What is it true
that makes a women so
gathers from all life's perfection
cleanses deep her soul
and forces the world to notice true
The image divine within her hue.

The crafting ---

Born they are
like little unpolished stones
that taken from life's domain
are structured to the fine
those rigorous hands of life and fate
that bears upon each gem its polished grain
bids upon the tears wherein the spark of life so grows
and fills this body of perfected grace
Till polished true from all life's turmoil and joy
Is crafted fine a Women's soul.

Reflection ---

I sit here in constant wonder
that such a prism of sheer bounty and fragrant delight
can exist within a world as we so behold - Yet
what a woe to be void of this, lost to the sight and touch of them
For truly these precious grains of life's sweetest bliss
Fills our veins to all that we as men could ever wish to be.
I lay, Humble to the abode of perfection's light
to hear their song fill fast and overcome
Till lost forever from life's bitter tears
I hold their image as my only goal
To know the truth of love.
What mortal man
can this deny
that upon the pain filled woes within
where his swollen tears rally and bear
the errors and all the wrongs of life in him
Finds not only the soothing comfort that bids him peace
or the tender dreams that fills his soul to rest
But also the passion that does his needs.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Sitting up in the attic room
with things forgotten, out of bloom
A china doll of antique grace
with porcelain cracked and ***** face
Ringlets of golden honey hair
in a velvet burgundy dress long past care
Little hands open in out stretched arms
Portraying all the grandeur of Victorian charms.
Sitting atop a wooden box
beside a clock that never tocks
Around her lays all that is forgotten
Pictures,Toys, wool and cotton.
Belongings to another time and place
things that once came please and grace
A painting that upon a wall did stand
A trumpet that once Jazzed a band.
Saddened all to the timeless lack
They fill the Attic, every nook and crack.

But!
On nights when the full Moon's light is there
when its magical rays through the attic's windows fare
The Little Doll's eyes do twinkle
where Moonbeams fall and sprinkle.
Granted if but for a moment
the doll that has long lain dormant
Awakens with a child like giggle
where memories within her tingle.
The Clock is given a moment in time
to tick a second, sound a chime
While down stairs the family talk
unknowing what above their heads does walk
However, every now and then upon the full Moon
A sound they'll hear in the Attic room
No sooner than they open the door
the magic ends what powers did soar
As they peer into what lays dead and still
a tingle up their spines does fill
For there Sitting upon her wooden seat
with arms out stretched and bare feet
Bella awaits the next full Moon's shine
When the clock shall tick and again shall chime.


Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Wee Angus on his wae frae work
would hit tha pub fa a perk
O' Tennents lager frae tha keg
whiles chatting up tha barmaid Meg
A pint or twa there wae friens
a' bleathering awa like scholars an Deans
Debators O Parlimentary views
Ministers preaching o'er tha pews
Wae drink in hand they'd laugh their fill
tha glory Mead upon their bill
Yelping like some bairney pups
catching breeths atween their sups.

(nae wiser a man than yin filled wae ale
Nae greater a time than while drinking frae tha Grail.)

In football games they A' would linger
or singing songs for all's a singer
Nae matter how bad tha voice
a' would request their favorite choice
Happy all wae drink in hand
while holding up the bar they stand
In rattled curses tae tha bumping airms
while viewing o'er some lassies chairms
Whispering oot all dreams an desires
that drink within them all inspires
An' Angus kens that soon or late
he tae hame must tak tha gate.

Kenning tae deep doun inside
his drunken breath he'd better hide
Saying fareweel tae friens and foes
leaing ahind tha pub's warm burning coals
Doun he stummels tae tha chippy
tha air ootside tis crisp an nippy
Making him drunker than afore
he side steps frae door tae door
Eating his fish supper, enjoying each bite
thinking aboot all that's happened tha night.
Till there he rouns tha corner street
His hame sae warmly it does greet,
Falling o'er tha step ootside his hame
Tha door it opens, Behold his sullen Dame
Trying tae act sober wae all his might
afore his wifie here tha night
But she's nae fool nor blind tae see
his daft antics, his blabbering plea.

In comes Angus wae words O' love
tae face tha thumping slap an shove
Her roaring voice would put fear intae tha Deil
Hear wee Angus weep an squeal.

(What type O' life drink it brings
that great at first yet later stings
What worth has man tae waste his life
wae drinks illusions an its strife.
Sooner or later as true as Hell
Yin cannie live save by its spell
getting worse an worse day by day
while friens an family turn away
An Angus wheither he kens or no
has drifted where tha drunkards go
An time shall tell what fate bestows
for tha Curse O Ale, nae man knows.)

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

In the early morning air
between the Londonderry hush of dreams
and the cry of Belfast on a weary morn
Where saddened eyes embody the twilight haze
of long past marches, the bewildering blaze
Of Beltane fires that scorch the hills
The world shudders to the battle cries
where brother to brother the war pitch fills
the saddened visions that over spills
That a Gaelic tongue can curse its own
To the bitter harvest of the Gael
That wipes away the blood dew
from these fields from which it grew
and damns itself in the pain and sorrow
That relives this war on every tomorrow.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph