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Mar 2011 · 352
There is a death
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
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
Mar 2011 · 657
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
Mar 2011 · 1.3k
All artists, All magicians
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
Mar 2011 · 434
A tear
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
Mar 2011 · 530
A deadman's wife
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
Mar 2011 · 680
I O' Man
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
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
"O' Circle O' ancient standing stones
        that excites the senses, chills the bones
        O' but to know the secrets contained in thee
        If but one secret, you'd give to me."

        When times were ancient, old and worn
        and priests,those Druids in secrets sworn
        To cast like Merlin amongst the breeze
        the secrets of Oak and Rowan trees.

        The wise ones in circles of primal flame
        would cast and call upon the sacred name
        The elements would shake at this request
        knowing to well the Grails Holy guest.

        The Heavens would darken, the thunder's roar
        As lightning would strike into Earths central core
        The Sea's would rumble ,roar and over flow
        and all the Earth would shake wishing to know.

        The Sigil, the Talisman,what form it took
        What mighty symbol could life's foundations have shook
        "No mortal man this, with powers so grand
        Is Merlin but a Mortal,or a God upon the land?"

        For in Sacred groves under Beltane's flame
        come the cries of the Lords born without name
        and above the horizon, twined with the Moon
        arises the Heavenly Mother to her full bloom.

        Dance young Maidens,lease forth your cry
        come in songs O' joy, let your emotions fly
        Young Celtic warrior brave ,portray you your glory
        and give Honor to Honor, Holy to Holy.

        Look at Merlin, how he walks with the fire
        Filled with the passions of Life's true desire
        Watch him grow ,take wing and fly
        upon the breath of the Dragon ,in the sky.

        So set sail ye the soul, that ancient form
        and cast forth thy will into the depths of the storm
        Follow ye, the wind from the Sacred East
        and there meet the mighty man and priest.

        Release your bonds, set free your heart
        gaze within the depths of one's inner part
        Then take hold the maiden, Mother and old Hag
        Love them equally and do not sag.

        Give freely of thy spirit,receive nothing in return
        then come Earth's Child to the Stones to learn
        The secrets of secrets,within each of us one
        that by which all is cast and eventually is done.

        Then be you like Merlin and others before
        that have entered our gardens,Returned form behind it's door
        So fear ye none save yourself, that is the truth
        something one can never learn, while their mind plays in youth.

        But gather you together the strength of the will
        Once that be done, Son, then you shall we fill
        And the days shall sing of praises, the rain shall fall like wine
        Invigorating the Earth,making all once again mine.

        Such shall it be, the day a Merlin shall arise
        to relieve the pain and suffering of Man's stifled cries
        For we are the Ancient of Ancients,Born but with one name
        We are the keepers of the Soul's of Arianrod and Heaven's great flame.

        To whom ever dares, wishes or enters here
        Let him meet first his deepest darkest fear
        And should he surpass all tests and walk on through
        Then behold the cauldron of rebirth awaits you.

        For the Rod of Merlin shall await the one
        and the Crown of Dana,bold as the sun
        Then shall we come with hearts full and rich
        To teach our secrets, their tone, Their pitch.

        Alas, fulfilling the destiny we made e'er so long ago
        the returning age of Arthur, for all to Know.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 1.4k
Tales -Scots Doric
Aye think o this
When winter breezes blaws aroun'
whare silent thochts are filled wae gloom
and drifting words,they echo past
frae fearful man an fearful lass
In haunted hooses and misty lans
whare Ghosties an gobblins an unco bans
Pass atween this an theirs, that form
amidst tha thunders crashing storm.

Aye tucked up aroun yeer mithers apron
wae teeth a nashing an voices wailing
Fine ye ken this unhaly nicht
tis filled wae all unGodly licht
Craw tha Banshee frae tha Ben
like howlet song throughoot tha Glen.
Satan, Auld horney casts his lots
for innocent bairnies fresh frae their cots
An' ancient stories there arise an fly
Like shooting stars that fill tha sky
for here in tales tha croonies dae rattle
in haunting airs and fiendish battle
leagons arise tae tha masters calling
This nicht hell awakens, aahhh tha heevens are falling.

Here in blackened darkened skies
whare lichtning flashes weaves an cries
An mortal man fears fa his soul
against that heelish burning coal
Ministers intae their beds are fleeing
wae ranting verses fa all their Dealing.

Whare auld worn hags an witches cast
upon tha waters that blaw an blast
drooning mony tha ship an sailor
all fa tha glory O their Demonic tailor
when cauldrens stir in bubbling brews
An damnation demands its richtful dues
tha lan' it heaves and haws
devouring all within its jaws
A Blood red Moon casts her lot
whare evil men have Died an fought
tha Earth auld an worn frae tribulation
demands the blood of every nation.
Here within the fields o life
brither against brither in war an strife
hae released all this fiendish nightmare
fa all their guilt,fa all they share

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 805
Shamon's Drum
O' the beat of the Shaman's drum
gathering the statures of Skills embrace
Whose liquid fire flows from dream's burning Kiln
upon the roaring ancient thunders of leather skin
revolutionary moments of spiritual embrace
the Shaman cooing in his antic pantomime
of symbolic gestures and ideals
Crafting always anew the Heaven's sky
pounding the Earth upon charging hoofs
the sacred land arises like a giant
all characters of the Shaman's drum
Swooping God's on feathers of Eagles
trout swarm into the tribal dance
Mountains of golden rock shake the dust
For all engulfs the visions being
Thrusting the news and glory of the Fathers
the land becomes their Eternal coats of skin
Their Souls fluffy, white, float softly above
filled with the midnight rain
In the Dance of Shaman to Shaman
The Eternals pay their honour and respects
before the mighty Shaman's call
His vocal dialect and sacred Soul
Invoking as all before had done
With a Shaman's will and a Shaman's Drum.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 575
A Geal's soft story
Away ye tempests rising
the songs of life fall short
the faded images of the morrows sun
shall dim afore these eyes once bright
there is no longer a song to carry
nor a drifting phrase to brighten this mind
only pastures of endless countless wishes
that e'er now but longs to hide.
I have heard the chambers roar
triumphant he comes and brings
to these ears that final mirth
to this soul its long abide
These eyes of mine dim and worn
to the bitter step and paths arrayed
I lay back in my final glory to
the ancestral calls and faded halls
the bygone lands where they my fathers be.
I cry O' winds but e'er one last time
and thunder to the heavens e'er sweet glory
My bardic drift shall fade sweetly away
into a Celtic Gaels soft story.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 588
Painted - To Dali
He has painted a thousand pictures
this dreamer of the dream
Mixed his colours, dressed his canvas
Sketched his adornment
laid paint to form
etched the shadows that fall
holds the captive perspective
and rain, pours down
from those emotional webs within
every angle and line
perplexed thought
layer to layer
blended to textures
He creates his universe
such simplistic lines
that here holds him upon its grasp
A realization
that from his works
everything is and was
but reflections of what he saw
Within her eyes.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 372
Ah! the pain that here engulfs
a tragedy cut from one's own blade
that holds most sacred the ravished hour
When words went unsaid.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The tears bellow out and fall
like a story without recall
This haunting world wherein one roams
Like a crashing sea, raging, foams.
The empty eye
the hollowed cry
The days torture rings afar
like the image of a falling star
It crosses the lonely planes of sky
Never knowing its course, the reason why.
Love that undeniable phantom of space
holds upon the mortal race
dreams relished where delights are found
the promise of new found ground
She walks the lonely place of fate
where he stands constant at her gate
but neither one holds the courage true
To simply say, I love you.
Years and folly don't give a ****
where tales they sink and inward jam
The moments quest is to be taken
gathered within and outward shaken
to awaken the moment, the truth to bare
Words spoken, the love to share
Such little things these fears we dread
that leaves us walking like we were dead
It's the simple word that could change a life
awaken within, relieve the strife
that one may walk that scented road
where dreams gather, tales are told
and love that merry tune of life
Finds man and woman, husband and wife.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 643
Dazed, Baffled
She roams through my mind
in combustive states
that dissolve the elusive run,
melts the *** to her honey
invades the forefront
charging the grounds of my thoughts
Invigorating the new.

Dazed, baffled,
I wake to her sunshine
drenched to her love,
How direction finds us
draws us close, subdues us
with little worlds, big thoughts
these concepts of women
That change ever our horizons.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 502
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
Mar 2011 · 835
In the Attic
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.

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
Mar 2011 · 693
William Butler Yeats
Farewell the hoped for wish
the dandelion fantasy of the woods
The falling waters cascading swirl
Good-bye, Adieu, O' fairie's shawl,
Where the butter cup rises and thereby sings
The Sun's warm promise, it's divine kiss
Where these fields grasp the breath of day
The winds sweep to the constant array
of vibrancy that is life's blessed state
here in these images remember well
The fallen bard, his spoken spell.
I hear the honey filled taverns calling
the blessed isle over the horizon
Seeks again this wandering soul to home
To the fields of the Sidhe to roam.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 1.1k
Sacred mead
Come the morning rain
That cool refreshing flow
That fills all the land
With the blessings you bestow.

The hungry flowers open up
To grasp your eternal brew
The Daffodil, The Buttercup
Lay awaiting just for you.

Come those sparkling drops
That are filled with Natures care
Giving life to the thirsty crops
To all their equal share.

The Hare hops the soaking grass
On meadows of emerald green
The streets a mirror of reflecting Glass
All fresh and washed pure clean.

Beauty knows no boundaries
As true as eyes can see
Like the glory of Heaven's foundries
That empties to the sea.

Your the sacred Mead of the Dagda
Replenishing and invigorating through
For the Gods have come to share with us
Their own sacred brew.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 1.3k
Tha Curse O' Ale - Scots
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
Mar 2011 · 802
Tis but a dream- in scots
Tis but a dream!
Flowing wildly,
Intae tha memories
Tha goals, tha desires,
Delving intae tha deepths
Touching tha he'rt,
Romancing tha soul
Exciting tha senses,
Pulling at tha emotions.

Tis but a dream!
Aye sae true,
Yet e'er sae real
an' yin begins tae act,
within its wonnerous play
such nichts
Her purfume, her form,
An all else fades
Save for her touch,
Her smile, her love.

For she tis but a phantom,
A ghost O lang ago
That haunts nue my e'er dream.
Tis but a dream?
Aye ,tis but a dream!
Tis but a dream!

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 3.0k
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
Mar 2011 · 605
Pluck of a string
It starts softly
the gentle pluck of a string
that hums upon its own vibration
equating all to a note, a sound
Then flows softly upon the air
to tantalize the ear, awaken the mind
and sometimes deeper beyond compare
it touches the heart, romances the soul
Into its vibrant beauty
Consuming all to grace.

It is here I found you
in the soft recesses of your voice
that sang so deeply within me
awakened a heart to pump and drive
the mind to dream again and sing
such it is, when words and voice
equate to the resounding depth within
and hushes all to the profound moment
That love finally bears its coat
And walks humbly before the eyes.

Its in the whispers of nightly dreams,
we all bear them upon our midnight cries
that eternal want again to be
to come alive and feel the heart's great rapture
the souls desire to forever copulate its form
to the oneness that love so begs it be,
and here I hear the twilight winds
sweep clean and pure the fabrics of thought
where emotion drives fast and hard to tower through
Echoing its want, its need to be and feel.

I look deeply into your eyes
picture my universe anew
where sunsets and dawn stretch into an infinity
of promised dreams and future's bright comet's tail
that ever rings the value of your form here to me
and cries upon the tender most hopes
My hand in yours,
my soul bound and true
that love wakes that shuddering foundations of life
and allows its brilliance true its hue
Till lips touch
hands caress
and love sings it true melody of hope
That here now I see in you.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 742
The Scots tongue - in scots
O' Rabbie that e'er helped oor tongue
flow like a well that's newly sprung
that wae true passion an' Usquabae
recites tha spirits O' Scotland's way
Words that put merit in oor speech
Words, tha English scauld against an' preach.

Och! If it wasney fa oor ways
thats wannered doun tae oor days
we couldney say worth a rot
what makes a Man, true a Scot
Let England wae her tonsils strained
keep what fa them tis better Named.

Nae Scot wants tae pass his days
with words that doun in Cambridge lays
far better tis oor tongue in grace
Than a' O' England's frills an lace
Nae better spoken word there is
than what a Scot calls truly His.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 874
By Christ,
that scented Flower
that once favored bloom
I gathered from the garden
Ever brought so much doom,
For love it is curse
when not shared by another
but cast upon an empty heart
leaving mine alone to smother,
Where tears fall silently
and hearts break completely
I curse that Bloom if disarray
That Rose...UNIQUELY

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 507
I cant really say what it is
That draws me so, seems to hold me
Upon its fine charismatic flavor
distills within me
Those fine thoughts
pragmatic ramblings of mind
that sweeps across in tides of reason
Where in truth no reason exists.
It's looking into a mirror
that self, reflecting back
cries out within me
those long past days
That fill every boundary
opens its seems unusual doors
Into the wide spectrum of existence.
In the quite times
where my mind drifts upon the soft words
I come to understand something more deep
More real than all that existence holds true
That Love,
That virus of the soul
spurge's within unique metaphors
of the fine lines by which mortals place
The guiding vortex of existence.
That God, that power. being
In our constant search
opens the windows of the Soul
That we all may breath deep its fill.
Here upon the fine tuned fork
Love draws itself out upon the pain
Subdues the heart and holds it
Like a warm deep ocean
Where love in tides
Sweeps humanity away.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 370
Words that flow
They say that within love
All answers are contained.
That within loves prism
God there is named
That a love that is true
holds the brightest hue
for it speaks out all that's thine
into the heart of the great divine.
Love breeds pure and clean
travels out against what's obscene
purifies us all to know
That by which love does grow.
This temple of the purest heart
revolves where time has its start
comes full circle to hold one true
To the words that flow, In me, In you.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 424
Aburned out Star
When I am dead and gone
my flesh to earth better worn
what shall old fate say of me
upon the pages of life's melody
When this heart has waged it final woe
to whom shall it say it did go
and where in all of dignity
Shall the soul gather it's serenity.

When these hands have ceased their write
and faded letters appear in sight
Shall the words speak true of poet dead
or shall they be as words unsaid
Who will know the greatest loves
that filled my soul like blessed doves
Shall a tear linger out for me
while far between this world I be.

What of all I dream't and feared
the passions born, the torments reared
The little words I shared with glee
the promise of love's tender plea
But sure as time shall mark the spot
Shall I have gained all that within I sought
or will the winds but carry me afar
To leave my soul as a burned out Star.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 453
The play of night and day
The day falls behind her shadows
paints her face to the blushing hues
And leaves her want fulfilled.
She gathers her cloak of darkness
into the cold bed of night
where she pines the hours frustration
longing the brightness, till dawn again
consumes her whole into his fringe
of bright scarlet overtones
That holds her in his passions play
where he rides her mantled fluffy skies
a God of her haven, this abode
where both consumes and fills the other
In the play of night and day.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 500
It robs me
It robs me
as sure as any villain
This moment, this time
dressed upon itself
laying in wait, the second
when snatched away
It steals my heart.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 496
A women's heart
A woman's heart
such a delicate flower
that blooms upon the rich warm fields
Where love calls its name.

Each petal of her
like a rich brocade
woven to the sheer delights
That fills a woman's Soul.

It is in her
that truly all mystery arises
Holds dear to form and substance
The dreams that are the worlds.

But this heart
How so it pounds
thrives for the consistency
that eternal need.

To be shared, consumed, held
In the vibrancy of want, passion
In the delicate sound of a word
in the soft touch of a hand.

It engulfs, holds her,
rushing deep
fills every gap
And makes her whole.

To live in the fantasy
where wants collide upon the breath
The sweet instinctive musk
that arouses from the depths of them.

Their passion that quivers upon
Through and for that gentle touch
To be loved whole and sweetly
lived in and with that erupting soul.

They strive in its simplicity
their want, their need
For loves fulfillment
that shines from their eyes.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 1.1k
Heather Sark
I wander here again
as many the day before
for a span of years this mind
roams upon the shore.

Little remembrances
re-educates the heart once more
to the simple easy days
When life held open its core.

The sun glistens upon the sea
the wind soft to form
caresses here the jagged weeds
the thistle and the thorn.

I wander deep my old paths
were in youth I roamed and played
the magic of the fairytale
was the land and what it gave.

Sweet the dreams that flood and fill
these tranquil moments in time
holds bright the promise of another day
As upon the hills I climb
Where mighty hawk hovers above
where the cliffs race to the sea
To those lochs that are ever so fresh
to the sweet mornings plea.

I journey back across the years
as fate has had me roam
To see the land of which I'm part
to feel my distant home.

There's no shore like that of hers
no field that hugs the soul
just empty planes without any names
that runs a foreign flow.

I dream of her my seductive queen
when the nights are cold and dark
I see her there inviting me
Dressed in her heather sark.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 1.3k
Butterfly dreams
She holds these butterfly dreams
these dragonfly visions
always before her eyes
to materialize
The longed for want that within abides
the tear that cannot hide,
this deliverance of love
that flutters within her heart as a dove
longing the expression, the want
To fly high the fields of hope
Where she can cope
with the uncertainties, the fears
that within her at times sheers
her world apart to the doubt
Of all that she does want.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 454
To his
His fingers roam
where her raven hair lays
against her almond skin
Teases gently the form that arouses
begs his hungering touch
To the consuming want, that desire
that floods his veins
Pounds so deep within his chest
The longing to be within her
To kiss the sweet form of her body
Dress her to his needs and passions.
All falls upon the splendor
that her thoughts grace with his
the dialog of the wanting promise
to be filled, fulfill
in this quarter of blissful dreams
That holds her tight here to his.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 319
Love so speaks
That I miss you
Oh! How faint these words are to the truth
That without you, I lay empty
alone to the charge of night and day
That you are as a whisper
constant to stray upon my mind
harbour deep within my dreams.
The longing I hold
stretches out across the miles
wages myself against myself
In a battle I never win,
For it's all that I dream
There beside you-holding
wanting to feel your warmth against mine
The need to be, really be
That somehow deep you draw me too.
It's the soft touch of your hands I feel
when these eyes of mine close,
The smell of your hair, your skin
That fragrant aroma of life.
It's the love in your eyes
that calls me from the depth of my Soul
That I love, most devotedly, most holy
these moments, days and nights
That seem to pass so fast
Themselves a dream.
I miss you
where my heart beats
this soul of mine resides
There, here, before you
Always to confide
That which love so speaks.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 845
That the wiggle of a tongue
can so excite
liberate the texture of the flesh
Raise another to the height
where delight
fills and locates deep within
the silent scream.

That, that bud that brims its full
can so intoxicate, fill the pool
where passion lays in its ultimate wait
for the passage through the sensual gate
that arises within her moaning form
That deep eternal wanting groan.

Where deep the long soft flickering curl
liberates the mind, to toss and whirl
in the sensual heat and passions fire
that flows deep from this buds throbbing desire
and pours out upon the sweet, sweet flesh
the small goose bumps that within arise
Where passion holds no compromise.

That I take you upon such a delighted stream
fill that want, awaken within the dream
These lips, this tongue that awaits its charge
teases, torments your world at large
to every whimper, every plead
Drinks deep your *** of honey mead
and falls upon your cries and pleasure
With all the jewels of This Oral treasure.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 449
Closes the Gate
The wee cries
press out upon the chest
echoes out and through
till soon
it embraces the nights air
Fills the solitary moment
And leaves there its mark.

I watch
from the shadows of thoughts
where the lips quiver
the tears run their course
out and upon
the fine silk pillow case
To leave there the stain of the heart.

I watch the moaning
that rolls upon her loss
the long pain that stretches
across the wide brim
where the heart breaks, dies
fades into oblivion
A place of shattered souls
Here that gather, reside forever
Upon the desolate fields of emotions.


I've heard the replayed dreams
That fill the memories
grips the foundations of their souls
and lingers out like a dying kiss
to ever haunt the nights abyss
Of nothing and of all.
Here, where the roots of humanity
tinge the fine lines of fate
dances the long voyage of the heart
And there closes the gate.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 406
We Spring
The day dresses the wanting hopes
that flood across the barriers of time
and somewhere in the momentum of the day
Fills and takes the mind away
Upon a journey into the deep
where spirited the soul releases its hold
and gains the frontier of stories old.

It is here where the shades of time
cross the long ticking beats that run
the outstretched embrace lore,
Upon the gentle winds we come to adore.
Here stands the ancients in all their glory
The unwritten lines, the oral story
That drifts upon the subconscious mind
the myths and beliefs of what we find
Held upon the glimmer, the silent dream
That fills our want like a running stream.
I see the Celts, dressed rich in glory
The old Gael wielding within the holy
That sanctum of delicious folk tales
That flows upon our tongue like a wind in sails.

I hear the whisper upon the mire
The hidden dream, the long desire
That cries out upon the fate of man
the reassurance of the common hand
That reaches across fate to bear
us out where the night does share
every fiber of what within us flows
The story that unending knows
These roots from we spring.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 542
Her keep
That here in this twilight
where the Sun fades upon the gloaming hours
I draw my thoughts upon her form
where heart to mind amidst the storm
calls her name out upon the darkened skies.
for the want so great that fills my skin
the desire so burns deep its flame
That all I can do is dream a dream
Hope a hope and echo a prayer
That beside her will find me there
To hold the vision, the wanting need
to be always around and within
The structures of her day.
Is it strange or wrong to want as much
To feel the need within pang upon its cry
This delight that some how holds upon you
The texture that is my soul.
Love, this want, this need
here so gathers upon the mind
and rushes out in such a way
As to fill my world so bright.
Its not that I'm lost to you
that these feeling consume to much
Rather that in the fringe of my being
I understand, Know deep
This love longs your keep.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 672
A farewell tear
The engines roar
Movement is ****** forward
Shaking in the vibrations of its force.

Looking out of the small window
I see the Earth passing away beneath us
Those green, green fields, that once held my dreams
Are fading into the distance
Those trees and hedges, that once echoed my soul
Will become in time tender past memories.

Lines are crossing the land below
Gray lines
Upon them matchbox replica's move to and fro.

Roof tops with chimneys bursting forth,
This world looks so different from up here
Little villages and towns scatter the patch worked quilt
A domain of little people, Leprechauns
I see myself down there, staring up, The Soul,
Waving farewell to its body.

Deep inside
Wells those tears of parting
Of saying farewell to the hearts final beat.

I lay back my head
Close to my eyes
Feeling the parting of friends and family, the place
I shall always call my home,
That land these hands have held, its texture
Like a women's Lily soft skin,
No soil on Earth clings stronger to the bone, no dream as bright
As dreams of journeys home.

In my silent thoughts
I hear the cries of friends,
Echoing the haunting voice of home and place.

Yet! I did leave her like an ungrateful lover,
And how she has grieved for her wondering companions;
Clinging to her children with every essence of her form
But I shall always dream of her,
Of her tenderness and her warmth,
Farewell my dearest Mistress, My aching heart.

Your Lover
Your child
Now has left your womb.

But I shall return dear breath, back to you
As the western Winds return again upon the Firth
To lay but once more within your arms,
to feel your form beneath my flesh
And like the fragrance that flows gently from your image
My Soul and Body,
Together with yours,
Shall forever roam.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 679
The last dream
When was the last dream you had
that filled your heart to the deepest sad,
hurled you out of bed to the longing want
And left my image implanted strong.
The years dance their merry way
beyond the stars and that great milky way,
Where words matter little to the silence there.

But here, here I am,
Walking the desolate miles of time
between my own tormented days
memories that cling and wrap around
Like a new skin, and from it
All perceive the woes in me.
Yet I be, Be, as only a loner can
Living a life, that lies my existence
Portraying my smiles like a mask of ages.

I faded fast, Faded to the final rapture
that promised kiss and weighed dream
that final gasp, the torn sore
Till no more I cried, God! No more.
Is it strange that a man can be so subdued
A heart ruptures to bleed it's own demise.
Aye! Men too have their dreadful moments
We too die, fade to the lingering love
Fearing so the torments of promised bliss.

I roam where the angels hang in woe
the constant being of distracted mind,
Ever I try to fill this empty space
With all and anything that fades you to me.
Where is my heart? I oft do wonder
upon what moment did it pass and die,
And where upon the lonely streets and bridges
Of forgotten avenues have I parted it's way.
I know the spot, Know it well for the cry
That silently arose deep within
and heralded out upon the icy night
The deep painful resignation of my hell.

Yet I abide,
I live as an empty shadow of chaotic thought
that pressed all reality around and dilutes
All words spoken, emotion graced,
That never upon the pages of my being
Shall I allow the structure again to fill
And make Love a reality.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 516
Life awakens
I remember a bright summer's day
When the light seemed brighter more alive
and filtered through the branches of a huge Oak
And danced a sacred dance around the daisies beneath.

I heard a chorus of bird at play
watched them jump and fly from twig to twig
and somewhere in all this subtle perfection I,
Became lost in a world of neither regions.

It was here, that from within the edges of the wood
That all of a sudden life sprang like a fresh new breath
and I saw the perfection of every molecule of life
In radiant blaze and glory, filling, Filled.

I saw long past horizons arise and fade
at the speed of but a blinking eye
and all around in song Nature cried her deepest
Till swaying to the winds gentle toss, I awoke.

I stand firmly upon these ancient formless fields
That are filled with the core of man's Soul and blood
Joining us all in some sort of eternal rendition
Of all that life was meant to be.

Faded sighs hush the lullabies
of those that fell for the love of her
Casting upon the circles of formulation
The dreams of destinies child.

It's not oft that the world can so freely give
All that it's essence holds and draws
But once in a blue moon, or a strange summer's day
Life awakens to someone.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 788
Ravished the thought
My hand rests here upon this blank form
the pen nuzzled, cozy and warm between index and thumb
and I but await, the form that it should bear
The little para-sail of thought that swiftly entails
By draft of conscious reason the play, the lines
That shall stem and grow upon this paper.

Sometimes, I am not here at all
It's like a vagrant character takes hold this form
and drifts the banks of faded memories to etch but theirs to mine
Till ink flows like a non stopping spicket, pouring out
Soon digested to the whole phenomena I lay blank
Like pagess upon which the words desire to embrace.

Little child like figures wave between the interplay
This game of margins and thought, marbles clutter
where the revenue of the flow but draws
Upon these hopscotch and I caught the weasels
momentum springs but it's eternal sight
to peer over and across the facade of time
And jots a line or two of verse.

Here, Aye here is the bereavement of the writer
who's image fades to the mighty word
and pounds ever so deeply the elemental cries
That reason holds no power here.
I chuckle at the notion that ever befalls
some faded harmony of a promised bliss
that vanishes amidst the shadows of night
To leave but it's haunting cry.

There I peer down the lane of the centuries
Those famous writers and scribes of literature's ghosts
That forever within our minds haunt us to the passion of a word
And leave us but whole and naked to the deliverance of truth.
I wonder how their pens but scribbled
How they filled their own inconsistencies and ravished the thought.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 439
Pit of Dismay
Ah! But the turbulent cries of the ages
That here fill the mighty pen to wail
With hordes of unfulfilled reasons
And the weight of the mighty Veil.

Tribulations fills the mocking state
the anxiety that so envelopes but the form
Till gnashing is heard and quivering lips express
The guilt of the hearts great storm.

Pathetic creatures we surely become
When the gift of love so out bears our Souls
and lingering in faded anticipated halls
We come to grips with loves bitter blows.

Shudder to think the truth we carry
Each and every mortal, unending story
The faded cloth that once promised the world
Lays in the discarded rags of unfulfilled glory.

Then hearts weary from the toil of life
Begs Death its silent slumber of peace
As if here in the grave we are finally free
From the sacred love, That golden fleece.

Pity the hearts torn ever asunder to
The quickened lip and desirous body
That fast to gate the heart so sallies
To rest amidst loves succulent valleys.

Till soon the eye perceives the lie
and torn from inside it bears its cross
To lay upon the weeping times of breath
And awaits hopefully some peace across.

We gather our world in triumph around us
Hold high our heads to the justification we believe
Yet! We fail the step where love holds the simple promise
And sadly we, but forever the loss, grieve.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 421
At home in me
Where brown to tan
invites the eye
the silent sigh
that whimpers upon its find
The mind
Lost where reason fills, consumes
That here looms
Both in dream and sight
The beat of a heart.

That here where
in the fragrance I stroll
The illuminating light that shines
My heart to the knowledge
That love grows, Fills and here invites
Me ever to her form.

That love
That might of mortal dreams
upon the night its want
to be,
To see
where the eyes long
the hands strong
Long to touch and be

Ah! so simple the tender needs
through and within the orb of thought
so strongly as though it was caught
forever within her sight
The might
That ebbs to the flow of emotion
Singles to the devotion
Of all that love should be
And finds it at home in me.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 468
These fields have grown
Here where bog meets
there, the morning sky
The sigh
that haunts these fields
where the prospect of the morrow lays
upon the gentle minds of the people.

There are
like a bright star
Shining within the breath of day
They say
Those born of the ancient mire
consumed by the delicate fire
To range in words within
where tales linger, spin
upon the fringe of the day.

I hear the distant cry
in fields beneath where now they lie
Sonnets written with the quail
to sail
the vibrant seas of minds, hearts
those parts
which linger as a whisper within our souls
Burning like coals
Red hot to the dream, an ideal
That zeal
These fields have grown.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 581
Passion true
I seek the soft caress
where tales undress
your long smooth form
where fingers beg, torment and roam
Deep to the bone
Every hungered kiss,
demented bliss
That wages forth and cannot be denied
Where dreams engulf, sealed, cried
The budding lips that out pour
for the lingering want to tease, adore
Each scented fair that gathers the mind
Holds us tight there to find
Every combustive motion
of loves ****** potion
that wages deep upon our cries, that want
Better to tease, Torment, Taunt
Where eyes glazed, hovers, begs
another touch upon silken legs
the moments rush
the explosive crush
of tormented valleys
upon sensual galleys
where love to love
the want rides above
All that holds the passion true.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 437
Bitter Dreams
When tides turn
the rolling flood fills
seems as if there to spill
upon the hallowed grounds
the flow of all that within a moments prayer
Rushes out there to compare
the tragedy of a moment
the internal drive lost in torment
That crushes forth those boundaries
where bears the tears of life's foundries
and pours out its delicate essence of form
In the simple bud of a tear.

That hearts and minds together pressed
there before ourselves - Undressed
The scars of the world that holds us down
suffocates us to drown
In the hollows of our being - seeing
The last fine ray of love outstretched
unable to grasp - We gasp
for the loss that is the woe of the soul
the love that would not come nor go
Just hovers in-between our beings
lost forever to our hearts dealings
that ravishes our sleep to no-more
where brands the pain, annoy, it's sore
upon the cold and lonely floor
Where we weep our bitter dreams.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 2011 · 803
Winters Ain
Whare ripples
dreeps awa,
Tha fluid run
tha water braw.

A' triple race frae which it stems
aneath tha starry heevenly hem,
whare a' come an thereby pass
tha rivers edge wha gleams like glass.

Upon tha wintery echo , far weel I ken
tha cracklin tree like a bantom hen,
chuckles oot apun tha glen
aneith tha dark too'ering Ben.

This cul' dark an weary nicht
hulds tha worl' e'er sae ticht
tae tha lays tha lan' does spill
grasps yin an a' therein tae fill

Tae a' tha glory O winter's parade
tha tinsel show, its masqurade.
Fills us a' doun tae tha bane
tae tha spirit O winter's ain.

© Alisdaire O'Caoimph
in Scots

— The End —