ideas encased in characters:
Rewilding man
Heart with a fear of trusting others
Ireland’s first flow consultant
Multi-tasking woman
(who brushed her teeth
and spat into her handbag)

against the safety of closed paradigms
and spent minds

for alchemy
and epiphany

If it’s icy cold,
pee in your pants –
it’ll soon dry out
and keep you warm.

A splash of IDEATION on the road …
near the Hungry Monk.

Heretics listed:
Bureaucracy works
War eliminates fear 
Doing the shagging thing
Stop travelling
Make something useless

The green soup for lunch
began life as an idea
in the mind of a vegetable
(Civil Rights for Vegetables)
before you eat words for ingredients.

the best interruptions were ideas
that would not keep 
behind the Hedge