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 May 2013
Seán Mac Falls
Founded in one fatal mission,
Where joy is merest rumour
And the two toned colours
Of dun flower are drowning
In sepia, where separation
Is touch, folded and kept
Like a lock of shocking red
Hair, fine grains in my eyes
Are stoning pebbles of grey.
Soft is the day and wandering,
Birds always sing, beaming
As they fly, rushing away,
I am stilted sound, hushed
In a vale shadow of whisper,
Flood lights of leaving ways,
Curtains to my moulded stage
And all the airs of outdoors
Mute, closed.
 May 2013
Seán Mac Falls
Her fine hands are gentle
With lithe and spiny fingers
Of bone and fin.

Her eyes are opal,
Essence of emerald and topaz,
A hoard of treasure.

Her hair is sea gathering
And dances in the blue currents
Deadly as the sea snake.

Her skin is coral,
Made of mineral and sorcery,
A fatal beacon.

Her lips are urchin,
Set in a whirlpool of face,
A spiral of doom.

Her voice is dream,
Rocking the lost wrecked ships,
Ground into sand.

Her long tail is fable
Of paradise, beyond faraway seas,
Cyclones and waves.
 May 2013
Seán Mac Falls
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours.  Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling  
And gawking.  The direction of wind is their vane.

Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,  
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
 May 2013
Seán Mac Falls
Winter fantasia—
Wolves and loon moaning full moon,  
Snow white swans landing.
 May 2013
Seán Mac Falls
Old dark symmetries,
Forked branches of hazel tree,
  .  .  .  Landing of crows' feet.
 May 2013
Seán Mac Falls
Cold wind, shorter days,
Summer maple shedding leaves,
  .  .  .  One black bird in tree.
 May 2013
Seán Mac Falls
Black bird,
Your colour rails against
The downy sky—
As indifferent as you.
 May 2013
Seán Mac Falls
Your face,
Tender, round and dimpled,
Framed with gilded, carved, tawny curled
Whirlpools of hair, long, lighted, and sparkling,
Your face is the face—
Of Ireland.

Your lips,
Full, moist and deathly deep,
Are wells, not well for me, not safe, taboo,
Tantric, tall told tales of brave Odysseus
Under Circe's alchemies
Of forgetfulness.

Your *****,
The zenith of blossom in fabled
Elysium, gateway to the forbidden gardens
Of sage and sinners, warrior-poets, Aphrodite's
Envy, Poseidon's drowning
And smoldering Zeus.
 Apr 2013
Seán Mac Falls
In order the heart, keep running without knowledge
Of the living torch, of the soiling fires that wipe
Hopes memory, the boiled blood must breathe
In a sea of borders, of waves and rushing tides.

In order the heart, beats time, though it knocks,
Near breaks, as the wind that swoons is divining
Treasure, the jewel in the box of flesh must hold,
Must shore the rivers of the branching bleed.

In order the heart, is closed, and dry of touches
Towering keep, let the eye know mercy, let the seas
That travel with the bones never feel the marching
Desert, the hollow caves of the discarded lovers.
 Apr 2013
Seán Mac Falls
Dark, dangerous woods,
Phases of the flashing moon,
Turning heads of owl.
 Apr 2013
Seán Mac Falls
Lone piper in pub—
Guinness waiting to be poured,
Blarney and glad dirge.
Tír na nÓg Old Irish: Tír inna n-Óc "Land of the Young" is widely known as an Otherworlds in Irish mythology and in the story of Oisín. Oisín was one of the few mortals who lived in the land of Tír na nÓg and was said to have been brought there byNiamh of the Golden Hair (Niamh Chinn Óir). It was where the Tuatha Dé Danann settled when they left Ireland's surface, and was visited by some of Ireland's greatest heroes. Tír na nÓg is similar to other mythical Irish lands such as Mag Mell and Ablach.

Tír na nÓg was considered a place beyond the edges of the map, located on an island far to the west. It could be reached by either an arduous voyage or an invitation from one of its fairy residents. The isle was visited by various Irish heroes and monks in the echtrae(Adventure) and immram (Voyage) tales popular during the Middle Ages. Contrary to popular assumption, Tír na nÓg was not an afterlife for deceased heroes, but instead, a type of earthly paradise populated by supernatural beings, which a few sailors and adventurers were fortunate enough to happen upon during their journeys. This otherworld was a place where sickness and death did not exist. It was a place of eternal youth and beauty. Here, music, strength, life, and all pleasurable pursuits came together in a single place. Here happiness lasted forever; no one wanted for food or drink. It is roughly similar to the Greek Elysium, or the Valhalla of the Norse, though with notable, distinct and important differences.
 Apr 2013
Seán Mac Falls
Great robes of red oak,
Cast away each Fall season,
Snows bring silent vows.
 Apr 2013
Seán Mac Falls
Light floods bare night room,
Spring Hazel branch holds full moon,
  .  .  .  Budding leaves the stars.
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