Dear Ray,

I am a meaning-making machine,
I concoct my own reality.
Conjunctivitis rules,
this teabag doesn’t work.
I am my body,
raspberries for all.
God bless the tea.
I am at home,
it leaks sometimes,
I have fallen asleep here.
Do I mean too much for my own good?
Without Rosetta Stone we wouldn’t be where we are.
And the fire in my brain
has burnt an imagination
to cinders.
It is the morning of the day,
this is my way.

There is now an interlude…




I was walking along a couple of roads,
one turned to the sea, the wave, the water, the tide …
one sloped to the mountain, the scree, the rock, the peak …
I followed a breath like a hunter.

There were distractions,
high like eagles,
busy like bees,
like sugar,
a sweet-shop shining
scent of fish

I was walking along a couple of roads
when the earth gave birth to twins,
and twins to twins
I followed a breath like a hunted fox.

Mysteries of the Universe



Mysteries of the Universe

Joyful Mysteries
Whose is the sweetest song?
What makes time tick?
When will insight beckon?
How does the Universe celebrate?
Where shall I find my better self?

Sorrowful Mysteries
How have  tears cleaned hungering hearts?
What will expire without experience?
What is hardship hiding from?
Who has evolved from sorrow?
When will my beginning end?

Glorious  Mysteries
How immense is the imagination of being?
How wide is the width of the world?
How real is the resurrection from eternity?
How long will happiness happen?
Where is my land of the living breath?

People who have no imagination

People who have no imagination

‘Twas wet outside the RDS in Ballsbridge,

under the bus shelter there was light against dark outside.

It wasn’t that I had no raincoat

(I’d saved money on showers)

nor the 2,016 strides to the Summit pub

– it was strangers-in-want that held my attention,

the black and the white

Mozambique and Mill Street,

Marrabenta and Riverdance.

They were talking in pauses

and the back of her hand brushed his sleeve.

I bet neither of them remembers

the advertising placed by Adshel.

I was the only  eavesdropper

with tickling drops of Irish moisture

massaging my humour.

You might well say there are “people who have no imagination”

but certainly they weren’t waiting for a lift.