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A DOOR AJAR ON REALITY

the blackbird led
his wife
up the garden path

as if the crazy paving
had been laid especially
for them & their kind

I thought it odd that
they walked instead
of flew

as if they
were acting
the human

they both
deep in conversation
about bird current affairs

or gossip
about those
noisy robins

when they hit the deck
they both stood
in a deck chair each

continuing what
they had been
conversing  about

maybe blackbirds
had taken over
the world

& I
the last human
to know

or all other humans
had been changed
into blackbirds

they suddenly
made loud caw
I took to the air and flew
LIKE MUSIC MADE VISIBLE

you forever always
like music
made visible

running through my thoughts
memory's shaky
home movie

here a grinning granny
with half a head
most of the time

or an uncle
with a cloud
upon his head

there the camera elects
to look at
only the grass

or an aunt
always on the edge
of a frame

quiet but not quite
one of the
almost theres

an uncle
merely represented by
his shiny new shoes

and a sudden falling
shot of skies
and a passing bird


these black and white people
in their black and white world
moving through silence

as if they were swimming
through time
flirting now

or shying from
the camera's
gaze

as the footage comes
to an abrupt:
stop

but you forever always
like music
made visible
WHAT THE CLOUDS ARE THINKING

"Huggin!"

"Muninn!"

We call our dogs
and they come running

black black
as ravens

faster than thought
and memory.

Excited they tell me
of all the many

smells
they have encountered.

What it is like
to just run

for no other purpose
than the running.

They see the world
through smell and speed.

Delight in
just being.

Outrunning the wind.

The sudden scratch
of a bramble across an eye

is a happenstance
that sees me

wearing a black eye patch
with a diamante twinkling.

I see the world better
with my one eye.

The other was too lazy.

"Yeah yeah...it's the world!
So what!"

Lazy eye easily
bored with perceiving.

Looking, but:
not seeing.

The dogs see me
as the reincarnation

of Odin.

The land is lost
in mist and myth.

The mist devouring
a man

with every footstep
the world erased.

Yet, I outpaced it
gazed once again

upon a moon madly
in love with its reflection.

Look up into the sky
the inside of a skull

that once belonged
to the great giant Ymir

whose death
made all life possible.

Odin and Vili and Ve
make soil from his flesh

bones become
mountains

blood becoming seas.

"See the clouds..?"
I tell my little girl

( already far more
ancient than I )

"They were once
Ymir's brains!"

She accepts all this
with great aplomb.

"I wonder..."
she ponders
"I wonder.. . .

what the clouds
are thinking?"
Apr 1 · 33
WATER'S LAUGHTER
WATER'S LAUGHTER

She laughs like water
pours herself
into my embrace

takes
whatever shape
within these arm

I kiss her
with a love that
cannot harm her

me
the container
of who I am

holding her
love
like water's laughter
THE SOUL GOES FOR A STROLL

Uncle sleeps
with pursed lips
as if kissed  by a dream

perched upon
this kiss
a butterfly sits

as if an Uncle's lips
were the most natural
place for a butterfly to rest

or as if
it were an illustration
of the soul(a symbol)

in a magical book
that explained
such things

outside the trees
breathe gently
inhaling

& exhaling
a soft whisper
of wind

bees carve a map
out of the air
for other bees to see.

out on a limb
two birds
sit & chit chat.

a fox(unseen)
passes by  as if
it had never been

a big big bug
topples off the top
of a tiny stone

onto its back
wriggling its arms & legs
as if it were trying to

swim
through the currents
of its fear

one of the gossiping birds
sees him as a tasty treat
eats him

Inside the house's
El Greco shadows
a kitten

exploring the newness
of the world it finds
itself in

jumps onto
the sleeping statue
of an Uncle

with a butterfly
perched upon
its lips

kitten tumbles
ooops
into my Uncle's crotch

before climbing
the mountainside
that is his chest

takes a swipe
at the soul
pretending to be a butterfly

just as my Uncle
awakens
to this reality

& his soul
flits just
out of reach

between
the fireplace
& the mantlepiece
HOW GRAMPS AND  GRANMA GOT TOGETHER

she had an ego
that could be seen
from space

a mind that could strip
an apple of its skin
in one perfect coil

but today she was feeling
like a faded
carbon copy of herself

and it was this
vulnerability
that so unnerved the others

not knowing whether
it was a ruse or a trick
on her part

could she really
have a heart when
she was not biting heads off

I not being afraid of her
I dared to take
care of her

she too surprised
that I simply
walked around her defences

as if they weren't
there and won her
with a simple "You ok?"
Mar 31 · 25
BECOMING LADY MACBETH
BECOMING LADY MACBETH.
( "Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?" - Act 5, scene 1 MACBETH )


dawn chorus
switch on kettle
for first cup of coffee

but what's this
white kettle
streaked with blood

I have stepped into
a gory horror
real life movie

an hallucination
but how can
a kettle bleed

and now I see
my hands
bathed in blood

glistening...shining
more readily red
than can be imagined

I have become
Lady Macbeth
the play come alive

I can still smell
my own blood
"Oh, oh, oh!"

****** my ****** hands
under the running tap
discover the deep cut

my right hand thumb
it would appear
the culprit

"All the perfumes
of Arabia will not
sweeten this little..."

how come
I cannot yet tell
and yell

now that
the pain
decides to turn up

I act the part
to the hilt
discover that

pushing plastic
into an overflowing bin
cuts to the bone

who would have thought
indeed that this old poet
had so much blood in him


*
A plastic container that once contained olives and feta until devoured  squashed down into the bin not realising that its rim was super sharp and I didn't even feel the cut. Then turning back to the coffee making and lo and behold the horror unrolled the 'how can this be so' moments. And *******...so much...so much blood. As if the whole 12 pints in the human body had chosen to take up residence( squatters rights)in the thumb and to to a runner when the fisrst cut was the deepest.
...MO MHÁTHAIR...
( ...my mother... )

See? I walk... I exist. . .
in this new sunlight
despite your death

this morning
you will never know
somehow I persist

the world has turned
on its axis
leaving you behind

Death sits in your chair
I long to
**** it

everywhere I see you
cut out of the pages
of today's world

I enter this
moment - in a second it had
closed behind me: NO EXIT

**

First ever known  picture of Dónall the Dempsey. Yep...that's me all right...in her tummy! She said I was a gentleman and didn't show...but then I was a tiny little baby weighing in at only 2 lbs. Now my belly button weighs that!
THE USELESSNESS OF MAPS

you were
always
the bit

where the map
creased & tore
leaving us unsure

looking through
a hole
at our own big toe

you were
always
the bit

where the map
was folded in four
and had to be

awkwardly unfolded
just to see
where you were

you were
always
the bit

that was just off
this map
ending in mid air...

...see next map:
...the issing
...map

you were
always
the lost map

you were
often
the wrong map

the map that
there was...
...no map of

*

A charming friend who could be a terrible person...who when she died got transformed into "our wonderful kind understanding etc., etc.," Or all the things she wasn't in flesh and blood. In real life she would stand you up...let you down...lie...etc., etc. I had a dream that I went into a shop and asked for "...a Map of Death please!" and the shopkeeper said he had just sold the last one to my friend. Hence the poem that came about that told what she had been really like but through the medium of maps.

Obviously when you write a poem you chose the balance of mood and words and what to leave in and what to leave out so that you focus on whatever emotional trajectory you come in on and that gives you the mental landscape of what you have elected to view.

Come in on a different emotional trajectory and you get a completely different landscape of the mind...a whole new planet Poem. So the backstory may be left out until you have to tell it or fill it out or write a different poem. Going to a reading in Paris  and learning that the theme has to be of death and its whatfors and wherefors... meant that this poem which I happened to have in my possession suddenly forced the background story to the forefront...so the explanation comes about 2 years after the writing of the poem. In time this backstory or the view of the story as seen from this point of perspective may in itself become the poem that eclipses this one in a total eclipse of the art.
Mar 30 · 25
METAMORPHOSES
METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust

& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye ******* Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding
Mar 29 · 35
CARNIVAL OF TEARS
CARNIVAL OF TEARS


I am
that wonky carousel music
that makes you feel

you have opened a door
in your mind
and stepped into

THE TWILIGHT ZONE
only for real
I am a Hall of Mirrors

throwing the many mes I am
into my face
each one a mask

within a mask
within a mask
( don't laugh )

I am
the Haunted House
( scream if you like )

I am the Tunnel of Love
being kissed
by a skeleton

running
running
helter skelter

"Welcome, my dear
to all
the fun of the fear!"
Mar 29 · 34
USELESS BEAUTY
USELESS BEAUTY

I  gaze
into air

this empty space
inside where you

no longer are.

Stars twinkle simple
as a nursery rhyme

planets revolve

maintain their perfectly
elliptical courses.

I am eclipsed.
An ellipses...

without your words
your kiss.

The night sky
plucks a star

pins it
on my chest

a medal
for making it this far

beyond grief

beyond hope

for remembering not to
forget to...

remember.

The Heavens
in all their glory

bless me
curse me

with words

to spell out
your absence

your presence

the only thing
that would

make sense of
all this

useless beauty.
A BIRD WAS EXPLORING TIME AND SPACE

March was doing that thing
where it was just becoming
April and

the thunder
muttered to itself
'bout something or other

"Mumblemumblemumble!"
it rumbled
Very un-Eliotish

Rain fell, but
its heart
wasn't in it

a bird
was exploring
time and space

sticking a little bit
of song
on to a quarter to two

where the Downs come up
and say howdy
do to the horizon

you: were
as dead
as ever

all memory could do
was draw a child's
stickman version of you

I still refused to believe it
but time was
wearing me down

that bird just kept on
trying to glue
that one piece of time

to that one piece of place
but it just wouldn't
do

I turned and walked away
"Where is tomorrow?
In another world..."

as the poet had said
can't say I could
answer that question
Mar 28 · 21
THURSDAY MARKET
THURSDAY MARKET

Motorway sign says:
"THIS SIGN IS NOT
WORKING."

Sign coming
into town says
"THURSDAY MARKET."

Reality
appears to be
broken

and there they all are
long forgotten Thursdays
that nobody wants no more

So many
used Thursdays
to choose from

a much used
Thursday
from 1963

a forlorn
Thursday
from 1863

Thursdays
come and
gone

no one will want
a Thursday
their dog died

or the wife left them
or the Wifi
went off

rainy Thursdays
that nobody wanted even
as they were happening.

but there's a big rush on
the Thursday to come.
everyone wants to have one

We leave the Thursday market
with the next Thursday
in the bag so to speak

it's up to us
to make
a good go of it

it ticks away...Time tickles.
motorway sign says:
"THIS SIGN NOT WORKING."
Mar 28 · 32
A LUCKY SO & SO
A LUCKY SO & SO

As he lay
in the pool of his death

the motorcycle continuing on
a little further without him

before it too
lay down

as if to sleep

he thought the blood
was like a child

wetting the bed

and the fear of
someone discovering it

in the cold light
of morning

he began
to cry

just like the boy
of then

though this was now
and very far

from the place
of his childhood

even as the stink
of petrol

enveloped him

a bird sang

& he thought: “This is the most
beautiful thing...! ” he had ever heard

& his heart grew sad
& silent to hear it

concentrating on it

& on his shirt

emerged a badly-
-drawn map of the world
(but recognisable as such)

(America being a little
lopsided)

drawn in blood
seeping through his fingers

(continental drift slowly joining them together)

“I am half in love
with easeful Death...”

he quoted to himself

and wondered who had wrote it
and where he had ever heard it

“Yeats? Keats? ”

Death as if
anyone might have imagined him

turning up
at a fancy dress party

and only coming second
to a fat guy from Hastings

who obviously had a better costumiers
than Death

(Death thinking this fat bloke’s next)

looked on
dispassionately

as if he had seen it
all before.

There was nothing
new under the sun.

This job could be
so boring.

Humans make such a drama
out of the simple act of dying.

Always the same song & dance act!

Death held his hand
& then...let go.

When he awoke
Death
was nowhere to be seen

and the hospital
bloomed around him

gazing into the fluorescent
tube of light

life seemed almost
too bright

hurting his eyes

a nice pair
of legs

approaching him
& telling him

(he watched the words rise & fall
in the perfect mechanism

of her chest
of which he couldn’t take his eyes off of)

telling him
in no uncertain manner

as if scolding him
(had he wet the bed?)

“Well, you’re
a lucky
so & so!
Mar 27 · 29
FASHION STATEMENT
FASHION STATEMENT

You made a chain-mail dress
out of cut-out Coca-Cola cans.

Perfectly...painstakingly crafted.

On a hanger your dress
rattled angrily in the breeze

as the wind blustered in the window
throwing your preliminary drawings around.

Every gesture
became musical.

A yawn tinkled.
A kiss clanked.

Stroking me or
stroking the cat

each had its own
musical motif.

Your chain-mail dress
sprung forth a ******

and then – hid it.

Flashed your ***
and then – forbid it.

As a male
I was quite intrigued by it.

I was a knight in distress.

You were a lady in shining armour.

As if I had been sleeping
to your beauty

...you kissed me awake.

You smirked:

“ Listen bud, Princess to Prince like,
I’ll show you where the ***** in my armour is! ”

You divested yourself of your dress.

It clattered to the floor
glittering...coiling

like a silver shining serpent.

You breathed
upon my lips

(kisses tasting of expensive wine and cheap cigarettes)    

“Kiss me...my love.
Discover me anew!

And I will show you
a thing or two.”
Mar 27 · 36
PINNING MOTHER DOWN
PINNING MOTHER DOWN


"I always..." she put forth
" ...remember Mother
as a delicious smell

like an apple
pie cooling down
or a heated up dinner."

"Though now..." she corrected
her put-forth-remark
"...as the nasty smell

of her elastic pale pink
roll-on corset.
Always gave me the shivers!"

her words stood forth
upon the air as if they
had been carved from there

pronouncements:
never
just mere speech

"Or that stink of mangy fox
stole she never wore
that always hid

at the back of her wardrobe
its beady little eyes
daring me to come nearer

so it could
( and I knew it would )
bite me in two

or her knitting
that the cat
always peed on

( she couldn't smell
a thing herself
poor dear )

her scarves
always smelling
of Tiddles

yes, Mother was as
perfect as Michaelmas daises
in a vase

although she always
pronounced it
vas/e not va/se

she was always such
a difficult woman
to pin down


*


Visiting a friend in a ward....got taken over by the lady in the poem who thought I was her husband and started going on about her Mum. I didn't know the lady but for that short time she made her Mum immensely real to me. Her name was Betty as was her Mum.

Also curiously enough she never said "she said..." but rather "she put forth...."
Mar 27 · 40
CHOCOLATE EXPLANATIONS
CHOCOLATE EXPLANATIONS

“Right. . .!”
I try to explain it
with chocolates

that she
( girlishly )
keeps trying to eat

I pick a luscious
dark chocolate seahorse
and I say “Now this is. . .”

( and she finishes
my sentence for me )
“. . .your hippocampus!”

she squeals. . .
delighted
iwth herself

“That’s correct!”
I praise her
“. . .it’s shaped like this seahorse!”

“And it controls
your memories of you
your “who you are”

your “how your self assembles
its sense of self with all
its past and future mysteries!”

“Yes. . .yes. . .that’s it!
she claps her hands
thrilled to bits

by the familiar
telling
the reassurance of sounds

"And this twisted twirl of almond
with a real almond in the centre of it
“. . . is your amygdala!”

she blurts out before me
“You got it”
I smile

“Everyone’s got one!
a seahorse & an almond
one on each side of our brain.”

“Now the almond tells you how
to respond to the things
that you’ve assembled

into a sense of self
. . .with the proper emotion
. . .the right feeling.

. . .whether you
just like
or love it.”

“Oh, I love it. . .I love it!”
she almost sings
“Now, explain it to me again!”

I give her
the finished explanations
and she eats with exaggerated

mmmmming & ohhhhhing
“I love your explanations
about what’s wrong with my thingy”

she knocks upon her head
like it was a door
to a self that she had

locked
herself
outside of

most times
she doesn’t even know
her name

or who
or what
she is

but she loves this story of
HIPPOCAMPUS AND
ITS FAITHFUL AMYGDALA

she loves
each sound
each word

each letter each pause
of the chocolate
explanation
MY EARLY LIFE AS A CHILD

when I was a child
I lived without time
never gave it second thought

I lived in the now
there was no before or after
I was merely me

being me
in an eternal
present

much like the cat
who never gave tomorrow
the time of day

it appeared that I
had always existed
and would forever do

just
to be
that was me

a piece of sunlight
tripping over a stone
a footstep left in mud

was world enough
to be going on with
just to be the miracle

time it seemed
had never owned me
I was just Planet Dónall

Dempsey-ing along
to my heart's content
laughter my only language

in love with
a world and the world
madly in love with me
Mar 26 · 39
"OHHHHH AGGHHH!"
"OHHHHH AGGHHH!"

pins & needles
my little one calls it
"scrambled legs!"
"WE TAKE NO NOTE OF TIME BUT FROM ITS LOSS"


I ****** you from
your dying
place you here

outside time
words and memory
conspire

make you forever
the boy you were
tell you to go play

on a day
you could
never forget

go on father
be this
child

who never can
believe
he can die

*

“The bell strikes one. We take no note of time
But from its loss.”

"By Nature's law, what may be, may be now;
There's no prerogative in human hours:

Where is tomorrow? In another world. . ."

Fragments of Young's poem fled through my mind as my Da lay dying. In my mind I talked to him all the time and sang songs to him. I tried to place him beyond this hour...bring him back to a past where he was but a boy and happy.

Night Thoughts

Edward Young (1742-1745)
Mar 25 · 41
WATCHING TV WITH DAD
WATCHING TV WITH DAD

He is cradling baby
in his arms.

We like iron filings
cling to his Dad-ness.

Sisters and brothers
cuddle into every side

of him
available.

Two more siblings
clutch a leg each

unwilling to
let go

this prize position.

I am curled on the back
of the sofa

about his neck
like a human scarf.

We are laughing at
MR. ED - THE TALKING HORSE.

"... a horse is a horse,  of course, of course. . ."
we all chant in unison.

Or sing the theme to
GREEN ACRES.

"New York is where I'd rather stay
I get allergic smelling hay..."

Doesn't matter what we
watch as long as  we

can be
part of him.

"...our dad is our dad, of course
of course..!"
Mar 25 · 115
A KISS OF RAIN
A KISS OF RAIN

written inside him
with wild calligraphy
the littlest of her smiles

it was raining hard
the kiss hardly a kiss
unmaking-making the world

the kiss
making him all at once
aware of his existence

the kiss now
making them oblivious
of a world turned to rain

rain & laughter rain&laughter
he kisses her like a happy
ever after
Mar 24 · 31
FLYING INTO FOREVER
FLYING INTO FOREVER

the geese flew on
and out
of my childhood

leaving me
returning
each new year

to find that
same moment
when I was 9

seeing the geese now
with different eyes
but somehow still

that little boy
seeing them
for the first time

the geese flying
on and out
into forever. . .

. . .snow has fallen
in love
with the world

dressing everything in
the same
crisp white quiet

icicles
hang from
the blue tricycle

a lost green
glove creeps across
the front yard

soon my daughter
all 9 years of her
will awake to find

the dream made real
a forgotten doll
gazes up at me

from
the bottom of
the frozen pond

I write you
a Christmas card
as I do each year

sign it
love
as I always do

forgetting that
you
are dead
Mar 23 · 29
12 FINALLY ARRIVES
12 FINALLY ARRIVES

cornered by Pi
at the party listening to
a stream of never ending decimals

"Polygon?"
"Yeah, mate
ya just missed her!"

feeling a bit obtuse
wanting but unable to
chat up that cute angle

a group of isosceles triangles
throwing shapes
on the dance floor

a tipsy triangle
spills her drink
over a square

numbers
in their prime
strut their funky stuff

"Why....hic...why"
argues 4 drunkenly with 5
"...can't I came after you!

a decahedron
taps the mike
"Eh...1...2...1...2!"

1 & 2
don't notice nobody
French kissing on the dance floor

leaning up against the wall
a very very drunk
right angle

123 wolf whistles
as ABC slinks
suggestively by

123 asks ABC
for her number
"I don't give out my digits ..seen?"

at the Infinity Disco
the parallel lines
finally meet

"Forgive me for saying so but( hic! )
the squares on your hypotenuse are equal to..."
she slaps him across the face

Sine and Co-Sine
passed out
in the same corner

"My field is trigonometry!"
boasts Tan
"What's your star sign?"

a cornered circle
listens to a bore
telling her "It's hip to be square!"

12 finally arrives
everyone goes berserk
'HAPPY NEW MATH!"

*.  


Playing with the maths instead of paying attention to the maths. I liked the Maths but the Maths couldn't stand this dull boring boy. The Maths and I parted our ways and this was all that was left of our relationship.

I was really bad at the old math and then the new math came in and I was equally bad at that.
Mar 23 · 31
OUTRUNNING THE WORLD
OUTRUNNING THE WORLD

you ran and
the world couldn't
keep up with you

here in your third year
you discovered
falling

as if
the world had
tripped up

you look at
your grazed knee
amazed at your self

blood oozes from
your chubby little skin
I cry - you do not

you amazed
there is an inside to you
that can somehow leak out

you dip a finger in
taste
the redness

our laughter
is a spring
that bubbles out

you can not
understand
my tears

my feeling
your pain
on your behalf

or in this case
your
"not-pain"

"Daddy - not cry!"
you comfort me
you dry my eyes

with golden curls
"Tilly run again
...see?"

and you do so
to prove a point
and once again

you are immortal
outrun
the world

leaving your father
further and further
behind you

you run into your future
to become your self
a tiny thin scar

the only reminder
of a pain only I
can remember
Mar 22 · 40
DREAMING OF BEING REAL
DREAMING OF BEING REAL

I waited with
the bubbles

to cross the street.

One big bubble
winked at me.

It had a rainbow
just off-key of its center

like a Cyclops
eye.

'Bye! ' it blinked
and went out of existence.

I felt sad.
I had really liked that bubble.

My daughter
waiting for red to go green

continued blowing
families of bubbles.

some of the bubbles
crossed the road

before the lights
changed

and got hit by a 69
bus.

Others busted
on a lady's hat

but the lady didn't
notice it.

One hitched a ride
on an exclamation mark

pretending to be
a dog's tail.

Two little baby bubbles
travelled over on my shoulder.

Some newly blown bubbles
dashed across the road

leading delightedly
the way.

Others disappeared up
into a blue so blue

(you wouldn't believe it)  

as if summer
was trying to be

a perfect picture postcard
of itself.

'Hold my hand now, love! '
the father in my voice

tinged the words
with love and care.

'Ok! '
my daughter said

trusting the words
the bubbles in the bottle

fell asleep
and dreamed of being

real.
Mar 22 · 42
SILENT AUTOGRAPH
SILENT AUTOGRAPH

meet Marcel Marceau on street
he mimes an autograph for me
the empty air his  page

*

Outside the Gaiety and there was the mime himself not as Bip but as an elegantly suited Mr. Mangel.

Not having the French to ask him for his autograph I mimed the gesture on the air and he replied with a great flourish of his equally elegant hands...handed that particular piece of air back to me.  As if he were painting on the air. I took it back from him with an equally grand gesture and a bow and he bowed back.

His posture and his gait were immaculate and he walked as if he was poetry.  He had such poise and  such a beauty of motion like music perambulating. He beamed at me and I think he thought I was I miming on purpose but it was only because I hadn't got the French and had to reach for gesture. He mimed applause for my desperate effort....so I had it from the master himself.

"The mime expresses the visible in the invisible and the invisible in the visible."

He referred to mime as the "art of silence" and he performed professionally worldwide for over 60 years.  I was lucky to see him in action and to meet him in person.

I still have that particular piece of air and I have kept it always.
I can show it to you if you like but you have to be careful not to breath a word on it.
Mar 21 · 39
THE LATEST SCORE
THE LATEST SCORE

I feel you
in my bones.

You walk when
I walk.

The shadow of you
in my voice.

You talk when
I talk.

"How you. .
.get in there?"

I laugh
with your laughter.

"Don't believe in graves!"
you answer

breathing with my breath
speaking the wordless words.

"Don't believe in death...
either!"

you add to your hypothesis
as if further proof were needed.

You jump around
in my blood

hijacking my pulse.

"Hiya bud!"
you say

thinking with my thoughts
in that same slow easy drawl.

"This is where
the dead go

. . .when they die."

I know the living
ghost of my brother

. . .would never lie.

"Hey...!" says
my never forgotten brother

"...go easy on the ghost stuff!"
he smiles.

"Don't believe in ghosts either!"

"The dead live
inside those they love..."

I complete the sentence
for him

thinking now
with his thoughts.

Now we both laugh
with the same laugh.

"So, what's the latest score?"

"Look likes...we're winning!"
Mar 20 · 33
DÓLÁS
DÓLÁS


seven
years now
since

but no
can't bring myself
to say it

remember reading
somewhere sometime
that the body

replaces itself
every...was it
seven years or so

the trillions of cells
of you
that I loved

from an eyelash
to an esophagus
changing with time

all the time
changing changing
replacing replicating

from skin
to skeleton
you forever

you always
the same
to me

Death now
changing
everything

I refusing
to part
with any of your clothes

dresses...blouses
silent in your wardrobe
your daily disguises

I finish the book
you never had
the time to finish

I read it
to your ghost
in your voice

now my grief
changes it all
changes every thing

book goes in bin
clothes to
second hand shop

I change our bed
can't bear it
without you

your study too
even the kitchen
replaced now

but still you remain
gone
I dead to this world

you alive so alive
only
in my mind
Mar 20 · 29
THE TOWN DRIFTED AWAY
THE TOWN DRIFTED AWAY

There was a slight
breeze.

The town drifted
away.

A house tried to stay
but it lifted like a leaf

losing itself in a fog.

A tree held on
hoping against hope.

Then: it was gone.

Then there again and gone again.

The sky too had blown away.

The moon was nowhere in sight.

A star blinked on and then
- off.

The year itself
unable to remain.

Even time vanishing
before my eyes.

The dead were dead
once again.

No longer alive.

Memory unable to
hold this world together

for a second more.

It vanished into
the little angry alarm clock

dancing its way
across the table top

falling quiet
losing its face.

So this was the reality
of now.

A cockerel crowed
just to make sure I knew

exactly where
I was.

*

Ahhhh memory is a strange land...they do things differently there...but it is a fragile emotional ecosystem that can be blown away just by waking up! Cockerels and alarms don't give tuppence for your state of mind and have a tendency to yank you back to a reality as it is rather than a reality that once was and that you hoped could have been a forever is.
"AHHHH SWEET MYSTERY OF LIFE
       AT LAST I'VE FOUND YOU!"

What?

You think I don't know?
I do so know!

All that cabbages and stork sutt
...strictly for the little kids.

Where babies come from
was now a mystery

no more!

Who told me?
Who told me!

A movie told me
that's who!

Allow me to
set the scene for you.

It is a dark and stormy night
you know the movie cliche kind.

A horse gallops across
a black and white countryside

under a celluloid moon
racing past

stage set trees
to the lonely homestead.

Doc and horse
arrive dead beat.

Flecks of foam
around the horse's bit.

Doc chewing the end
of his moustache.

The camera closes in on
golden embossed lettering

on the ******* bag
clutched in his right hand.

Doc. Something something
or other.

"Hot water...towels!"
he barks curt commands.

His wire framed glasses
flash in the lamplight.

Mounts the stairs
Rolls up sleeves.

Howls and moans
behind the bedroom door.

Father helpless
paces the floor.

Then a mere
movie moment later

Doc announces
"It's a boy!"

What joy!
"And - a girl!"

Both newborns
wail!

The babies have appeared
as if by magic.

They weren't in the room
before!

Then it hits me!
Been staring me in the face

all this time
doh!

Don't know why I didn't
cotton on earlier.

Doc. has obviously
smuggled the babies

in his ******* bag
the golden embossed lettering

shining in the candlelight
the neigh of a horse.

Now there's nothing
I don't know!


**

When you are 7 and you put two and two together and come up with five and a half. It all seemed so logical at the time and I thought it a good stab at an answer. The movies are all illusion and flicker with celluloid maybes and frame by frame mightbes!

When one is seven it is hard to tell!
Mar 20 · 30
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID

Removing his spectacles
the doctor pinched
the bridge of his nose


rubbed his eyes roughly
closed them
open them again.


rain trickled down
the window pane
outside a red tricycle

stood its ground
as if
it were an art installation

it's red made
more red
by the rain's fury.

beside it
a white teddy bear
soaked to the skin

a sodden thing
it couldn't be
more sorrier

"Well....doctor...well...?"
the mother pleaded
he turned to her

his words
lost
in the thunder
Mar 19 · 36
EMOTIONAL ARCHAEOLOGY
EMOTIONAL ARCHAEOLOGY

Here, I dig up
what remains

the myths
of us

fossils found
of thought

thought long ago

traces of us
lost to time

lost time
glinting now

behind glass
with labels to tell us

who we
were

who we thought
we were.

There, the lost
contact lens

brings a tear
to the eye

made more rare by
time passing by

prized now not
for function

becoming precious
an ordinary treasure

in an alchemy
of memory

full fathomed five
we be

believing in the truth
that was always a lie.

Here, the snake
entering the eye

socket of
a skull

( the stillness of
silence )

one plastic
the other for real.

The myth of us
sacrificed

upon the altar
of now

so allowing us to be

( altering as it see fits )

to be
just you & me

our selves again
( owning who we are )

escaping into
a future.
RAIN STEPPING INSIDE A DOOR BACK IN THE '63 OF A YOUNG CORK MORNING

sudden sun shower
steps inside
the cottage door

held in light
like a blessing
God given

and I the child
on the threshold
eyes filled

with the wonder
of it all
smile

rain and sun both
kissing my face
together

waiting for
the feral kitten
to emerge from the hedge

to approach me
with all its cuteness
and savagery

not heeding Auntie's
warning
to pet it

as here
in this now
we exist

young child
young kitten
coming together

and I only
a moment away
from being almost

savaged to death
by the kitten's
cute ferocity

drenched to the skin
held in the dream
of this phenomenon

the moment glistening
and all aglow
in a world of its own
Mar 18 · 228
GOING ON WITH ME
GOING ON WITH ME

never did like
my own
birthday

all that cakes
and candles
stuff

you could keep it
strictly
for the birds

every day was
my birthday
far as I could see

Birthdays...
who'd
have 'em....eh

but to have one
is the only way to go
on to be someone

miss one and
you're gone
out like a candle

every birthday
always called
my Mam

after all she did
all the hard work
when push came to shove

all I did was arrive
thank her for
having me

"Ahhh  go on with ya!"
she'd forever
laugh

this always the best
bit of my birthday
celebrating my mother
THE CICADAS GOING CRAZY

The night all
darkness and lilac

as if scent and absence
of light  had solidified

congealing about
the waltzing couple

drifting accidentally
on purpose away

from the gaudy
ballroom.

Both now not
daring to

breath in case this
moment would dissolve

the magic
evaporate.

His clumsy hand upon her
naked back for the first

time ever
this forever

the flex of her
shoulder blades as if

she were a swan
about to take flight

and be gone...gone

that terrible thought
tolling inside his head.

They only able to see
each other by touch

alone
feeling his breath upon

her right eyebrow
she nuzzling into

an Adam's apple that
kept bobbing up

ooops and that was
not all.

He lost in the bob
of her hair

she only had it done
that day.

Their hips brushing against
lilac and darkness

dancing on into
the witching hour

the fadey ballroom music
like an half forgotten

something or other
the cicadas sudden

silence
dissolving into

this mistimed kiss
that nevertheless

he kissed an eye
she kissed a nose

that still
took time's breath away

the cicadas
going crazy.

*

An old lady in a nursing home telling me about the young lady she used to be( and still is)and of her first beau at some big Great Gatsby type ball back in the days of her far flung youth and a world war about to rage and take away her young man who she would never see again. She replayed this one moment in her mind over and over again so that by the end I felt I had lived it tool. I showed her the poem and she used to stroke the words lovingly and touch them and kiss them.
Mar 17 · 37
RETURN VISIT
RETURN VISIT

I see the Past
happen before my eyes

(here a not too bright
Cabbage White

hides among the coal

my sister’s laugh

decorating a June night
so bright it’s almost light

my mother’s hands blue with cold
singing to her washing

the graceful notes
freeze as they leave her lips

birds like staff notation
sketching the gist of the tune

on telegraph wires
every now and then

moving up & down
a note

us in Spring
spinning ‘round ‘n’ ‘round

falling dizzy
to the ground

feeling like we’re falling
off the earth

pinning ourselves
to the ground

with sheer will power

as the blue sky
washes over us

& our senses
drown

memories
scattered upon

the cliched
sands of time

like seashells
falling out of

the hands of a child.
Mar 16 · 25
THE MAKER OF MAPS
THE MAKER OF MAPS

throw the sheet over her
start tracing her contours
"I'm making a life size map of you!"

it has to be a scale of 1:1
the map
creases with laughter

after we hang this
map of you upon the wall
"Mapmaking tickles!" she tells me

"Well...time for the real thing!"
I consult the map
set out to explore you

my fingers
those brave mountaineers
scale your left breast

ahhh this view of you
worth the climb
my fingers rest

and so I begin the descent
the map telling me
where to go
CODAIL GO SÁMH. . .GO SÁMH
( SLEEP PEACEFULLY.  . .PEACEFULLY )

barróg 'gus póg
a bábóg...chur a chodladh
thú féin codladh mór


*


hug and kiss
putting her doll asleep
you too sleepy head
DO I KISS HER NOW. . .?
. . .DO I KISS HER NOW!

Centuries of seconds
amble( nonchalantly )by

the kiss that is
in our minds

not yet
upon our lips.

"Just...doitdoitdoit!"
you scream silently.

"Doitdoitdoit!"
I cry wordlessly.

The birds in the trees
can only laugh.

"Doitdoitdoit!"
they mimic

Suddenly the last second
hoves into view

carrying a placard
'THE KISS IS NIGH!"

I grab that second
by the scruff of the neck.

"What...in God's name
kept you"
I almost screech.

"Painting the sign...wasn't I?"
the second sniffled...wiping its nose.

"AGHHHHHH!" I aghhhhhh'd.

"AHHHHHHH!" you ahhhhh'd.

Squirming deliciously
within your self.

"Okok...cut...that's it
that's a wrap!"

shouts Life
from its Director's chair.

At long last
the kiss

exists.

"I said...cut!"
shouts Life again

but we continue
doing what we're doing

not listening
to anything

but us.
Mar 15 · 23
wєℓ¢Θмє
wєℓ¢Θмє

There was a knock
on the door.

I opened it.

The river stood there
dripping all over

the welcome mat.

It had dragged along
birds...trees...bits of sky

an old worn summer.

"Hi...!" it rippled
". . .remember me?"

"Sure..." I said

"You said you would never forget me!"

"How could I?" I said

It grinned
like that summer all over again.

"Come in...come in!" I said

It hung up the trees and sky
on the hat rack.

It sat in the bath
talking of this 'n' that.

"Wow..!" I thought
still listening to the river

talk of all the times
we'd spent together.

Memory sure does play
some funny tricks

on the mind.

"Well..." it said
"I guess I better be going!"

It put back on the trees and birds
wore the sky at a jaunty angle.

"You haven't changed a bit!" I said
kissing it goodbye.

"You've got old..." it smiled
"...so very very old!"

I laughed.
"I'm not that little boy I was!"

It wished me well.

The door closed.

It's footsteps
lost in time.

I was missing it
already.

*

This is the river and song of my childhood. The Own na Buidhe ran at the bottom of my uncle's field so it was a real thing to me as well as part of this beautiful song that I cherished. And the song had my name in it!
"When Donal swore, aye o'er and o'er..."

My sister Junie used to sing it to me as we lay in the field and the river looked up at us shy with the mention of its name.
This is the river that comes to visit me! Not just any old river but
my river...my song...my name!
WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY

empty church
a cricket
gives the sermon

praying in the pew
next to you
family of field mice

spiders weave
stained glass
cobwebs

drunk bumblebee
talks all the way though
the cricket's sermon

church music...wind in trees
ladybird and I
genuflect...leave

the cricket's church
congregation of insects
pray to the sun God

cricket applies
for position of priest
in vacant church
Mar 13 · 41
TOUCHING SUMMER
TOUCHING SUMMER

the world is caught
in net curtains
summer struggles to free itself

she wants to touch
summer for the last time
the net curtains go quiet

she sees her self
as a child
with a big big grin

a hairy gooseberry
like a translucent marble
that the sun hides in

she asks her self
what they used to call them
"Goosegogs!" her self tells her

the goosegog bursts
upon her tiny tongue
she both likes it and doesn't

she winces as
the cancer bites
the day falls from her hands

she leaves summer behind
for the last time
the window full of night
IS IT YOURSELF THAT'S IN IT?
(for good auld Bud)

'Howya? '
said the stone

(in a thick Irish accent)

'How's it goin'? '

said another stone
to the left of the other one.

'So, you decided to
come home? '

sneered a passing breeze.

'Ah...leave him be! '
shushed a familiar tree

& an auld sod agreed:
'Let bygones be bygones! '

There I was
thinking in French

& gesticulating
in Italian.

'Are ya...sure...
...it's himself? '

enquired a changing cloud.

'Sure...I'd know him
anywhere!
'
spoke up the road
that led in(& out) of here.

'Ah, Jaysus...
...he's cryin''

sniffled an old
gone-to-seed house

& then, it started
crying itself.

'This place grew me! '
sobbed my tears

& now
(somehow)

either it or I
had changed.

Only the ghosts of ghosts
remained.

*

Going back to Ireland is often referred to as going 'back to the auld sod' and so it is that I have the landscape of my childhood question me as I remain silent in the face of fixed places such as houses melt into literally thin air and I walk through what is there but isn't there anymore. I am my own living ghost.

The Irish greeting of 'Is it yourself that's in it? ' always amused me as if the greeter was making sure that your corpereal shape hadn't indeed been taken over by the Devil and that you were now a man possessed! If the answer was 'Sure...aren't ya seeing me with your own two eyes ya ejeet or is it blind ya are or what! ' then that indeed was you. If a deep dark voice that smelt of sulphur boomed 'I am the Lord of the Underworld earthling and you will rot in Hell if you don't buy me a pint! ' then it was more likely the Devil himself or somebody with a wicked sense of humour. Anyway and anyhow the Devil you know was always better than the Devil ya didn't know. Better to err on the side of caution rather than be having a hell of a time in the place down below.
THOUGH YOUR HEART IS ACHING

my father is mending my sole
slaps it up on the last and
with tacks between lips

begins humming
Chaplin's theme
from LIMELIGHT

even the sunlight
pauses
to listen

the rhythm
of the tacks
his only accompaniment

as he de de das and
the music
enters my soul

now
in his dying
far from that sunny time

I hum it back to him
in my mind
"De de de de da!"

I tell him
as the music soars
and we are enclosed

once again
in that one
perfect moment

where
not even Death
can enter

*

When I was visiting my friend Gerry Sweeney during my Da's illness he would always be singing or humming or whistling either  Chaplin's SMILE  or THIS IS MY SONG.... He wasn't to know that my Da would always sing these )to me as a small boy. It was his philosophy for living!

Gerry has a way of reaching into my unconsciousness and coming up with little bits of my past.

So it set me to  remembering my Da mending my shoe to Chaplin's "Terry's Theme from his 1952 movie LIMELIGHT which later would acquire words an become ETERNALLY.

I prefer it as an instrumental  and my favourite version is always this unseen/unheard version( visible only to me ) of my Da with a mouthful of tacks putting down this layer of love for Charlie and his music

In the hospital I had to indeed smile though my heart was aching and I sang the LIMELIGHT theme back to him one last time.
Mar 11 · 50
ADAGIO
ADAGIO

the music tiptoes through the room
careful not to wake the sleeping

photographs of the dead
their lives trapped behind glass

amongst vast fields of wallpaper violets
stopping to caress the singular beauty

of the rose dreaming
in its chipped vase

of the garden where it was born
curtains led by a breeze

into their dance gazing upon the green
that unfurls about the house

the music wounded now by a tear
that grows upon her cheek note by note

a woman staring into space
the cat asleep upon her toes

the music retreating back into the mahogany cabinet
curling itself into its circle

a whirlpool of black shellac

the music lost in the silence
only its breathing audible now

in the runoff groove
the needle returning to its proper place

with a click the last light
stealing across the lawn
AN ORDINARY DAY IN 1863

from out of the silence
a bell's voice
steps out on the air

shattering the frozen blue
of a sky cluttered with
the shriek of seagulls

a tiny church
packed to the brim
with humans singing hymns

the dead talking
to themselves
all the time

the living
never listening to
what they have to say

praising this
the newest
of days

a morning
opening to
the future

a leaf falling
on a broken grave
a lichen-eaten  name

two aliens
observing all
as it happens

discovering
and quoting
Shakespeare to each other

"Lord
what fools
these mortals be!"
Mar 10 · 29
MANY CHILDREN AGO
MANY CHILDREN AGO

an old broken doll
remembers
her first Christmas

many children ago
now, only the rain
plays with her hair

*

On my way to school that day to teach haiku to de kids when I passed this lonely lost doll and wondered what she would be thinking and how time would be marked out by a doll. This was the example I wrote on the board...
WILD WAVES CRASHING
ABOUT THE OLD HEAD OF KINSALE

I scramble
into your bed

like I'd do when I was 2
or four or more.

Rub your back for you
(you my 95 year old child )
until sleep gathers you in.

Just like you did for me
when I was your little boy.

I listen to you as slowly slowly
your dreams capture you.

I love your each and every breath.

And when you awake
two hours later

there I am
still rubbing your back.

You smile and tell me
your mother would do the same

when you were a tiny boy
waves crashing about the Old Head of Kinsale.

So here we all are
the back rubbers of the ages

all in the one place
sharing different times

comforting soothing
easing all the pain

waves crashing about the Old Head of Kinsale.  

*
I would rub his back for him and the warmth and friction and affection would calm him down and he would drift off to sleep but then if I stopped he would begin wake up again and start to cough...so I continued for two hours and he finally woke up rested. He was surprised to see me still there rubbing his back for him. Said his mother would do that for him when he was small and I said you used to do it for me when I was small. So there in that one magical moment were all the backrubbers paying no attention at all to the different times and all time became this one moment.

His mother used always be terrified of him lying on his belly and looking over the edge of the cliff at the furious waves eating the land. He would then run down to Mrs. Fitz who had a big gramophone and she would always play him and he never tired of it...the instrumental OVER THE WAVES which would become in time THE LOVLIEST NIGHT OF THE YEAR as sung my Maria Lanza.

He would often sing it to me or play it on his harmonica or accordion and I was enthralled by it and him and amazed that he could have been a small boy just as I was!

I simply adored him and he was the loveliest man and the most gentle of souls.
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