Song of the Wandering Fog
If you go out in the fog today, you’re not sure of a great surprise.
If you go out in the fog any day, you may not be sure you’re wise.
For everywhere you go through fog
is bound to be confusing,
and everything that’s bemusing you
means a well of anxiety.
I can’t go out in the sun today, nor under a sky that’s blue,
I can’t go out in my favourite air
nor go forward without a care.
As I go out in the fog again, I know I’ll never be sure
when I’ll bash my head on a wall
because fog is obscure and means unsure,
and can even drum up fear.
When I am out in the fog right now, I’m in touch with reality.
When fog is thick and hard to cross,
I’m sure I am not free to act
in charge of my destiny.
When you go out in the fog next time be sure to celebrate.
You’re bound to get lost,
you’re bound to be tossed
into a new divide.
Should you go left or should you go right?
Should you go back or should you press on
when you don’t know where you’re going?
There’s only one way to decide.
Are you ready to be safe and sure to save face,
and what did you do last time?
How strong are your arms, your legs and your heart
’cause they here to help you start,
to welcome the dark,
shake hands with the gloom,
and muddle your way towards a rising moon.
You’re born with a light that shines
from an undergrowth
and you’re never alone in a vacuum.
No fog can extinguish your will to adventure.
Now where shall we go today?
January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968
I wish that I could sing
a song so strong
your dream would seem
to have returned to life
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.
I was talking to Pytheas of Massilia on Friday.
He was still in the grip of a cold he caught
returning from Thule.
Twas as if the world’s oldest albatross
– whom some call Wisdom –
sang with a bee hummingbird
that fled Cuba from Irma to Cork.
Such was the storm song …
such the Artic bass …
My Greek lapsed as I left the Parthenon,
his Irish, foreign, tinged with Scots Gallic,
We stuck to sign language,
ice on his fingernails.
I put that down to the disgrace
that few believed his stories.
Wrapped in song,
on staves of flesh,
major and minor,
there was little between us.
Two men with hearts
dependant on blood
lightly to coagulate
in hurricanes predicted to return
I must tell Tim Miller
Pytheas read his poem
in the Shetlands,
despite the middle-aged ‘stupidity’
never learned from pilgrims.
Smiles we made over gin and tonic,
We called our chorus
‘Brothers from Earth’
We are brothers from Earth,
conceived in shadows’ stage,
conjoined and free in birth,
alive in every age.
This is pure cliché,
stone lit, shadows firm,
warmth of evening song,
comings and goings,
Spanish movements through the bar,
Bombay going down,
Schweppes on ice,
already a little pissed
– Martini Basarana Tanqueray
Ballantines Bacardi Beefeater
Jack Daniels Cointreau –
even the Cutty Sark is too much
now company’s gone
and “Prohibido Fumar” reigns
supreme behind the counter
– what price a coffee now?
[Galicia August 2010]
Song of my Butterfly
No one heard the song of the butterfly, not even my mother, my brothers, nor the dog-walker who strode by our garden and allowed his Bernese Mountain Dog to pee all over my butterfly’s buddleia.
No one noticed the sigh of my Painted Lady as she mated with the neighbour’s Painted Man – not even my wife, nor our local parish priest who discouraged kissing on Sundays.
No one found the egg the butterfly laid on the hollyhock that grew from the seed that fell from the beak of my favourite thrush until the caterpillar consumed her shell and was seduced by one of the red hot pokers.
No one cried tears for the butterfly – not even a plain Painted Lady that flapped its wings in Cork and caused a Great Wall in China to collapse.
If only one person knew the song of my butterfly in time to sing a lullaby that echoed from sky to sky, we might have paid more attention to biosciences. We might have been saved from the consequences.
Mysteries of the Universe
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?
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?
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?
Conversations are dangerous:more people have been injured during conversations than in all human wars.Conversations kill: more relationships are put to death during conversations than during all the songs ever sung by all the women. Avoid conversations like the plague: too many conversations hurt like earthquakes hurt. If you find a conversation friendly, remember pearls and oysters.
Conversations are dangerous:
more people have been injured during conversations
than in all human wars.
more relationships are put to death during conversations
than during all the songs ever sung
by all the women.
Avoid conversations like the plague:
too many conversations hurt
like earthquakes hurt.
If you find a conversation friendly,