ANSEO A TÁ TÚ
(YOU ARE HERE )


Spring had come
dressed the farm

in its best green.

Even the sky
wore the latest blue

a sort of shy
eternity.

Birds had been
perfectly positioned

after a great deal of thought
by whoever had put them

there.

Furrows crawled lazily
across the face of a field

glistening with a newness
that the day couldn't

help but be
excited by.

The trees were beside
themselves

madly in love
with time

who had been kind
to them for ages now.

Ballea lay
smiling before him

Even its very name
made his heart dance.

Even the very saying of it
made his soul swoon.

"Anseo a tá tú!"
he says to himself.

The Irish sweetening
each loved syllable.

"You are here!"
he reminds himself

in case one of the birds only
spoke English.

And never was the boy
who had come back

in the shape
of a man

as delighted
as he.


"Anseo a tá tú. . .indeed!"
his ghost smiles to his self.

*


I am wishing that in his dying my father will return  to the little farm in Cork and complete his life cycle by being the ghost of the little boy who adored the earth and sky of his native place. I wanted to hold his hand and bring him here even if only in words. Da...you are here!

the god boy, grows a pace
no longer small, squalling child

now showing a fierce independent streak
that causes pride and fear in equal amounts

it is hard to balance the need to learn
and the need to teach...to protect
we fail the balance regularly
yet are fortunate to have suffered
no great ..... or lasting consequence

his greatest attribute,
our greatest joy
his sunny side up,
the ability to always,
see the best
in everything.....
eventually

as we slow and grey,
he seems brighter,
more intense...
gathering colur into him
only to give it out...
in a argent radience
that is contagious...
in  it's beauty

of course,
he has his flaws
my child,
is far from perfect
like his father,
his floor is his wardrobe
and like his mother
he is prone to losing himself
in bookworlds, while mundane
chores await..

but he is both the worst and the best of us

and more importantly
he is himself....forging
and identity and entity
bourne of love and compassion

and honestly
as a mother godess
and as a father god

there is naught more
we could wont
or ask for...

I thought I had something to write,
but instead I'm buzzing strangely
as if I'm a conduit for the lost currents in the air,
   The static electricity.
  
I yearn to untangle.

My insides are a coil of jumper cables
and perhaps I'll take up yoga.

And then I will write a story that weighs more than the factory which made the pen,
And it will be such that the whole world will read it
and weep.
And the whole world will be that one guy who rows the gondola boat in city park
because I will have left it
by the dock.
And all the people will return again and again
To purchase another ride,
To sit in his boat and glide on the water
and hear him tell the story,


And their tears will fill the lake.

I'm going to dare the fates and speak openly

Julius Caesar, was a pompas *****, who consumed and never gave
A pudgy little waif of an excuse for a man
Cleopatra, wasn't a visual beauty,
She had wit, and the gift of gab
I was her hand maiden
I would know
Technology?!
We are so primitive in this age, Ha!
Nero,
History painted a vague, and awful picture of a great man of men
Indeed,
My Nero, did dance at the fall of Rome
Because we all would dance, at the loss of ignorance
He was beautiful, I loved him
And of DaVinci?
His mind was offset
He was GREAT
His was a traveling soul and mind
Leonardo, looked God himself in the face
And grinned
He was GREAT, as was his son
His son, painted a book
It resides in the Vatican Library
Check if you will
With your "Google"
Your generations wonder of mysteries,
You haven't a clue
Time isn't linear
It Is always
And I grow tired
Hoover, a Hunter
He knew of us
And we hid
Shielding ourselves in shadows
And lies
We are here
We watch
Wait....

I find my island
within.

I take refuge
under the canopy
of trees that
bore fruit
from thousands of lifetimes
of sun kissed smiles
and salt laden tears.

Above, I see rain infused by
meteor mist.
i marvel at this landscape a million times caressed by dust filled snow.

I take a bite from its mystical fruit.

the wistful wind clears my vision
and I am surrounded by the deep blue
of heavenly earth.

Reflecting on the ocean
vast and wild
in her savage beauty,
I remember this is but a
web of dreams
we conjured up.

Releasing
the mind,
floating free..

Awake!
I pay homage,
reveling
in this real
and silken
reverie.

it usually takes about 20 hours of fasting,
then this, thing, walks into the kitchen
at 3 in the morning and is like:
i need something to eat...
and there he is standing, hunched,
slobbering over scraps...
he first eats a can of macrkel in tomato
sauce and adds worcestershire sauce
to it thinking it's bolognese spaghetti sauce,
he gets all beavis and butthead
with the fork while he toasts two slices
of bread... then he gets onto tinned
   sardines in sunflower oil, which he also
dashes some worcestershire sauce into...
he creates a radish out of tiny plum tomatoes;
and he's standing there growling and frothing
at the mouth... because the cats he owns had
more food than him over the past day...
   he's walked a 2.5 liter marathon of 6.6 miles
worth of walk to with the symphony of glugging
down beer, and he's angry like
    any anger that might be contained and pacified
by simple pleasures...
   so this thing writes a "poem", or rather an ode
to youtube video editing practices...
     tinned fish, who would have thought:
apparently it doesn't get much odder than this.

A lone tree stands out
Against the stormy sky

On the far side of
The lawn in our garden

Surrounded by snowdrops
Quite a pretty picture!

Keith Wilson March 2017

fullest bookshelves you will ever see
soft hazel eyes hiding behind stiff blue frames
loads of pillows and fuzzy warm blankets
reading poetry in secret nooks and crannies
curly all-over-the-place cascading brown locks
dancing in the early springtime drizzles
movies with huge tubs of butter-drenched popcorn
laying in the lush grass, fingers stretching for the clouds
pens tucked behind ears, in coat sleeves, and on window sills
raspy, off-key, unabashed shower singing
friday night new netflix show marathon
awkward attempts at kind-of-sort-of flirting
secret stash of every single type of chocolate
complete list of the world's cheesiest pickup lines
bottom lip biting in intense concentration
well-worn copies of shakespeare's best plays
mindlessly wandering streets for hours on end
love songs, romantic surprises, that one perfect sonnet

good god, good girl