Listen like mad
Listen with your ears
Particularly with your heart
More importantly with your gut
Creatively with your wild imagination
Have you been listening?
it was a year that asked to be
or burned on a pyre
constructed from the shyte
that held my year together.
Or was it …?
Surely there was more to it than that?
Surely there was a before and an after?
Before was wintertime.
Before was the joy of the city of big shoulders,
the invitation to excitement desired,
an event looked forward to.
There was a new year
full of hope
a future to celebrate with Revolution.
There was a period of time
when I prospered.
The joys of March.
Days when my lover’s offer
came to Cork
were an unmitigated blessing
– before that offer was too much.
All those early days,
all those days before the French holiday,
before the paintbrush
wiped away the smile from my face
– I sat by a stream.
I imagined the whispering flow
of water over stone.
I imagined paint on canvas
and fell down in the field
during the drama of women
confronting the god.
Oh how terrible that field,
Bless Netflix, bless Breaking Bad.
You were so wonderful.
Where would I have been without …
Composed on 31 December 2014
List compiled in February 2015 (under review)
Tis time for daisy-chains and dandelions,
the thrush with gangly legs has gone to wind,
hostas, risen, pushed aside the shale,
and clover back to torment dreams of lawn.
There’s a cherry blossom behind my back,
the baby oak’s grown leaves on time
………………… in rowan and hawthorn writ
with showers for ink, lavender for paint.
The black dog tastes an apple core,
licks the fly and sucks for more.
The black dog’s in the grass,
…………… paws, panting fast.
She sleeps below the windline stretched,
out of senses, out of mind,
no rush to untangle the rest of the deep.
The black dog’s dead. The black dog’s dead.
The daisy chains are broken,
the dandelion’s divine.
There’s a place we know as light.
There’s a home we know is right.
Unfinished: you see the bits that I’m sleeping on. Waiting to approach this fresh.
The two poets who give me quotes these days are Walt Whitman (1819-92) & Mary Oliver (1935 -).