JUST ARE

the I and you
of it all

difficult to know where
I begin and you end

don't ask the how
of us or a why

you and I
just exist

no need for explanation
just live the mystery

you and I
just are

THE LIGHT VANISHES

Summer had suddenly
gotten old.

Shadows nibbled at the light
limping along by an orchard wall

biting it
to the bone.

The light seemed to wince.

An apple fell to the ground
as if on cue.

Forever seemed somehow
shrunken.

Time withdrew into itself.

The house was talking
to the wind

in its creaky old voice about
the this of that and the that of this.

The wind saying nothing now.
Keeping sthum.

Inside... a book
lay asleep upon a table

waiting to be awoken
by a child's hand.

The words now
allruntogetherbit

ready to jump back
into their proper places

take up their position.
when called upon.

Even the pterodactyl
had its eyes shut tight

in the drawing of it
on page 42

flying in pre-historic
black and white.

I was amazed to find
I owned

all these aunts and uncles
that were all mine!

I even had a cute cousin
called Mary Frances who

always made me
smile.

A mottled mirror
had flung itself upon a floor

scattering itself here & then
there in a loud "oNo!"

Still showing the world
its face

in many tiny
little seeings

that could
draw blood.

I breathed the summer in.
I breathed the summer out.

I would never again be
as old as I was now.

It was the last time
I was 9.

Summer had suddenly
gotten old.

Shadows nibbled at the light
limping along by an orchard wall

biting it
to the bone.

The light seemed to wince.

An apple fell to the ground
as if on cue.

Forever seemed somehow
shrunken.

Time withdrew into itself.

The house was talking
to the wind

in its creaky old voice about
the this of that and the that of this.

The wind saying nothing now.
Keeping sthum.

Inside... a book
lay asleep upon a table

waiting to be awoken
by a child's hand.

The words now
allruntogetherbit

ready to jump back
into their proper places

take up their position.
when called upon.

Even the pterodactyl
had its eyes shut tight

in the drawing of it
on page 42

flying in pre-historic
black and white.

I was amazed to find
I owned

all these aunts and uncles
that were all mine!

I even had a cute cousin
called Mary Frances who

always made me
smile.

A mottled mirror
had flung itself upon a floor

scattering itself here & then
there in a loud "oNo!"

Still showing the world
its face

in many tiny
little seeings

that could
draw blood.

I breathed the summer in.
I breathed the summer out.

I would never again be
as old as I was now.

It was the last time
I was 9.

OVER YOU

A bust
of Beethoven

has fallen

in love with
a tiny statuette

of the Venus
De Milo

who has also
lost her head.

Beethoven with his
shattered hair

admires what is there
of her body

Christ!
with his left arm

snapped off
comes between them

keeping them apart.

Christianity
is harsh.

I pass & leave them
to their broken hearts.

Buy an egg
timer

made of brass

from a man
who looks like

a monkey
even more

than a monkey
do.

I turn the sands
of time

upside down
& then again

upside down
again

and with much fuss
catch the packed bus

in the non-stop
rain.

Home again
I boil an egg

that is neither
hard nor soft

hum Tchaikovsky
as I chew burnt toast

and cry

over you.

THE GATE SWINGS OPEN
( for Mary Frances )

We hang from
(albeit upside down)

now interlaced between
now balanced upon

the five-bar-gate
the river beyond calling our names.

This is the threshold
between lane and field.

We live only
in the moment

and so
forever.

Your dress falling
over your face

stifling giggles
gales of laughter

shaking us from our perch
like windfall apples.

An "Ouch!" and an "Ow!" later
and we are back upon

where we had
fallen from.

A Constable I could imagine
would have painted us

thus
in passing.

Our five-bar-gate
as much a part of us.

Even in this
over-grown now

I still smart
from the sting of its nettles

still taste the tang
of its baby strawberries

at its gnarled
wooden feet.

The gate open
into a world that is

...gone.

Captured in my imagination
by a Constable blur of paint

showing two blurs
that could be considered

us
children at play.

It hangs in my mind
in the gallery of memory.

The light slowly dying
only the laughter remains.

The thrush's song
threaded through the morning.

A BOY MADE OF LEAVES
( for Paul Kearney )

The Curragh!
5,000 acres of fun

where a boy
could roam

through all the realms
of a 1960's childhood.

Our house is gone now
only two pillars still stand

leading into an empty
nothingness.

I shoo a sheep
out of the bedroom

once ours
our voices carved in the air.

Here a sheep pees furiously
in what had been the bathroom.

The house has become
a ghost

haunting itself..

I still the little boy
hiding in the Marian Shrine

invisible to one
and all

under an ocean
of leaves

startling the passerbys
with a quick "Booo!"

Or a "Poo to you!"

The ****** Mary blushes
upon her pedestal

frowning upon
our antics.

Our shame
telling it in confession.

The wind scatters
my childhood.

I walk into the mist
erasing me bit by

...bit.

WRITING BAREFOOT

Being frisked
at Dublin airport.

"What's dat in yer
back pocket?"

"An unfinished poem!"
I admit ruefully.

"Is it metal?"
he asks.

"No, it's mental!"
I tell him.

"You know, a bunch of words
hanging about on a piece of paper."

"Go on with ya!"
he smirks.

"And next time...
remove yer shoes."

On the plane I
kick off my shoes and

finish off the unfinished
poem.

Now I
always write barefoot.

ARTIST AT WORK

I trace
with trembling fingertip

the naked calligraphy
of your body

my hands
creating you

out of this darkness

so that dawn
finds you

drawn with such
exquisite passion

that it tells
the sun

to look:
‘Look!‘

And the sun
reaching in the window

can not help but touch
to see if you are real.

‘Hands off!‘
I warn.
‘She’s mine!‘

And the sun
sulks

as I cover you up
my masterpiece

and finally exhausted I
... fall asleep.