Category: poetry

Yes

I will vote. Yes I will vote with my body. Yes I will vote with my mind. Yes I will vote with a heart that has a right to life. Yes – we have a right to vote for what is right, for what is love, for what is precious, for what is ordained to be true. I will vote, yes vote for what my conscience knows is the right thing to do – to make Ireland great again – to bring back the love into the fabric of our kind, considerate society – wholly Irish, wholly wholly wholly true to the one true faith, our faith in human dignity, human nature, human life.

I shall vote.

Yes I shall vote

With all my might

With all my right

Dear dear people – vote – whatever you do vote.

Yes you have won the right – to vote with love.

Yes to vote with love in your heart.

You’ll never vote alone.

Oh yes, oh yes – bless you

The 9th of May

Once upon a memory…

Punctuation passed

Moments missed

Glimpses gone

A flicker of fantasy

Lightning daylight

Now no more

I wish I’d paid attention

The 9th of May

The 8th of May

Once upon a way …

Shadows were strong

Nothing came easy

Earth worms slept

In the aftermath

A fox slipped

Across the main road

The 8th of May

The 7th of May

Once upon a century …

A cloud of imagination

met an undergrowth of agitation

grafted to roots of inspiration

grown from seed harvested

in a rotten apple core

close to the home of a Queen wasp

busy delivering

The 7th of May

The 6th of May

Once upon a line …

Jackdaws rock and thrush

A brush with life

Glad I didn’t miss the mist

Scenery

blossoming greenery

The 6th of May

The 5th of May

Once upon a mouth …

A glass of wine

Blood Blind Body

We are corpses

waiting for therapy

aching for a sign

The 5th of May

The 4th of May

Once upon a mind …

A hospital today

A friend away

Tests tests tests

I must arise and go now

and put on shoes that match

The 4th of May.

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I have no poetry in me

No melody, no song

I am bereft of fluency.

My hummingbird attends,

I’m doing research

Lurching from sleep

Thirsting, cursing:

“It’s always been this way”

My hummingbird smiles.

Prague Spring 2018

Prague Spring 2018

A castle bare, tapestries
gone, no battle left to fight,
stained glass in a cathedral
surrounded by cobblestones
– a national museum

A Square that’s a rectangle
where you catch tram number nine,
M and S underwhelming,
Grand Hotel renovating
– a national museum

All the beer has disappeared,
dumplings, sausages, mustard,
replicas stand on Charles Bridge,
remembering a Kingdom
– a national museum.

And all the while Jan Palach burns …

 

 

Moanbaun Wood

moanbaun.jpg

Moanbaun Wood

I found my spectacles on the path

retraced my steps

thankful.

I wanted to see the recording.

the man in the green coat and black hair

came here by night

crisp clear sight

a lantern on his forehead

he said some dogs were trained here

maybe search and rescue.

how many shades of green are here?

this is a place to stumble into lines

into phrases

even stanzas.

rocks and puddles

jays, blue jays.

on this trail I met a chaffinch.

she sang

to me

of light.

she flew with an open air

across the trail

above the trees

above the pines

she spoke to me of days to come

and I walked on

with a lighter step.

on the bench

sat a magpie

she did not fly

away

she looked me with her sharpened eye

she called to me of days gone by

immobile days

one for sorrow…

she did not sing to me

she wrote a note of silence

in that resting place.

I walked away

she stayed with me

she never left my shoulder

her grip

firm

solid

muscular.

she was no tenor.

that magpie had a nest nearby

I could see why she picked me.

where has my chaffinch gone?

she’s not so strong.

when will she rise again?

when will she lay her eggs?

around the corner

downhill

there are songbirds.

drops

raindrops

hang

from twigs.

ah that song

again.

this is the way.

Broken

Broken heart

Broken mind

Broken spirit

Broken images

Unbroken heart

Unbroken mind

Unbroken dishes

Unbroken feathers

Unbroken veins

Unbroken arteries

Unbroken breath

Unbroken nerve

Broken sleep

Unbroken dreams

Unbroken thirst

Broken bristles

To be broke

to be human

to be live

I Love Women

For International Women’s Day today – I give you this celebration of women.

Paul O'Mahony's avatarFrom Bath to Cork with baby Grace



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.

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Am I the only one?

1.

I was killed at school.

The bullets hit me somewhere

in the eye, ear, nose & throat,

maybe through my heart.

I didn’t feel a thing

pierce my umbilical pipeline.

I guess my mother’s blood gushed.

Maybe she hadn’t decided what she’d do with me.

All that ammunition …

Cartridges for crucifixions

Explosions of extreme unction

A Hell of Heaven

I imagine the bard broken.

I was gone within a heartbeat, snuffed out.

Was I the only one?

2.

I was elected at home.

The votes cost me

a bank balance weighed with wishes.

I keep eyes, ears, nostrils, speeches primed.

I feel throbbing hearts,

invocations of investors …

shareholders sighing like furnace …

I am a political animal,

I stand to attention for the last post

in association with my brothers-in-arms,

with every voter who craves the right to shoot,

to the grave.

I’ve earned the money to pursue the sins of the Senate,

the hustings of the House.

I’ve paid the price

Am I the only one?

3.

I am the gun that shot the child

in many places.

I have an owner.

A kind, gentle, considerate, generous, careful citizen.

An emotionally retarded, psychotic, neglected, deprived, abused, vengeful

collector of beauties.

My barrel gleams.

I am an automatic obliterator,

my owner is a dead shot,

proud, defender of the faith of our fathers,

responsible,

lover of fire & brimstone.

I love my owner.

Am I the only one?

_________________

(17 February 2018 – in honour of 17 humans massacred in Florida – 14 students + 3 faculty members)





Martin Luther King

January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968

I wish that I could sing
a song so strong
your dream would seemGcPwvo98NRgoMKk1ndyLpeyJ

to have returned to life
on streets
where blackbirds thrill
and arms are bent
against the ring of a call to prayer.

You sit on the right side of an angel’s wing

You rise with horned larks
across farmlands, prairies, deserts, and golf courses.

I have a song
that waits to be sung
the day a choir is born
surrounded by mixed fruits,
blackcurrants, redberries, dark chocolates, and meringues.

Martin Luther King
you’ve never slept,
always an eye forever,
a tooth ready for the call,
ready for the Promised Land.

In defence of unhappiness


In defence of unhappiness

“Happiness is a warm gun” – John Lennon

As the cuckoo grabbed a nest
and crushed eggs to death
blackbirds sang

As hurricane winds blasted
and tree trunks fell
wood beetles sang

As mayflies starved and died
exhausted swarms collapsed
hover of trout smiled

As meteor crashed to Earth
the sun went black
jellyfish smiled

As serfs and slaves revolted
blue blood was spilt
beheaders sang

As Job tasted pestilence
a hunger reigned
Almighty sang

As foetus died stillborn death
a mother wept
a hope was born.

____________________

Note: Audio recording is here https://anchor.fm/e/993838?at=1085154

After Sunday

‘It’s hard

to start…’

______

After Sunday

A roll of the dice 

A cut of the cards

Slot-machines

Night and Day

rolled into one

Background & Hinterland.

Did Elvis chant

‘Let’s Strip You Bare’?

Music & Musaque 

‘ Where have all the jute-boxes gone?’

——

What’s your poison?

Your cocktail?

Your justification?

To be sure,

none of us expected you to order

“Massacre on the Rocks”.

No parrot sang

“Pretty Polly

Off your trolly

No folly

Pretty Polly

Off-duty

Police officer

Nurse

Local government employee

A couple of Canadians

With his fiancé 

A very good mother

Heavy-duty mechanic apprentice

Maple Ridge

Big Sandy

Henderson

23

29

20

22,000

Vesuvius 

Pompeii on the Strip

_______

‘I won’t be right

until I’ve written 

– even then

I won’t be right.

I lost my heart in Vegas

Nevada

Cork.’

Nobody but you

There are too many bloody good people around
They make me sick with their good intentions
Puke with Generosity
Retch with Universal Love
Angels cast in vomit.

Too many spirits carry the burden of pain
– as if one snake’s venom was bedfellow
to a reptilian Collective Conscience.
Give me the fiery “Go fuck your trouble”
anyday.

Stop feeling for me.
Cut out the empathy surrogacy.
Drown in your trade-marked tears.
Do something for yourself.
Go walk your own mile.

Go be nobody but you.
Isn’t it hard enough to live one life

than to be mother to another?

So many good people

Twas a bitter night,
earthworms driven deep,
swifts and swallows flown from sight,
few nuts laid to sleep.

On the road well-trudged
shoes sliding behind,
crowds into my face misjudged,
to their rhythm blind.

An all-weather pitch,
hummingbirds and rats,
a carpet woven eldritch,
oodles of green hats.

Twas a spark, a flame,
kindling wood for home
way beyond a trace of shame,
whispering coxcomb.

Too many good people
abroad with wisdom,
blessed good loving people
mend sorrow’s kingdom.

Waiting for something to happen 

Waiting for something to happen 

that isn’t 

already

waiting for something 

that Godot 

missed,

Waiting for someone

to hiccup 

more than me.

You see

waiting is (a) creating

gestating

sublimating

art

Not Farting But Founding… 

—————

Will 

The rain fall?

The toilet flush?

The doorbell ring?

Will

The jackdaw land?

The chicken lay?

A pony snort?

Will

That fish spawn?

This hiccup die?

Her tongue melt?

Her wit end?

Her scream echo?

Will

Friday follow?

The poet’s grip falter?

Your journey age?

Will

The albatross be called Wisdom?

My hummingbird depart?

My sign language strike a chord?

Your fingernails warm?

Waiting for something to happen…

A story take on a character?

This ceremony embrace your destiny?

My watch tick?

Tim Miller wake in time 

to catch Godot working?

Miracles

Waiting for something to happen.