There is a death
that seems to hover closer too
more alive than life it seems
where the mind drifts, hovers
and therein is beguiled
to the love that once had been.

It's a picture of a thousand words
all unsaid, dead
to what the years enveloped from,
A journey that has no founded beginning
just an end that lingered all along the way
Seen within the first hello
and drew its sigh in the last goodbye.

Differences exchanged, held
those tight ropes that draw, cling
then eventually depart
like a sunset where the sun fades and hides
Coincides
to the differences that would unnerve, change
the directions of a road.

The little things that seemed
to bring together, drew fast apart
the hidden agenda of dreams, emotions
that wore, tore, the world apart
and left the long archaic hinge of death
upon the words that faded away.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

The Christ man hangs with head cast down
Cloaked is his Hebraic looks with western charm
A Blond, blue eyed, fair skinned Messiah
On aged beams that torture his archaic form
Hanging always before the eyes, before the mind.
Crafting his Image within their sanctuaries
Giving face and character to a new God
His form drawing the respect of it's new converts
Awakening the archetypal symbology of their minds
Their ancient pagan deities, now reborn again
into the Pauline Christianity of elaborate faiths.
It's Massive Empires and political powers
That would staunch the individual rights
Corrupting with the torments of eternal damnation
Hording the flocks of the ignorant and the rich
The Church becoming Lord and master of the Christ.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

A blank empty canvas
Pure as the winter's snow
Open as but a vast window
Seeing deep into it's soul.

The mind ticks in emotional frustration
Relics of imagination fly and form
Particles of atomic consciousness
Gathers and flows like an Astro storm.

White wash covers the surface
The first invocation soothing and mild
Then images gather before the eyes
Like a raging storm, fierce and wild.

The pallet is filled with rainbow mixtures
Here one joins to the alchemist's dream
Establishing upon board, paper or canvas
The unfoldment of the creative stream.

Brush in hand, Like an ancient wand
One casts the horizon like a spell
Summoning, coaxing, those tides within
Where the possession conquered, flowed and fell.

Dashes here, strokes there
Balancing the tones within each hew,
The thoughts so fast, mind captured
Projections all of that inner you.

Murky and shapeless at the start
But shadows enhance, inward glance
Light engulfs and shines but through
The eyes captured to the romance.

The artist gallant before his glory
Yet! Never fulfilled by its view
Playing upon its essence and structure
He draws upon images new.

One here becomes the timeless Shaman
Working the magic of natures way
Gathering the similarities and imbuing with fire
Elevating ever the thought to the creative day.

Or like a modern mystic
Grasped tight in spiritual bliss
subduing into but representations
The reflections of the heaven's kiss.

But all in all the artist is
whether by paint, sculpture, acrylic or oil
A voyager of the main stream existence
His vision of his own scared soil.

The goal is not unlike any science
To acquire that bridge of untold reason
For artist down throughout the ages
Have awakened the soul to its season.

The emotions arise, fly, excite
Those creatures of the inspirational mind
Poets, musicians, painter, writers
By what ever character there we find
All artists, All Magicians.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

I saw one day
A bright beautiful light
that seemed ever so far,
Yet! Somehow near
deep within this brilliant orb
was all I found captured dear,
A smiling face, A loving heart
A twinkling Eye, A tear.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

It's a story best forgotten
the words but a fairy tale
like fruit left till rotten
a love grown cold and stale.

His words once bore the Sun
lifted the heart and kissed a smile
those words that now no longer run
have changed to ones so vile.

Eager once to hold her
to share moments pleasures and ways
now sits before a big screen to see
Football games and plays.

That a man once could love so deeply
his passion last the night so long
how now they have gone completely
in a love that is dead and wrong.

Is fate so cruel to a woman's heart
to give true love as a second in life
leaving the rest empty and alone
---As a Dead man's Wife.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

The blood flows deep within it's wondrous paths
and recalls the depths of this my soul
For within this article of flesh and of bone
Is contained the threads of the eternal Past.
As I master of the forefathers come forth
Crowned in their animalistic glory
heightened by their evolutionary growth
Hence, I become their grandeur, their perfection
Of all, yes all their physical Characteristics.

For here within flows the blood of the ancients
Of Celtic Kings and brooding peasants
Of high priests, Bards and drunken old loafs
For I am the blood of my father's and more
For I am beyond their recall;
Established for the uniting principle of body, of soul
Under direct observance of cosmic law.

And when i dream whether fantasy or fact
some prevails from those ancestral vibrations
while others, far separated through
time and space
Calls upon and funds the primal essence.
No matter how deep the passions flow
or to whom is given the perceptive
guide
neither is accepted within the throngs of the master
Whether giving or taking, adsorbing or projecting.

It is none other than the illuminating essence of man
caught between reason and all that lays forgotten;
For these do the ancestral cults of the old ones proclaim,
and true, they hold our roots deep within
How could they not, if I am of their blood, thought and form!
Of tribal beats upon skins of sacrificial cries
Of elders, priests and God-kings vanquished
and in the depths of my perceptions of them
I evolve along similar lines to what they foretold.

I perceive here today, within and without
the pools by which swarm the matter of human clay
formed upon the potters wheel of karma's evolutionary song
and passed on from generation to generation that tune,
whereby one sees within the child the Father, the Mother
and therein the words of Father times ancient song
That echoes upon the consciousness of reality and sublime
The very first thoughts of Ape-man to his horizon.

It is that cycle that never ends,
Its circumference extends throughout all time
And unites them all within the first ones breath.
It is called the circle of the ancients
Cast upon the molten rocks of tradition
and ironed out amongst the blacksmiths of civilization;
and when its Orbs cease to move and the blood ends its flow
When our horizon fades into mere thoughts.

At that time, in that space, upon that concept
then here too shall the ancients be, with you, with me
Facing that future, that silent moment
when existence ends and all prevails
To a single deep profound thought.
Gentile, Jew, Aryan, Asian, black or white
all void, save for that single breath
that proclaims throughout time into eternity
"I O'Man, I O'Man, I O'Man."


Alisdaire O'Caoimph