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.

*

On my way to Jersey to perform at the Opera House I was asked at the airport after a thorough search refused to yield why I had bleeped...."Excuse me sir but could I look inside your hair?" I was only hiding curly thoughts inside my curly hair.

THE GENTLEMAN OF SHALLOT

Come Spring...

I paint my little room
all yellow

fill it with
daffodils & jonquils

drag in a giant
mirror

(left in the back yard)      

so large

it takes up
all the wall

giving the illusion
of another room

as if my room
were now not so

small.

Sometime the trompe l'œil,
fools even me

& I walk into
the imaginary room.

'Ouch! '
my reflection shouts!

Come Spring...
...came you!

(totally unexpected)      

& my playing with
perspective

hath you enthralled.

I'd catch you
catching your
reflection observing you

observing
the mirror couple

as they
mimicked us

watching our every
move

you thought it so
sensual

or could pretend to be
at a small ****

when it was only
us

again

&

again.

Bodies of flesh & blood
bodies of glass.

You breathe
upon the mirror

tracing our names
with a fingertip

fragile words
made of breath

'...this love...will last...! '

*

When we break
up

the mirror
stayed intact

except for a jagged
lightning crack

& now it was I
who watched

like a gentleman of Shallot

the couple
in the mirror

(the ghosts of
memory)      

making love

bodies of flesh
& blood

bodies

of

glass.

BEYOND THE CLOUDS

He runs
for the sheer joy

of being
a little boy.

"Brian...Brian!"
I try to rein him in

with my voice but
he escapes even that.

"Watch out...watch out!"
I throw the words at him

"Or you'll hit
that cloud!"

Two clouds glower at him
and he stops in his tracks

suddenly uncertain if
that is possible.

And so perspective
cowers my little brother

and he runs back
holds my hand.

We tiptoe past
the threatening clouds

leaving them behind
he laughing nervously.

Now far far from that time
beyond even death

I call his name
and he turns

runs and
takes my hand.

The clouds can only
look on.

WALKING FROM THE RISING SUN TO KILDARE TOWN.

I take up
my stick &

walk:
back into my past.

Planting the countryside
of my youth

with each step
the years falling away.

The young me unfolds
into being.

The flag of self unfurls
snaps into the lost moment.

My shadow strides
ahead of me

impatient with this
flesh and blood man.

My shadow stops
waits for me to

catch up
catch my breath.

He stares at me
with broken dandelion eyes

a green milk bottle top
mimics a nose

a leaf acted
as a smile.

I laugh at this me
created by chance

and happenstance
step once more

into my shadow's footsteps
let it lead the way.

A tree which had been
there since I had been three

sarcastically remarks" "Oh, is it
yer self that's...in it?"

"It is!" says I
addressing the sky

spread before me
a vast blue field.

Furze blazes
with yellow.

Horses turn to
the gallops.

The sudden thunder of hooves
jockeying with laughter.

I left here to
make something of myself.

I, then...a nervous nobody
returning now

a mere nothing
a success only at failure.

I recite Hopkins
to a straying sheep.

The sheep suspiciously
regards this poet

hitting his stride now
"Nothing is so..."

The sheep coughs.

"... beautiful as
Spring!"

I tell a passing cloud
who is in too much of a hurry.

The poet's proud words
falling by the wayside

as me-then and
the me of now

stroll down
(cane nonchalantly in hand)
memory lane.

The Future hiding just

up around the

corner.

*

Set off with my chipped ankle and on a stick forgetting how far it would be....so it was my past revisited me and came to view this hobbly old man who claimed he was once this young boy!
All it proved was that I was an auld codger who didn't know his left foot from his right! But by God I can limp a good 4 miles as well as any other auld fella.

COLOURING THE WORLD.

Auntie Peggy...
gave us
the world

we held it
tentatively
between finger and thumb

hardly able to
believe
what we could see

there we were(& she)
trapped  in the first ever
colour photo we

had ever seen
and so we saw
that grass was green

as were
Uncle Michael's
corduroys

we looked and looked
again to confirm the photo
had got it exactly right

somehow that world
was lost by us
and we can only see it

through the eyes of
Auntie Peggy's photos
where everything remains

just so
and redder bluer greener
than anyone could ever know

LET DEATH BE IRISH

"I see Death..." she whispers
" like a retirement plan
living was such hard work."

she talks as if
Death itself
was standing by her bed

"The grapes and fruit?
no I never eat 'em
I just sketch 'em!"

sunlight slithers
across the hospital floor
sneaks under her bed

"My reflection
escapes the mirror.
Nothing  but...nothing there."

"As for my shadow
it comes...it goes
a slave of the sun."

"Only my ghost
sits on my bed
chats to me

about how
things
are to be."

"I hope Death is Irish
and says:  'Ah howya pet
are ya comin' or wot?'"

*

When I used to visit her before she got so ill I would always call out to her: 'Ah howya pet are ya comin' or wot?'" and she would take my arm and we would trundle off around her garden or the park if she could mangae it that day.

When she was in hospital and could no longer even stand up I would put her arm through mine and we would go for a walk in words as I would tell her what was to be seen.

She loved this as much as the real thing and to her now it was even the more realer as I held her up with my voice perambulating through an imaginary park.

When she wanted one of these flignt of fancy walks she would always say to me:' Ah howya pet are ya comin' or wot?'" And off we would go walking in the footsteps of my voice.

IN THE AFTER-TIME

" Alice thought she
had never seen such

a curious croquet
ground in all her life; "

It was somewheres near
Roswell

18 something and something
there or there...abouts

& Billy the Kid &
the boys have just

...paused:

in their croquet
for a tintype photo.

Billy's the guy
in the cardigan sweater.

Him & his gang
( the Regulators )

are posing like
they were a prototype

for
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

or the band
THE BAND.

Pure Americana.

Billy the cardi-cowboy and
his gang of croquet playing outlaws...

Not exactly how
one would have  somehow

imagined them
. . .passing the time.

One of the outlaw...eh...gentlemen

points out that
Billy

" . . .the Kid has spooned
his shot!"

A ricochet of tobacco coloured
spittle hits a spittoon.

Silence congeals
about the accusation.

Now, whether Billy has
merely pushed the ball

silently through rather than
soundly hit it

is:
neither here nor there.

A cold revolver
clicks &

"I says I hit it...I hit it
get it?"

The other gentleman outlaw
begs to agree.

"Ok, Billy boy...keep yer
cardi on!"

And so, we leave them
there

in the croquet craze of
1878.

Time like a yellow ball
hit through hoop after

hoop until: it arrives
at this

present...NOW!

And a photo found in a store
for a dollar or a few dollars more

repays the expense
by morphing into

the 5 million dollar
photo.

But I hit the ball
back through hoop after

hoop after hoop

until it arrives back
at Billy's boot.

And a voice cries:
"Ok, kid...play!"