Give me your help Lord,
To live this one day.
One knot to unravel;
One problem to weigh.

One path to discover
To choose the right way.

One worry to conquer;
One lesson to learn.

One moment of gladness
To overcome pain.
One glimpse of the sunlight;
One touch of the rain.

No one can see into tomorrow;
Will our fate be joy or sorrow?
So I’ll turn to your love

And with perfect trust say,

“Give me your help Lord
To Live this one day.”

Everyday :O]

Once as I travelled through a quiet evening,
I saw a pool, jet-black and mirror-still.
Beyond, the slender paperbarks stood crowding;
each on its own white image looked its fill,
and nothing moved but thirty egrets wading -
thirty egrets in a quiet evening.

Once in a lifetime, lovely past believing,
your lucky eyes may light on such a pool.
As though for many years I had been waiting,
I watched in silence, till my heart was full
of clear dark water, and white trees unmoving,
and, whiter yet, those thirty egrets wading.

There in the fringe of trees between
the upper field and the edge of the one
below it that runs above the valley
one time I heard in the early
days of summer the clear ringing
six notes that I knew were the opening
of the Fingal's Cave Overture
I heard them again and again that year
and the next summer and the year
afterward those six descending
notes the same for all the changing
in my own life since the last time
I had heard them fall past me from
the bright air in the morning of a bird
and I believed that what I had heard
would always be there if I came again
to be overtaken by that season
in that place after the winter
and I would wonder again whether
Mendelssohn really had heard them somewhere
far to the north that many years ago
looking up from his youth to listen to
those six notes of an ancestor
spilling over from a presence neither
water nor human that led to the cave
in his mind the fluted cliffs and the wave
going out and the falling water
he thought those notes could be the music for
Mendelssohn is gone and Fingal is gone
all but his name for a cave and for one
piece of music and the black-capped warbler
as we called that bird that I remember
singing there those notes descending
from the age of the ice dripping
I have not heard again this year can it
be gone then will I not hear it
from now on will the overture begin
for a time and all those who listen
feel that falling in them but as always
without knowing what they recognize

My mom fell in love again

Except this one was different

He smelled of lemon and cigarettes

Instead of the usual gasoline and cheep cologne  

Yes

This one was different

I could tell his "loving" words to mommy dearest

Were rip-offs from chick- flick scripts  

His mask didn't even cover his whole face

It left his widows peak uncovered

I guess widows and widows were meant for each other

He stayed for awhile I was surprised

To see his feet resting on the table I had just polished

The table used to be clean

Used to be

Like me

Until his greedy hands needed more holy water till it starts to seep

Through the cracks of his rough hands

At least I felt as if they were rough  

I wasn't one to turn my cheek

I told my mom how different from the others he was

Then he left

Yet again

A night in fake jewelry and free loading of a desperate man's wallet

She fell in love again

You can’t
explain
the world in
Haiku.
It’s more complicated
than that.

If you know everything,
seventeen syllables
are just not enough!

So, I like to
break the rules
and write my Haiku in
eighteen syllables.

Oh ****!
If I ever write
another Haiku,
shoot me
for Chrissake
and put me out of my misery.
There. That’s thirty four syllables.
**** it.
And there’s two more
just for the hell of it.
Now I feel a lot better.
I’m free.

I just heard a colossal clap of thunder.
By Jove, it’s great to be reminded that
the din and clamor of our lives
are insignificant compared to those like Zeus.
There’ll soon be rain, and after that,
a glistening rainbow hung out to dry.

Those guys do it big up there in the heavens,
and then they rip the sky apart with lightening flashes, too.
Howzat?
Yeah, an’ then there’s all their galaxies and time an’ stuff.

Jeez, I just love this great big art gallery of the gods.

Mike T Minehan