Portrait of a noble winesmith 

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Portrait

The wine he poured from an old glass

the grape distilled at least twice

the place inherited easily

from bishops, politicians and King.

The first growth he loved

Monsieur Christian –

guardian of the blue pool

alongside mosquitos

pink roses and a caramel tree

fortified juice a white touch –

paid taxes to the elected government

sold bottles for a living

walked in shade

as water flowed up from mountains.

Proprietor with title and vocation,

a travelled homme

le rouge et le blanc.

——

Note:

Written 3 August 2012 after a visit to Chateau de Beaulon

 

Dreams

Dreams

Moses never led his people to the promised land

Magellan never sailed his ships home

Puccini never finished his journey to Turandot

I’ve never reached my daydreams.

I led up to them,

talking and walking

barefoot on  moss,

across streams

to the other side.

I reached for them on tippy-toes

never let go.

That’s my trouble

I’m no Michelangelo

and so I watch those daydreams

grow and grow

into memories

–  elephants in  my room –

wondering  what Moses felt

as he watched the people

leave the desert

their daydreams shining.

Maybe it’s a feast to simply daydream

and trek on

until I lose the breath for daydreams

and ‘in that sleep of death‘

dream on.

 

Testament 

Testament

The bible is my survival

when they come

calling for my salvation

And it isn’t Matthew Mark Luke and John

that bail me out…

Who composed this poem?

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The moment I see

a thousand snowdrops blooming

under snowflake sky

I know my soulhome is here again

————–

Note:

I don’t know who wrote this. I don’t remember writing it. It’s in my iPhone notes without any information. 

So it won’t make it into my next poetry book or collected works. 

No matter – I like it – it means something to me.

If you wrote it – please claim it. 

Warmed

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Warmed

I am a wood frog in a previous life.

You would probably think I was dead

if you saw where I was inside logs and burrows

 

heart stopped

ice crystals in my blood.

I defrost in the warmth of Spring.

 

Before that, I am a deer mouse

huddled together snuggling with the others

I don’t live for long.

 

In my time, I am a white-tailed prairie dog, a bat, hedgehog.

I am even a skunk

suspecting that’s where I began.

 

Last December

I all came together in this chilled life –

until my sun got warm again.

Pulse

My child went to dance his night away.

And mine went for the love of her life.

My children had names.

My parents came out looking for  everlasting love.

My family were herded together like cattle

and passed into the cold beyond

kissed by the fire of bullets

from a manufacturing plant

owned by anonymous shareholders.

These are not my words

I have no words fit for a future

that blows like a gorgon’s breath

spawned by Hell’s army.

Bless me Father for I have sinned

I have lost my pulse

and wished the thieves the same.

My child, my child …

Hell

 

image

Hell

From the depths of Hell in summertime

Dante heard his name called

wished he’d misheard.

However,

he always knew it wasn’t enough

to write a description of Hell

to ward off the experience of hell on earth.

—

I am Dante

I’ve tried to write my way

out of misery

– wished many times

I could have woken up dead –

longer than that Italian moaned his lost love.

—-—————

Notes:

(1) This poem was written during a livestream Periscope on 8 June 2016 – in 10 minutes.

(2) The first line was suggested by @shaggydog69 “From the depths of Hell” & @brendyrussell11 “in summertime”.

(3) The scope was both nerve-wracking & fun.

Bluebells – new poem by Paul O’Mahony 

Poem

draft:
 
 

Bluebells

When you go out to the bluebell wood

to paint the white bells blue

holding hands with your granddaughter

I advise you go by night

with light of the moon

– so you don’t paint the wrong bells

so neighbours don’t catch you mad

so you show her how to make magic

how to restore order in the universe.

Don’t squash the bluebells.

____________

With thanks to William FitzGerald  the storyteller

Walt Whitman’s birthday – new poem by Paul O’Mahony

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Lines composed on the birthday of Walt Whitman (1819-2016)

“You will hardly know who I am or what I mean” (Walt Whitman)

There’s a lot to be said for waking before dawn
in a strange bed
with friends next door
– especially if you stretch to a bookcase
crammed with unfamiliar words
fingering spines,
loafing at your ease.

Better still, when the bard of democracy calls:
“Pick me, pick me, take me to your heart,
I’ll grow your spirit.”
– his beard promising you adventure.
– a smattering of rain strumming on mullioned glass.
And you reply “Hey, why should my finger linger?
Why draw you to my side?”

The first light swells,
‘the wilderness of unopened life’ grips you,
and sings of ‘passion, pulse and power’
– as a barnacle to a rock.

“Prayer” – new poem by Paul O’Mahony

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Prayer

I

They said they’d pray for me,
warmed and discomforted me.

“Pray for us sinners” echoed
“Get down on your knees and pray”
in pyjamas by the bedside,
after I leant on the drawing room sofa
reciting five decades of the rosary
every evening
looking towards the fireplace, coal box, chess books and bibles.

Now mother’s accepted she’s the one who’ll do the praying.
No more pushing, she’s done her best.

II

To pray
is human.

My friend with cancer wrote
“I’ve prayed for my health and yours,
five times a day,
everyday.”
A hummingbird whispered
“Surely you can say ‘I pray for you’
Shame on you.”

Like a guilty child I stumbled
“May your heart be warmed by the love you give to others.”
(I wish I’d added “… and yourself.“)

III

By the river that washed the soles of Bernadette
I rebelled:

“Every step of my way’s a prayer
offered in hope,
in thanks,
contrition,
desperation,
love,
in celebration of tickling mysteries.”

Now I stand in prayer, warm and discomforted,
my way, this day.

 

“Lost Love” – poem by Paul O’Mahony

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Lost Love

I’ve lost my love for you,

forgotten your name

among so many others.

 

Are you worth remembering?

Do you matter at all

any more?

 

Will you ever return,

re-emerge like hibernator?

Are you buried forever underground?

 

Could it be your disappearance

isn’t even noticed

and no tears shed for you?

 

The good of you fallen,

sieved like flour and icing sugar,

leaving only useless lumps?

 

Your name a melted hailstone,

gone from sight,

faded.

 

Pray surface in your own time,

lost love loved again

even if you’ve forgotten my old name.

I wish

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I wish

I wish for Plenty:
manna, songs, dancing, smiles
gin, tonic, lime – even porter and champagne

especially the hugs of others
warm hearths for my belly
I wish for nothing less than a place at the next resurrection.

(I found no seat at the last supper.)

What I’m greedy for now lies beyond
nights of sleep, hummingbirds, smoked salmon, diamonds.
Tis daylight peace without end.

(It is a blessing to want.)

My longing rose from the dead on Monday evening
not long after a shrink  spilled her seed on fertile ground
and stones moved in concert.

I wish I knew the secret of how to sow miracles
the way a spirit splits and multiplies
the rising of the sun.

(At least I remember her name.)

There’s nothing like a breath drawn up an elephant’s trunk
nothing like the atmosphere of air
Lazarus found out  – and so did I.

Maybe I’ll remember how to wish next time round the mulberry
– trees breathe, leaves bud again.
There’s plenty to be found.

I wish

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I wish 

I wish for nothing in particular

nor gold, nor silver

nor the slightest material star

 

Not even the love of another being

nor warmth from the sun.

I  wish for nothing beautiful.

 

What I crave lies beyond words

beyond prayers, beyond faith

beyond me: it is dead.

 

It died on a Thursday afternoon

not long before the assent

to the peak of Christmas dawned.

 

I wish for the return of the property

stolen from air I use to breathe

– I have a nickname for it.

 

But the memory is punctured

the proper name dribbled away

beyond reach, beyond breath.

 

It refuses to respond to my cries

lets the echo fester and reek of cracked eggs

in case I forget it wasn’t always so.

 

I wish it was like Lazarus

reincarnated human.

Maybe I’ll go on wishing and breathing too…

____________________________

Note:

Composed just before xmas 2015. With special thanks to Lars.

ThoughtForToday – 21 December 

  

Respect yourself

Be warm

friendly

kind

generous

loving

to yourself.

Practise on yourself

– day in day out 

ThoughtForToday – 16 December 

  

You are well. 

No matter how you feel, 

no matter how much misery 

has visited you, 

no matter what others say, 

no matter how hard you find it.

Because 

deep down 

you are a wonderful person. 

Hang on to that

mad

crazy

proposterous 

life-saving

thought

Rain and Wind 

  

When I was a child 

I loved 

the sound of rain & wind 

on glass 

as I curled up warm 

under bedclothes. 

In front of this fire, 

I haven’t grown up

2 Poems by Charles Bukowski read by Paul O’Mahony

My Father

https://audioboom.com/boos/3945701-my-father-poem-by-charles-bukowski-read-by-paul-o-mahony

My Friend the Parking Lot Attendant

https://audioboom.com/boos/3945723-my-friend-the-parking-lot-attendant-by-charles-bukowski-read-by-paul-o-mahony

 

Hello Grace

31 August 2010

Hello Grace,

Today is your big day. Your first day at what you call “big school”.  And you’ve got so big.

A tiny little thing in Mummy’s tummy, the smallest little creature ever born.  

This is the day you popped-out here to say hello.  And you brought a lovely little smile into my heart. It was the biggest little dream I’d ever seen.

You were a baby on this day, five years ago you came to stay, and you’ll never ever go away from me.

Because I love you like a star, you’re above me from afar, and this day’s another step in precious life.

There’s a slice of life you’ve eaten, a sweet you’ve partly touched.  But today you’re ready for another.

You’ve grown up & up the tree, so there’s more you now can see, I’m so happy you’re off to school  – as if ’twas really cool to jump into a green swimming pool.

Your uniform is green, the best you’ve ever seen, it’s a thrill for you to carry all those books.

You’re birthday’s also here, so you’ll never forget this day, it’ll be pink & gold across your mind.

There’s a fluffy little dog who’ll wag his tail, he might even bark goodbye
as you climb into the car. You’re a star for everyone, as you set out on these steps,

but it’s your life you’re leading now, and I trust you’ll take a bow.Because you’ve done it big big girl, you’re the one who’s ready now,

you’re the leader of your life on every day. There’s no more I want to say,
I simply want to cheer you on today.  

May your teacher, Miss Nalty,  also turn into a star, and show you lots of lovely things that all ring true. 

May your friends be right beside you, every step along the way.  Together, may you love the school as much as any party.

It’s your birthday.
It’s your schoolday.
It’s a way, it’s a play.

You deserve it,
let’s observe it,
you’ve the nerve for all that is to come.

Welcome to this day. 

____________________________

Note:

This was first published on my blog on 31 August 2010. I don’t want to lose it. It means a lot to me and might mean something to her one day.