A face that comes by night

A face that comes by night to grant you love
is strong enough to fool the flow of dreams.
“Awake you sleeping passion, true Foxglove.”
Disguised friend with magic eyes, it streams.
Let me expose the trickery before
more young, inattentive, beguiled sweethearts
turn sour and lose the joy of what’s in store
provided neither welcome taste of tarts.
There is another way to lift the loss
that absent satisfaction brings to bed.
The scent of lover’s pillow, sweet as moss,
will rouse the flow of memories instead.
Resist temptation’s guile throughout your years,
alive, alone, awake, and sigh no tears.

The attraction that lasted


I fell in love with the nose that nuzzled near the nape of my neck,

her fingertips touched mine on Baggot Street bridge that night in May.

We walked with electricity between us.

I talked to myself about the way she spoke through lips I longed to lick.

You could say I was attracted to the ambiguity of her personality, the style with which she tickled my boxers.


I grew familiar with her nose.

The fingers lost their tips.

When the Sun came up, the electric light dimmed.

I got used to talking to her.

The summer sun sank below the mountains, below the plain, lost from sight.


The Fall moon peeped from behind clouds, drawing the tide, going and coming.

Every Night, Dawn, Morning, Day, Afternoon, Dusk, Evening,

every Cycle of Life.

she came to me, to the house of my youth, slipped into me with an ocean wave,

flickering, feasting, flowing.

I married her blue eyes,

and we all lived lively ever after.

Loving you 


Loving you 

Loving you

does teach me

day by day

how deep the blocks to love

within me lie.

Loving you

is worth all

mistakes and blind


born on my weakest side.

Loving you

is changing me

bringing out

twin creatures :

one dying to bond

the other to be safe.

Oh to be wrapped with you.

November 1997

Eulogy for our mum

Our mother doesn’t believe in death
Our grandma doesn’t believe in death
Our great grandmother doesn’t believe in death.
Even after everyone knows she’s passed away
she doesn’t believe in death.

She believes in sign-posts
and the sort of markers that say
you’ve entered a new townland.

Our mum believes in evolution and re-cycling
and believes she’s back with the love of her life
the man she married for thirty years
her husband forever.

Our mum believes in the journey
The journey with people, the journey for people,
the good life.

Our mum is …
Our mum was ready.
Oh, she told her family a long time ago
that she was ready.

She lived her day-to-day with love
as generously as any creature.
She reached out to the widest family of humanity
and she believes that’s the only way to live up,
to live the good life.

Our mum doesn’t believe in death
she believes in Resurrection,

She believes she’s moved on
her work on Earth is done
her work among us is the best she could do.

Our mum believes she’s no saint
she has sinned
she’s made her peace
she is forgiven.

Our mum is in love
a love deeper that the lover who feels
they’ve found the one they were meant to find.

Our mum doesn’t only believe in God
our mum knows her God is love
and love endures for ever.

I Love Women

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.

“Lost Love” – poem by Paul O’Mahony


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,



Pray surface in your own time,

lost love loved again

even if you’ve forgotten my old name.

ThoughtForToday – 4 December 


Unless we collaborate we die.

The foundation of love is 


It takes two & more for love to 


We don’t collaborate in a 


We don’t love without 


Be a better 


Be a better 


“Sick” – poem by Paul O’Mahony

“I am sick”

the old man said

fingers interlocked

behind a hairy neck

as he rocked in a kitchen stool.

Arrogant son of a bitch

nowadays referred to more kindly

as “self reverential omnipotent”.

Paul loved his style

even more than the secondhand suit

he had from Armani.

His journeys to charity shops

were retail adventures

in the stories he expounded to strangers

on anthropological field trips

to pubs

in search of the community

where he’d be appreciated.

Because he was sick to himself

he made a difference

to the universe.

Personal pride in his sickness

his tombstone he designed.

It would say

Here lies one sick man 

– look up to him“.

“Making love to my mother-in-law” – poem by Paul O’Mahony


you’re going to make love

to your mother-in-law

I have advice for you:

don’t do it on Christmas Day

with her husband


your wife


in the kitchen


(To be continued)