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Donall Dempsey Nov 2019
HIS WIFE TELLS HIM SHE LOVES HIM

She spoke
like a stone

thrown
into a pond

the ripples of her
((((((thought))))))

spreading all over
his mind

like words writ large
on the air

as if one could
pluck them from there.

Then, sealing it with a smile:
she retreated into silence

closing the door
of her voice

behind her.
***

I wanted to speak not just of the words said but more their effect on me and how they sank into my psyche and entered my unconsciousness and how they were greeted there by my mind....not just sound but the sense of the sound and how the words won me and owned me....how I was transformed by them and by the alchemy of her love made a better me than I could ever hope to be.
387 · Aug 2016
BAA YOURSELF!
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
BAA YOURSELF!

A cloud grazing
upon a hillside.

A sheep genuflecting
before a tuft of grass.

The Curragh spreads itself
before me

like a legendary
saint's cloak.

The cloud now visiting
the old English graveyard

stopping every now & then
to read a lichen eaten inscription.

The long dead bask
in the morning sunshine.

The sheep has found another
tuft of grass as nice

if not nicer than
the last one.

The cloud has left me
alone with my thoughts.

"We remember you. . . "
the Dead whisper.

"We sheltered you
In a broken tomb..."

"So you did..." I tell them ". . .so you did!"

"When the rains came...
...you used to come

& read to us
when studying for your Leaving."

"I liked to talk to the skies!" I said.

"You never got to finish
North and South. . ."

"Another time..." I said.
The furze burning yellow.

"Your sadness is...hurting us!"
the Dead whisper.

I leaving them gazing
at an infinity.

Their eyes upon the ever
changing skies.

"Baa!" a sheep comments.

"Baa!" it says again in case
I didn't hear it the first time.

I almost expected it
to say: "Humbug!"

"Baa. . .yourself!"
I tell it.
387 · Jul 2021
IF PARADISE IS HALF AS NICE
Donall Dempsey Jul 2021
IF PARADISE IS HALF AS NICE

Yawns
into my morning

wearing only my
Edvard Munch’s THE SCREAM

Tee-shirt
(so that’s where it’s gone)

which is a mere
miniskirt on her

scratching a well tanned
behind.

All smeared mascara
all Cleopatra eyes
all mad crazy hair
mad as a bag of spiders

dancing
(sleepily to)

Amen Corner
on the summer radio.

Takes my toast
from my poised hand

takes a bite
crunchily...noisily

then puts it back
in exactly the same position.

Pats me
on my head

“Mmmmm.... thanks Dad! ”

“Stolen toast is always
twice as nice! ”

Sings softly
swaying to herself

“If Paradise is half
as nice

“As the Heaven that you take me
to...”

(Ooops...slops
spills her orange juice)

“...who needs Paradise? ”
“I’d rather..have you! ”

Then suddenly excitedly
talking to boyfriend No.22

on her little pink
glitzy mobile.

Guess my little girl
has(gulp) grown up!
Donall Dempsey May 2015
I am lying under
the weight of the sky

its darkness
a solid thing

I try to claw
my way through

a totally tangible
terrible thing

drowning in air
I this human fish

gasping for
time

altering me molecule
by molecule

until I am
become

the statue of
my self.

Time has gone
AWOL.

An ocean laps
at my toes

like a Kraken
pretending it's a kitten.

It brings me gifts
stinky seaweed...dead starfish

lays them
at my feet.

Stars blown across 2 a.m.
by a sudden squall.

Time is switched
on again.

"Good ocean!" I tell it.
"Good ocean...good ocean!"

I pat it
like a pet.

A wave rolls over
wants its tummy tickled.

I watch my dead daughter
bring me the sea to see

cupping it
in her palms.

"I've found
an...ocean!"
she smiles.

An ocean slipping
between her fingers.

The rain falls through me
( someone is crying ).

The rain falls through me
( someone is crying ).

"Shhhhh!" shushes the shingle.

"Shhhhh...shhhhh!" it shushes.
386 · Oct 2016
AND DID THESE FEET...
Donall Dempsey Oct 2016
AND DID THESE FEET...

Jesus is wearing
scuffed sneakers

the hood down.

Jesus, he's
one handsome dude.

Obviously a man
of colour.

Second Comings
are just like that difficult

2nd album.

Surely the critics
won't crucify me again

here
in an American shopping mall.

Some a cappella  busking
should go down well.

The remix of
BLESSED ARE.

But it's a SIGN OF
THE TIMES

he's shot
as Prince rings out.
"Made in China."

A hoodie with

Jesus reaching for
the Good Book.

The white cop
who shot

claims he didn't know
what he was

reaching for...

didn't look like
no saviour to me.

Also he was obviously
a man of colour.

Blood pools
like a halo

around his
dear head.

Most people reach for
their mobile phones.

Only one passerby
kneels and prays.
And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon Englands mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land

Beneath the poem Blake inscribed a quotation from the Bible:

"Would to God that all the Lords people were Prophets"
Numbers XI.ch 29.v


And all the Arts of Life they changed into the Arts of Death in Albion./...

— Jerusalem Chapter 3. William Blake
385 · Sep 2016
TEAC/HER
Donall Dempsey Sep 2016
TEAC/HER

I taught
my daughter

as a dutiful father
her ABC's and

her OneTwoThree's

but as my daughter
she taught her father

how to see a world
as newly new

as 3 year old's
. . .do!

And I much more
the richer for her

world's view.
385 · Dec 2015
THE WHO OF WHAT WE ARE
Donall Dempsey Dec 2015
THE WHO OF WHAT WE ARE

The fog strips us
right down to our

voices
only

leaves out the shape or
the skin we're in &

even what ***
we are

we lose society's references
how it elects to see us

stumble around in
this cotton wool

& somehow now
we re-emerge

our selves
tentatively again

you most definitely  woman
I made man again

white skin
embracing
black skin

nothing now
but

love
Me and my Jamaican missus getting lost in the fog as if we had been erased and finding each other again. We had both being spat at because we were a mixed race couple by both white and black.. All we knew is that, we were...love. Love has no colour...no shape...love just...is!
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
Just shy of
almost 21 inches high

she perches on my arm
sobs into my shirt cuff.

Her 4th birthday looms large
for her

& us
...the big 04!

She cries she doesn't
want to grow old & die!

Fears her birthday as
the Grim Reaper himself

calling
in person.

"Birthdays..." I console her
are just like breathing

in&out;
stop 'em & - you're gone!

You don't have birthdays then
no more you!

Birthdays are how you
keep making you

happen!

My little eyass
all tears & snot

brightens up at this
sniffs & sniffles.

I tell her
you are the sky

all endless & blue

time the wings
that lets you fly.

Death, snickers
standing by my shoulder

"Ahhh...ya old haggard ya
that's a nice pretty lie

to dry
a nestling's tears."

I watch her fly
into the endless blue

of her
self.

Smile as she
embraces her now.

I hop on one
leg hoppty hop.

"HOPPY BIRD DAY!"
I shout

against the glare
of time and sun.

She squeals
excited now

as to the who
she is

going to
be

Both of us
hopping down

the path together.


Her granny had just died on her birthday so she sort of put two and two together and got 5 and a half and thought that she too was doomed to die on her own day of days.
385 · Jan 2019
MORNING'S MINION
Donall Dempsey Jan 2019
MORNING'S MINION

The kestrel
threw its shadow

on the path
that ran away from me

vanishing into the sun
before it could enter my eyes.

I saw and did not see it.

I had only ever seen it
in words

the poet's lines
hovering in my mind

until here upon my arm
in a football ground

deigning to allow us
in its presence

gazing into
and beyond

my tiny humanity.
***

Visiting West Ham United's original ground with a class we encountered a man flying a kestrel whilst the grass was being sown. Apparently the iconic shape of the hawk becomes imprinted on the bird's brain and it triggers the right flight response rather than "Hey....let's gorge on seed!" After that kestrel and man were off to Highbury to done the same for the Arsenal.

It was like looking into the eyes of something from a very distant past....to whom all time was the same and this awed man was nothing but a speck on its vision that simply didn't interest it. It was kind of itself and owned the world.
385 · Nov 2017
GOING TASADAY
Donall Dempsey Nov 2017
GOING TASADAY

The Tasadays
(remnants of a Stone Age culture)        

recently discovered in the Philippines

have no words
for war, hate or weapons

but favour
the communicative power

of skin

indulging in constant
warm enfolding embraces

loving touches.

So, this Tuesday
let's be Tasadays

hark back
to Stone Age practice

and indulge in

the process of osmosis

soaking each other up

skin to skin.
*******

Oh how I yearn for...hunger for this woman's skin...a touch mutating into a caresse...transforming into a kiss...a kiss becoming...!
We spend hours just holding each other...the skin of the other offering love comfort and security and sensuality. Ever since we met in Stratford and inadvertently our thighs touched when seated together...that one touch conveyed all that could be said for now and forever. In that one touch we had everything we needed to know about each other and the rest of our bodies just had to catch up!
384 · Dec 2015
SNACK ATTACK
Donall Dempsey Dec 2015
"Mmmm...strawberries &: curry sauce!"
she yum yums
the twins kicking inside her
383 · Feb 2018
FOLLOW THE LEADER
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
FOLLOW THE LEADER

She is the creator
of worlds.

She, being 3
does not know how

a world
can be.

A world is only
how she makes it.

Daily she
creates it in her own

image.

Music is a thing
that dances in the blood.

A butterfly is a miracle
she is just

as yet unaccustomed to.

A flower is a piece
of living magic.

Her dolls speak to her
( in her own voice ).

Ten tulips bow to her
she bows to them.

A daddy is a somebody
who knows nothing and

who has to be taught
everything.

She knows there is nothing
that can not be.

Facts are replaced by imagination
...the art of seeing.

A purple sun shines
in a yellow yellow world.

See! She has
drawn it so.

And so
it is so.

And I, her disciple
follow the little leader

as she teaches me
how to be

the world that she
can see

( half invention
  half discovery )

as she leads
me back to

the land of childhood
I believed I had

long ago
lost forever.
383 · Jan 2019
WORLDS AT ONCE
Donall Dempsey Jan 2019
WORLDS AT ONCE

I watch you
sleeping in the mirror

& touch
your image

& you echo it.

Only your laughter
inhabiting both

worlds at once

on the other side of nowhere

...a dream away.

The mirror laughs
in its sleep.
383 · Aug 2022
GOOD HOUSEKEEPING
Donall Dempsey Aug 2022
GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

Not stated
( though it’s understood )

she will not say a word

like dust
swept under a rug.

Good
Housekeeping.

His anger
ripens

into the bruise
she wears upon her skin

a jewellery
of fear

written upon pale flesh
his hieroglyph of hatred.

Love’s lustre
tarnished from the first

the tattoo
of boot and fist.

Holds her hand
under the grill

until her eyes bulge
gulls screaming overhead.

The bilge
of his vile

vomiting insults
upon her scared face.

“****...****...****”
his screams in a rut

matching each word
to each rising fist

a blow by blow
account.

He the liturgist
in the nightly rites

of violence
uglier than can be imagined.

Lilies cower
in a vase.

He the high priest
of her despair.

An ugly bruise
upon her soul.

Her eyes now
null and void

slit wrists
upon polished table tops

in a room
now sunlit...now unlit.
383 · Jul 2019
I NEVER HAS SEEN SNOW
Donall Dempsey Jul 2019
I NEVER HAS SEEN SNOW

I lived my life as if
I had been written
into a Barbara Pym novel

so prim and proper lady I
my soul smoother'd in camphor
yet my life...wot the mot hath got

and here I be
curled upon the Persian rug
in the foetal position

being born
into my dying
as it were

me an elaborate motif
beside an exquisite phoenix
oh the warp and woof of me

so this is death
rather nice
as these things go

not too much( ouch )pain
more easeful and slow and
when ya gotta go...ya...gotta go

rather like that Manx man
was it Brown...or...something
"...if thou couldst empty..." oh what is it?

"...all thy self of self
to be a shell dishabited..."
bit like ha ha that...innit( agghh )

wonder what an anthropologist
from...say...Borneo
would make of me

I'd guess I'd be
so quaintly ever so English
so cue-cumber sandwich

settling down with a Pimms and a Pym
being one of those Excellent Women
**** this dying....haven't even read the book

only got as far as
p.15...how mean
the great unread

the words sticking in my brain
something being "...a welcoming
sort of place...

with a bright entrance..."
as if Mr. Death were saying
"Why...that's what I am!"

"Yeah, yeah...sure sure'"
I answer all Film Noir
another of life's little pleasures

the stuffed bird
stares at me sternly
deigns to speak

"Now that you are going to be
as dead as me...may I
have a word?"

it coughs unaccustomed
as it is
to public speech

"It's not so bad
being dead
it's being stuffed that hurts!"

the cat joins in
with its customary "I'm starving...
ya couldn't open this tin?"

now the cat howls
oh to have opposable thumbs
or a can opener at least

the stuffed bird and the cat and I
singing along to Beverly Kenny
smiling from the record sleeve

"Oh this used to be
my favourite as a girl
'I Never Has Seen Snow."

"Oh the girl I used to be
she ain't me no more!"
I could always carry a tune

the stuffed bird can't
sing for nuts but
the cat's got a good tenor voice

me...I'm letting go
the world is walking out on me
the world don't want to know me no more

I've even forget
can you Adam and Eve it
how to spell... fo'c's'le

my garden looks in
the window at me
well here's a howdy do

I never was '...a lovesome thing..."
even when young
"God wot!"

hee hee hee T.E. Brown
appears to invade the mind
when one is dying

and what would that Borneo
anthropologist make of that
or my love of Jazz

grabbing the music
by the tail as it shape-shifts
improvises world upon world and beyond

oh to be dying
in a smokey jazz club
thoughts climbing a spiral staircase of smoke

"All that is...is not!"
now I wonder where
I got ha ha that

would the man from Borneo know
that is Phil Woods on
the Quincey Jones arrangement

"Oh I love sax me!
never could say the same
for ***

well - enough of that
better get on with
my death

and what better way to go
than with Beverly singing low
always thought I looked a bit like her

she smiles that record sleeve smile
the one I tried to sculpt
upon my own features

"I saw a new horizon
and a road to take me
where I wanted to be...needed to be.... took"

"God! I'm only starving!" yowls the cat
"Ya couldn't feed me before ya go...no
**** those...**** those cans!"

"Oh ****...oh ****!" she purrs
the record's...the record's...the record's
stuck
382 · Dec 2018
SKIN & BLISTER
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018
SKIN & BLISTER

We grin & grimace
drop candle wax onto our fingertips

as the storm
rattles our window pane

angry that we won’t let it in.

All night
it rages

toppling chimney
pots with a crash

smashing slates
it strips from rooftops

as we safe
giggle & peel off

our waxen
fingerprints

hold them
(tiny whirlpools)  
in our palms

those whorls
of self

unique to each.

I wearing my sister’s
fingerprints

she... wearing mine.
*******

SKIN & BLISTER is Cockney rhyming slang for sister. We were so close we could have worn each other fingerprints and as a little boy I was delighted to do so. I was her and me was she. This I guess is something we did to amuse ourselves before...telly arrived.

*******
381 · May 2016
THE FOREVER OF IT ALL
Donall Dempsey May 2016
THE FOREVER OF IT ALL

Every day
the sea

came to see us

waiting patiently
just outside the

little yellow house
an enamel brooch

pinned upon
a morning's horizon.

We listening to
a seashell telling tales

of the hidden ocean
inside us

in the voice of the blood
journeying from tip to toe.

"Shhhhhh....sushhhhh!"
"Shhhhhh....hushhhhh!"

said the sunlight
entangled in the leaves

as if the sea were
throwing its voice.

A seagull laughed loudly
at the forever of it all.

An orange grew quietly
upon a tree.
381 · Apr 2017
THE SCENT OF LAUGHTER
Donall Dempsey Apr 2017
THE SCENT OF LAUGHTER

Their laughter  gathers them
together

forehead to forehead
as if one being

the world seen
from the one mind.

Their laughter entangled
in the scent of roses

that rises now
from a past long since

gone
like a half forgotten fairy tale

the scent scent still present
to his remembrance

as if that then
was still now.

What are they laughing at...?

He fails to remember

only their nearness
the scent of roses.
381 · Apr 2016
... A FOREIGN COUNTRY
Donall Dempsey Apr 2016
. . .A FOREIGN COUNTRY

The world is gone.

That world does not exist.

Yet, we:
persist. . .

try to step back
in time...to a time

that is -
no longer.

Houses, even trees and a hill
have vanished in time.

As if Time were
a virus...a disease

called
Life.

One walks through
one's past.

The ghost of who
you used to be.

You had left this place
so that you

could become
the you

you are
now.

The other you has only been
the means

to get you to
this present you.

Look...the Future opens
at your footstep.

The 'you" you have yet
to be

...beckons.

Walk into your self.

Do not be afraid.

Or, if afraid, then
only a little.
381 · Jan 2018
ITS OWN GOOD SELF
Donall Dempsey Jan 2018
ITS OWN GOOD SELF

no God just
the sweet rain blesses me
with its own good self

a robin
unaware
that he's my prayer

the miracle of sunlight
playing
with a kitten

wind sings
in a choir
of trees
381 · Jul 2015
TUSCALOOSA
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
When I woke up
my name...was gone.

As if it had jumped ship
took a train and

ended up incognito
in Tuscaloosa

as an unsuccessful
travelling salesman.

Who the hell I was
...I couldn't tell you.

It was as if
I was being

slowly erased.

Things too
started to lose

their names
looking at me

startled like
people

shocked to see
themselves

suddenly in the ****
walking down the High Street.

Only a telephone
remembered its name

and started talking to me
in a high shrill voice.

"Ring ring ringringring!"
it said.

"Ring ring ringringring!"
it said again.

But although I
remembered its name

I didn't remember
what it was for.

So it just rang and rang
itself

into
silence.

"Shut it!"
I shouted silently.

"Honey..?"
somebody who

claimed to be
my wife

( what ever that
was )

handed me words
like hieroglyphics

written upon
the air.

"Tusaloosa!
I said.

"Wot...?"
she hieroglyphed.

"Tuscaloosa...that's
my name!"

I told her
for want of something

better to say.

"Tuscaloosa!"
I kept saying

trying to make it
make sense.

But it didn't.

Nothing..didn't

My wife started weeping
into the telephone thing

and that's how I
came to be here.

Wherever here
...is?
He had a mini stroke...he recovered but at the time he was looking at the tornado hit Tuscaloosa and remember his childhood sweetheart of years gone by and hoping that she was ok and the name or the sound lodged in his mind and whilst everything lost its name( including him )TUSCALOOSA became the name for everything. A similar thing happened to another friend and she was reduced down to the one word and everything became "THINGY!" She also recovered and became her self once again. This was how he described the episode to me when he had recovered ....him self!

He would often hum his favourite Dylan song YOU'RE GONNA MAKE ME LONESOME WHEN YA GO and replace Ashtabula of the song with Tuscaloosa. So his memory took over and supplied the one word that remembered his old love back in the days of his youth.
And as Hopkins puts it...

" O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne'er hung there. ""
380 · Oct 2016
MONKEY NUTS
Donall Dempsey Oct 2016
MONKEY NUTS

He’d chosen
the mask himself  

cried for it for
Halloween

but now
coming the witching hour

(& the eagerly awaited trick or treating)  

he refuses
to wear it

explains
(in all seriousness)  


“When I puts it on
I scares myself! ”

All night
Death on the door knocks

but we don’t answer
it

we hide inside
& eat loads & loads of

monkey nuts.
379 · Nov 2016
TAKING MY ISLAND FOR A WALK
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
TAKING MY ISLAND FOR A WALK

The bell tolls
& I take

my island
for a walk.

Through London
each of us

taking their island
for an early morning stroll.

Island jostles island
in a rainy bus queque.

We all so
near but never

touching

inches yet
universes apart.

Each locked in
their own consciousness.

Each in the spotlight
of their own being.

"Where were you on
the 8th of October?"

"Where will you be
if Trump wins the day?"

Better not to think of such
things.

"...very very frightening me!"
a passing car radio comments.

Every so often one
island nods to another.

We all so alone
in our prisons of self.

Consciousness both
the curse & the miracle.

Lovers attempt to lash
their islands together.

Only an illusion
...alone....together.

We all shipwrecked
on the desert island of ourselves.

I leave my desert island
off the leash.

And for one glorious second
am neither man nor beast.

Turn off my mind and
float downstream.

Laugh sarcastically as my island
wanders down each chartered street

so bleak
so Blakean.

"The mind-forged manacles I hear..'



"I am a little world made cunningly
Of elements and an angelic sprite..."

Dr. Donne whispers in my ear.

Ahhh John you will always be
the president of me.

I so entirely
tired of  my self.

"The Donald is
the 45th!"

I plead the 5th.

Board a space shuttle
to escape a Trump planet.
Donall Dempsey May 2018
YET THIS WILL GO ONWARD THE SAME

( for Jennifer Mass )

wave after wave
of earth
the furrows touch the horizon

I follow my uncle
following the plough
Dolly the horse laughing

I could live
in this moment
as once I did

but ths time
for always
live in its forever

I have stolen
the moment
from time

hid it in my mind
after all
it is mine

I command the moment
to "uuPPTHERE..move on!"
or "woeOOOH...slow down!"

I check it
with a "chUCK!" or "tttSK!"
it stops and shakes its head

harness bells in the breeze
the only sound
in this world

wave after wave
of earth
the furrows touch the horizon
"He that by the plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive."

Italian Proverb.

The title is taken of course from Hardy's In Time of ‘The Breaking of Nations’
which I learnt as a schoolboy way back in the day.

                        I
Only a man harrowing clods
    In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
    Half asleep as they stalk.

                       II
Only thin smoke without flame
    From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onward the same
    Though Dynasties pass.

                       III
Yonder a maid and her wight
    Come whispering by:
War’s annals will cloud into night
    Ere their story die.

Jennifer's mum...my aunt Peggy took the first colour photographs we had ever seen on a visit back to her home in Cork all the way from mythical Chicago. We were all amazed to see that Uncle Michael's green corduroy trousers were actually GREEN as if we needed to see a photo to tell us what our own eyes could see...but a photo made them more real. I always remember tracing my finger along the green furrows of his corduroy as well as tagging along behind him as he ploughed with Dolly and all his commands which if I copied...Dolly only laughed at...she was only in love with my uncle's voice...as I was...he was a great teller of tales and could make up worlds of his own all on his own to my great surprise and delight.
I still follow in his furrows as the tilled land goes on forever as does this one stolen moment. I remember how hard it was to lift a leg with the amount of earth stuck to it made it almost impossible to make the next footstep. I tried to copy everything about him...his gait...his tone of voice...his tongue stuck firmly in his cheek...his lovely laugh.
379 · Aug 2017
LIVING ON THE CEILING
Donall Dempsey Aug 2017
LIVING ON THE CEILING

crisp white sheets
gleam white
I don't even know I'm dead

I'm on the ceiling
like an abandoned
Christmas balloon

the next tick of
the clock goes on with-
-out me

"Hey, it's...kinda groovy being
dead. .!"
an answer without a question

from my fly's eye view
I can see
the doctor has a growing bald spot

there's that nice new nurse
she's so cute
this is her first death

I can see her thinking
her words carved out of the air
"...don'tdiedon'tdiedon'tdie..."

Death is a free ride man
"...goin' all the way?///...sure am!"
"Hop in. . !"

"Ok, everyone stand back..!"
then the pain floods back &
I'm back...****...in this body

"Whoa...we nearly lost
you there good buddy!"
doc scratches his bald spot

the nice new nurse
her tears stop
half way down her cheek

I cursed my luck
I liked living
on the ceiling
Donall Dempsey Apr 2017
AGAINST THE WEIGHT OF A FEATHER

9/11
crashes into Maths class.

The boys whoop and jeer
treat it as a video game.

"Ohs" and "Wows!"
as death unfurls.

They laugh with glee.

Yes, this is a video game.
For real.

We watch aghast
at what appear to be

people jumping
rather than...

the unimaginable is
happening.

Fractions and equivalences
are left behind.

What we are seeing does not
add up.

Numbly we
continue on

- the boys still hyper -

Ancient History.

A jackal-headed God
holds the scales

weighing us
against the weight

of a feather.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2015
"Heavens above!"
I call God: "Hold please...
your prayer is very important to us."

I'm put on hold
listened to heavenly harps for what
seems like an eternity

an angel finally
gets back to me
"God's not in!"

well...I be damed!
"When will He return?"
...the line goes dead...

"Hey dude..!" grins the devil
"My main man...like...
what can I do you for?"
378 · Aug 2017
IT’S YOU? ISN’T IT?
Donall Dempsey Aug 2017
IT’S YOU? ISN’T IT?

Facebook messages me
to phone home as soon

as possible.

Our home phone is down.
Other phones just ring and ring.

Or lead me up a cul-de-sac
of leaving a message

to a ghostly  mechanical
voice.

Messages answering messages.
No actual real live people involved.

Finally I do
what I should have done

all along
((((((( call you.))))))

So, I do.

“Hiya Bud, can you call me?
Something bad seems to have happened!
Get back to me as soon as you can!”

You do not call back.

You lie there not
listening to me.

You never get back
to me.

Never will.

It’s you?
Isn’t it?

The bad thing that has
happened?

Death listening at the end of the line.

Saying not a word.
378 · Feb 2017
"AHHHHH...MEN!"
Donall Dempsey Feb 2017
"AHHHHH...MEN!"

Mary's mobile
bleeps.

Text.
( First 3 notes of SHAFT ).

It was the angel
Gabriel.

"Yo Mary babeeee!
Guess who's gonna be

the mother of God!"

She's all fingers
and thumbs.

Can't get used to
this new technology.

Preferred the blinding
flash of light

floaty dudes
who were a bit of alright.

She just sends
a "?" back.

Quick as a flash
Gabe texts her back.

"Hey girllll
it's you!"

She texts a curt
!!!NO WAY!!!

Mary panics: " Jesus Christ
I'm way too young to be

having the Son of God!"

She smothers her mobile
under a pillow.

Hoping that it will
just go away.

"BleepbleepbloodyBLEEP!"
it muffles messages.

When she dares to look next
there are like. . .!

69 unread
texts.

"I swear to God!"
she tells herself.
"I'm not having it!"

She deletes
the lot.

Un-friends Gabe & God>

Uses a word that isn't
nice!

"Good riddance to a bad lot!"
she convinces herself.

"I want to be my own
woman!"

Puts on the scarletest lippy.
Cleopatra's her eyes.

Hits the town.
Paints it red.

Ends up in a seedy
karaoke joint

G&T; in one hand
mike in the other

belting out:

"Once I was afraid...
I was petrified. . !"
How the Annunciation would have panned out in today's technical world of mores and morals and mobiles.
Donall Dempsey May 2016
. . .leçons de ténèbres. . .

The forced march
from concentration camp

to concentration camp

from finally
Flohan to Terezin

the day before
- the war ends.

His soul is strong
the body weakened.

"Do you know Robert Desnos..."
"I am Robert Desnos..."

They recognise him
from his Man Ray photo.

Death allows him
the grace to die

as himself
once more

not this
nameless number

an animal.

He holds a rose
they've given him.

He holds on it it
even when it dies.

Refusing to let go
of a beauty

he can hold
he can touch.

His 'head full of
transformations."

The alchemy of thought.

As if a world
could be created

recreated
from it.

This rose is
cremated with him.

He is that
"unthinkable" thing

" a soul
without a body"

a dream
of words.

I speak him

to remember him
into being.
***

Leçons de ténèbres, literally translated lessons of darkness, is a genre of French baroque music which developed from the polyphonic lamentations settings for the tenebrae service of Renaissance composers such as Sermisy, Gesualdo, Tallis, and Tomás Luis de Victoria into virtuoso solo chamber music.

The tenebrae service uses the text of the Lamentations of Jeremiah, originally deploring the Siege of Jerusalem (587 BC) and subsequent desolation of the city, but applied allegorically to the three days of mourning for Christ between his crucifixion and resurrection.

Les Ténèbres and Ténèbres.o  Ténèbres are poems by Robert Desnos.

Leçons de ténèbres, literally translated lessons of darkness, is a genre of French baroque music which developed from the polyphonic lamentations settings for the tenebrae service of Renaissance composers such as Sermisy, Gesualdo, Tallis, and Tomás Luis de Victoria into virtuoso solo chamber music.

The tenebrae service uses the text of the Lamentations of Jeremiah, originally deploring the Siege of Jerusalem (587 BC) and subsequent desolation of the city, but applied allegorically to the three days of mourning for Christ between his crucifixion and resurrection.

https://youtu.be/4C8yLai1tHw

Les Ténèbres and Ténèbres.o  Ténèbres are poems by Robert Desnos.

***
Early 1945. In the Czech town of Terezín, a group of prisoners are taken out of their barracks and loaded into a truck. The prisoners are silent, knowing the fate that awaits them; they are on their way to the gas chambers. Soon they arrive and are unloaded from the truck. Silently, they begin to move toward the gas chamber, the mood crushed under the weight of knowing what is inevitable. Even the guards are silent, having sent countless others down the same long walk.

Suddenly, a man jumps out of line. In an animated manner, he grabs the hand of the person in front of him and begins to read their palm. He says he sees lines for a long life, many grandchildren, and abundant joy. Soon, a person nearby offered his palm, and again the soothsayer forecasts success, happiness, and a long life. The other prisoners come to life, eagerly thrusting their palms towards the man, and for each of them he foresees long and happy lives.

The guards become confused. They have no idea what to make of this, even less of an idea of what to do. Their assignment is routine; they know the outcome and so did the prisoners. The man, a prisoner much like all the ones before that they had sent to their deaths, is crossing some line for them. The palm reader is creating a new reality; he is changing what everyone knew. He is so effective that the guards no longer have the will to go through with the executions. When faced with the stark proof that the people they were taking to their deaths were in fact living, and loving beings, they flinch.  They order the prisoners back onto the truck and took them back to the barracks.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2020
WATER'S LAUGHTER
( For Jan on her birthday )

She laughs
like water

pours herself
into my embrace

takes whatever shape
(cuddle hug Indian ******
statue Kamasutra)

within these
arms

I kiss her
with a love

that cannot
harm her

me the container
of who I am

holding her love
like water's laughter.
377 · Sep 2017
UNCLE MICHAEL - ALIAS GOD
Donall Dempsey Sep 2017
UNCLE MICHAEL - ALIAS GOD

His hands
(tobacco stained)

twisted & gnarled

knotted like an alive
piece of wood

scrawled gestures
across my mind

as the sick calf
bucked in his arms
& his quiet strength

- calmed:

'Shhhhhh... shhhhhhh...****...****! '
he crooned

& the sound
soothed.

And the veins
(like vines)

ran up & down
his arms
pumping crude life

like a sudden sketch
to suggest the gist of
rather than the meaning of things.

And he walked
(& I ran)

towards Granny's garden
(like God tending Eden)

& the gate(a little hoarse)
sighed at his hand and

the leaves murmured
(like worshippers in a church congregation)

& the sunlight
genuflected through the trees

and the trees wore socks & apples.

A tablecloth was laid
on a logan berry bush.

And the young tree
gave herself to him

broke tenderly in his hand
and, the knife whistled &
out of the branch came a man.

And he told me
(& I believed him
'cos he was good as God & strong)

that the little wooden man
(the silent statue)

had been waiting
(all the time all ready made)

waiting to be released
from his prison of wood.

'All things...'
he whispered
'all things are
waiting for you
to call them.'

'Call them to come out...'

'Awake them...'

'Create them...! '

The rhododendrons
were blue with amazement

- at this revelation -

a dragonfly walked
upon the water.

A butterfly became
infatuated with a flower.

Me...?

I watched
as his hands
talked...

...explaining things that
could not be...said.

And he took
my hand in his

and I understood

flowed

like a little stream

into his big river

felt God
(close)
near at hand

and...smiling.
377 · Oct 2019
NO MOON AT ALL
Donall Dempsey Oct 2019
NO MOON AT ALL

She cries because
there is no moon

in her window.

And can she sleep
with you and mummy

because....
there is a moon

in your window.

She drifts to sleep
in the harbour of our arms.

The moon asks
"Can I go now?"

I nod a yes.
Watch it tiptoe away.

Careful not to
wake her.
377 · Jul 2019
GOD GOES FOR A WALK
Donall Dempsey Jul 2019
GOD GOES FOR A WALK

God goes
for a walk.

it is the depths of Winter
but, at a whim

he makes it
...Spring.

Because.
He can.

I also, as it happens
have gone for a walk

& am surprised by
the sudden change of

the weather. . ?
...whatever!

He is wearing a yellow
gangster style fedora.

He looks like Marlon Brando
being The Godfather.

He sports the brightest of yellow
waistcoats

which compliments
the purple shirt...purple trousers.

He strides along with His
Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick

whistling the music of
The Spheres.

The World bows
before him.

He is well pleased
with Himself, un-

-til: He encounters me
coming towards him

dressed in a gangster style
yellow fedora

the brightest of yellow waistcoats
not to mention the purple shirt...purple trousers.

I, also, possess
a Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick.

We nod politely
saying nothing but...

He is miffed at me
wearing His outfit and

I also miffed at Him
wearing mine!

We pass each other
God & creature.

And God...**** if He doesn't
make it Winter

on the very next step.

He was always
a Jealous God.
***

Two of my friends found themselves in that awful party situation where they turned up in the same frock and same hairstyle and same makeup. One would have thought it was done on purpose or that they had indeed been cloned. They had the good grace to laugh it off and pretended they were twins! This made me wonder what would happen if God decided to embody himself and take a walk about his world just so to see what it was like from our point of view. He choose the most outlandish style of dress( not knowing that it was exactly what I have been known to wear on many occasions )thus creating the ensuing fracas when our paths cross. Thus it is that a poem is created from the party/frock happening and an idle whim of mine as I find myself out for a perambulation. Ahhh...the mind of the walking poet...one would have thought that I would have seen a host of golden daffodils but instead into my ever walking mind came this thought. Mea Culpa!
376 · Nov 2020
HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR
Donall Dempsey Nov 2020
HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR

Auden & Isherwood
strolling in China

trying to soak up
The War

by the process of
osmosis

staining it
with words

observe
(at first what seems)  

green horses

but turns out to be
only white horses

painted green
for camouflage purposes.

That evening in Canton
also offering them

the futility of two men

trying to put a rat
into a bottle

a woman who lived
in a beehive

pouring water
into a sieve.

War knocks
over the inkwell

spills
into men’s lives

covers the white pages
of their wishes

makes the idea of Hell
...all   too   real.

The spilt ink eating
the words of men

who send letters home
and die in pain

never to return

only in others' memories
& useless dreams

marble memorials

while green horses
champ the grasses

the bridles & the bits
clanking & glinting

in the hot sun
of Now.

as this last lost evening
dies.
376 · Apr 2018
THE SUPREME SURREALIST
Donall Dempsey Apr 2018
THE SUPREME SURREALIST

****** has had
too much.

He has passed
his Art Diploma.

He is very drunk
and happy.

His paintings sell
quite well.

He meets a nice
Jewish girl

gets her in
the family way

does the right thing
by her.

He has 7 children
over seven years.

Dotes on his two
sets of twins.

He is happy.

Changed his style
the one Surrealist everybody

knows
he is interested in History.

Devours books.

The Second World War
doesn't happen.

It's an "...a what if. . ."

People thought it was
all going to blow up back then.

How the history books
got it wrong.

"How many shall pass on and how many shall come to be.."

A ****** now will sell
for quite a bit

at the time of his death
oh...a million or more.

He and Dali
the two most recognisable

moustaches
in the world.

He is a big
Alan Ginsberg fan.

****** dead in '68
there isn't a dry eye in the house

It is the day of Atonement.

His son says
Kaddish.

"No more to say and nothing to weep for!"
Maybe in a parallel universe things take a different turn and what has happened...doesn't happen. It all centers on ****** passing his Art Diploma and not being destitute and almost a *****. One flick of the history switch and "all shall be well and all shall be well."

The;switching rails can direct or guide the train, either on straight path or on the diverging path which is established by a curved rail line.

The railroad switch can only be in one of the two positions at a time. If it is locked the train will change the track. If it is open, it will go straight-through.
And so the Second World War Express does not hurtle through at 19.39.
One hardly notices the switch.

However an experienced traveler of the mind can make out with the sound of the train, that indeed the track is changed.

"No more to say and nothing to weep for!" is a line form Ginsberg's "Kaddish for Naomi Ginsberg (1894–1956)"

And here of course ****** converts to Judaism for the sake of his wife and dies on Yom Kippur of all days. It is he Day of Atonement that  concludes the Ten Days of Awe .It is a solemn day of prayer and fasting, on which Jews pray for spiritual purification from past.

There is the now famous( thanks to Cohen;s Who by Fire )Yom Kippur prayer Unetaneh Tokef, part of which is as follows:

"On Rosh Hashanah it is written and Yom Kippur it is sealed
How many shall pass on and how many shall come to be;
who shall live and who shall die;
who shall see ripe old age and who shall not;
who shall perish by fire and who by water;
who by sword and who by beast;
who by hunger and who by thirst..."

Neilah  is said and he blast from the shofar, usually blown as soon as the stars come out,

Neilah literally means “closing” and refers to the symbolic closing of the gates of heaven

And here now my  poem blows out the stars and closes the gate of heaven on what is...what might have been.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2015
THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS AROUND US

The music
maps us

traces the contours
of our emotions

( an ordnance survey of
the mind )

the changing landscape of
who we are

who we thought
we would be

from our shallows
to our continental shelves

blue deepening into blue

music mapping that
which we could never see

( the "I"
becoming
"me" )

the exact co-ordinates
between the dream and

the reality:

mountain becoming scree
headland becoming cove

what's gone
what's not gone

so much
eroded love

how hope meanders
through time

an 0x-bow lake
of thought

cut off
from the who

we should
be

the final hand
of the delta's spread fan

the entering
into the sea

what's what
what's not

music maps us
the invisible cartography

being this
all too human man

singing himself
to his self

music maps
us in a song

"...oft in the stilly night. . ."
Singing and poems would emerge from everyday situations rather than "Now we are singing!"  or "Here is a poem.!" but in the picking of spuds...the making a swing...constructing a shed or a bicycle...they would leak out and stain the world with their beauty.  We are about to enter the world of black and white and just before the camera frrrreezing us forever in the pose....I am holding his hand...both of us dressed in best suits on our way to mass and he is humming OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT tenderly under his breath....the thrum of his hum travelling down his body joining his hand to mine and the song finds its home in that hand clasp...this is my dad...my father who art my heaven...Danny be thy name...I hold on to him as if he were a prayer flung against the darkness of the darkest night that will ever be. His hand forever in my hand....the humming of the melody transferring its love from him to me.

Oft, in the Stilly Night
BY THOMAS MOORE  

Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood’s years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm’d and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain hath bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all
The friends, so link’d together,
I’ve seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2023
MAKING LOVE TO THE SHIPPING FORECAST

now rising rapidly…
very rapidly.
you veering - I backing

“It”
goes from being
moderate to good!

our severe gale becomes
violent storm
hurricane force…imminent

you give me a 12 out of ten then
sleep caresses our bodies
the slight seas of our dreams

the Shipping Forecast
talks to itself
tells the table

tells the shelf
the room incantated
by its soothing sounds

the room filling up
with its beloved
words

this the now
becoming Monday
“Humber…Dogger…Fisher…Lundy!”
375 · May 2019
ONLY YOU AND YOU ALONE
Donall Dempsey May 2019
ONLY YOU AND YOU ALONE

the sky
a world of blue

fixed firmly
in the tiny window

unable to
break free

the summer sea
a green-not-green

a thin line
upon the window ledge

and so time
set in place

a seagull proclaiming
this the newest morning

and now the moon
attempts to enter the room

by this self same window
only to find itself stuck

grown too large
too bold too soon

looking in at us
looking out at it

"Night and day..." I sing
"...you are the one!"
374 · Aug 2015
DROWN IN MY OWN TEARS
Donall Dempsey Aug 2015
I walk with
my mother.

I hold her hand
tightly as

she is dead
and might fly away

with the leaves
that scatter before us.

She sees again
with my eyes.

The world
delights her.

I listen to Ray Charles
with her

as I did
when a child

and we both sing
DROWN IN MY OWN TEARS

as she ironed and
ironed.

I lend her my ears
and she laughs

at the Shakespearean usage

Calls me her( as always)
"little nuisance!"

When she died
she moved in with me

borrows my senses
occasionally.

Always she
uses my laughter>

"Death..."
she smirks
"...He don't scare me!"

She sits inside
my head

as I iron
and iron.

"You want the Ray again
Mam?"

"A huh!"

"I think I'll
drown in my own tears!"
Donall Dempsey Mar 2019
WHAT IS NOT THERE...THAT'S THERE.


She saw music
written upon the air.

"I see..?" I said.
Not really...seeing.

"Oh like birds
perched on telegraph wires

becoming a musical score
in themselves?"

She shook her head
as if trying to clear it

of my words
not understanding her.

"No! Not as obvious as that!"
she snapped.

I stood corrected.
She raised her finger like a batton.

"But with...mordents and accents
clefs. hold and thrills!"

I tried to help her along
with her explanation.

"Like notation you mean
key signatures and such!"

"I see them in 3-D
and in colour!"

I could only smile
unable to keep up with her.

"I have only to pluck them
out of the air

set them singing
within my being.!"

I looked at the sky
it did not sing to me.

It spoke only of clouds
becoming other than they were

of weather
that was to be.

She hummed the sky
softly to her self.

I wish I could hear
with her eyes.
"An hallucination is a strictly sensational form of consciousness , as good and true a sensation, as if there were a real object there. The object happens to be not there, that is all."

Ceri only attained this ability when she survived the motorbike accident that killed her boyfriend. When she awoke a week later this"seeing music" was as natural as breathing to her.


Principals of Psychology

William James
Donall Dempsey Dec 2021
SO....THE DAYS HAVE WORN AWAY...HAVE THEY?"

Mrs. Havisham
ran from her dream

and into the arms
of her husband.

She was trembling
like a dying bird

held in the hand
tears falling on it.

"Dearest...dearest!"

Mr. Havisham tried to
cajoled her back to

some kind of
reality.

"Oh, Mr. Havisham sir..!"
she palpitated

"I drempt I was on fire
and my world

was all cobwebs and dust
cobwebs and dust!"

"And, that...I was never
married and that I was

but a character in a book
by that Mr. Dickens!"

"Shhhhh...shhhhhh!" her husband
shushed her

and she slept in his embrace
as real as real.

A ray of sunshine
entered their room

bowing before them

announcing in a loud morning voice

"Your world....
....awaits you!"
Donall Dempsey May 2017
SHOWING SOME ENTERPRISE DURING
DOUBLE MATHS CLASS IN 1969

"Look, Kirk..!" I stab at the map
"Yes, the Barzan Wormhole is unstable but~
it's our only hope!"

Kirk's face blanches
Spock tries to show no emotion
"Highly illogical, yet. . ?"

Now, 70,000 light years away
"My God, Capt. Dempsey.."" Kirk smirks
"...it worked...it...worked. . !"

"Worked...of course it worked!"
I bluff and bluster
Spock's tight lipped smile

"Ahhh...Mr. Dempsey..."
Sir's voice gruffly Klingon
beaming me back up to Reality

"...seems to be in
another universe entirely..."
snickers as he reaches for the cane

"So..." Kirk smiles
"The square on the hypotenuse is equal to...
"Shut it Kirk..!" I snap  "...just shut it!"

I watch the parabola of the cane
"Warp Factor 9...now...quick!"
I order Mr. Sulu
Donall Dempsey Aug 2015
The forced march
from concentration camp

to concentration camp

from finally
Flohan to Terezin

the day before
- the war ends.

His soul is strong
the body weakened.

"Do you know Robert Desnos..."
"I am Robert Desnos..."

They recognise him
from his Man Ray photo.

Death allows him
the grace to die

as himself
once more

not this
nameless number

an animal.

He holds a rose
they've given him.

He holds on to it
even when it dies.

Refusing to let go
of a beauty

he can hold
he can touch.

His 'head full of
transformations."

The alchemy of thought.

As if a world
could be created

recreated
from it.

This rose is
cremated with him.

He is that
"unthinkable" thing

" a soul
without a body"

a dream
of words.

I speak him

to remember him
into being.


Leçons de ténèbres, literally translated lessons of darkness, is a genre of French baroque music which developed from the polyphonic lamentations settings for the tenebrae service of Renaissance composers such as Sermisy, Gesualdo, Tallis, and Tomás Luis de Victoria into virtuoso solo chamber music.

The tenebrae service uses the text of the Lamentations of Jeremiah, originally deploring the Siege of Jerusalem (587 BC) and subsequent desolation of the city, but applied allegorically to the three days of mourning for Christ between his crucifixion and resurrection.

https://youtu.be/4C8yLai1tHw

Les Ténèbres and Ténèbres, o Ténèbres are poems by Robert Desnos.

***
Early 1945. In the Czech town of Terezín, a group of prisoners are taken out of their barracks and loaded into a truck. The prisoners are silent, knowing the fate that awaits them; they are on their way to the gas chambers. Soon they arrive and are unloaded from the truck. Silently, they begin to move toward the gas chamber, the mood crushed under the weight of knowing what is inevitable. Even the guards are silent, having sent countless others down the same long walk.

Suddenly, a man jumps out of line. In an animated manner, he grabs the hand of the person in front of him and begins to read their palm. He says he sees lines for a long life, many grandchildren, and abundant joy. Soon, a person nearby offered his palm, and again the soothsayer forecasts success, happiness, and a long life. The other prisoners come to life, eagerly thrusting their palms towards the man, and for each of them he foresees long and happy lives.

The guards become confused. They have no idea what to make of this, even less of an idea of what to do. Their assignment is routine; they know the outcome and so did the prisoners. The man, a prisoner much like all the ones before that they had sent to their deaths, is crossing some line for them. The palm reader is creating a new reality; he is changing what everyone knew. He is so effective that the guards no longer have the will to go through with the executions. When faced with the stark proof that the people they were taking to their deaths were in fact living, and loving beings, they flinch.  They order the prisoners back onto the truck and took them back to the barracks.
371 · Nov 2018
TIME FALLS SLOWLY
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
TIME FALLS SLOWLY

Still. Unmoving.

I gaze into her
gazing.

Eyes full of snowflakes.

Time falls slowly.

Just like the snow
she erases her drawing

turning it too
back into white.

Quiet falls slowly.

She tells me
(in a whisper)    

not daring to
take her eyes away.

“World gone! ”

“World hiding
in the snow! ”

“Look! Look! ”

“Slowflakes! ”
371 · Jan 2016
ALZHEIMER'S ZONG
Donall Dempsey Jan 2016
ALZHEIMER'S ZONG

'The soul bone's
connected to the heart bone! '

'The heart bone's
connected to the mind bone! '

'The mind bone's
connected to the bone bone! '

'The bone bone's
connected to the thought bone! '

'The Thought bone's
connected to the Time bone! '

'The Time bone's
connected to the memory bone! '

'The memory bone's...'

'The memory bones...'

'... memory's bones...'

'Now where have all
the words

...gone! '
*******

I used to look after someone with Alzheimer's and she used to sing this over and over and chuckle to herself until the words and she gradually faded away and there was no enough memory and wit to sustain the song or her any longer.

It just gradually erased her but when she could sing this....she sang her heart out as in defiance and had great fun doing so. She knew something was wrong and that something was funny but she didn't know what yet she did know...it was so frustrating for her and used to drive her to distraction. This little song was her way of fighting it back if only for a little while and at the time it worked.

A very cruel disease....takes that very human element memory and the ability to skip back and forward and across time inventing and reinventing ourselves because the person is not a static 'thing' but an ever changing....ever becoming fluid state of being. At the beginning it was a funny little way of fighting it then by the end it was sung with a manic desperation...words were always on the tip of her tongue but they were the wrong words...the almost words...the not-quite-alright words....the not-alright-words...the what-is-happening-to-me words. Before she was a highly articulate woman but now words were slipping away from her as she kept trying to lash them together to make a raft of sense to escape the Island of No Words which her consciousness had been shipwrecked on. The clock became the "time teller thingy" and so...on & so on.
370 · Mar 2017
PINNING MOTHER DOWN
Donall Dempsey Mar 2017
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.
370 · Oct 2016
WRITING BAREFOOT
Donall Dempsey Oct 2016
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.
370 · Mar 2019
WHAT SHE SAID
Donall Dempsey Mar 2019
WHAT SHE SAID

Silence descended
upon the house.

The too loud tick tocks
from the old clock: stopped.'

As if, Time had vanished.
Reality,  been banished.

The night shed itself
snowflake by snow flake

until the night had been
covered up with quiet.

Somewhere a mouse
paused.

He could see
nothing.

Nothing.

But, her.

He awaited her
answer with cliched

baited breath.

Her luscious lovely lips
parted almost

in a slow motion trope
as she said:

"Meow!"

"Meow!
meowed the cat.

She laughed.

Her laughter...
. . .his answer.
369 · Apr 2016
SPEED DATING
Donall Dempsey Apr 2016
SPEED DATING

One and...

she thinks with a strong
English accent but
acts decisively in Irish


Two and...


her clothing is a bit..eh...Zen
I could concur with what Saki says"
"Beauty is only...sin deep!"

Three and....

oh forget it...
go home...get into bed
with Proust
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