Backwaters.

Violins and pipes
played together
abreast
of different rippling
waters;

Uileann throttling
forward
over hills and downs -
the hunt, chase, ****
or loss;

thrill of being,
spontaneous
in hilly jump,
stream, rock,
hedge, mountain,
mud and pebbled with soup,
partridge, pheasant,
trout and salmon
horizon.

Writing in memory
and distance
of those rampant
fiddles and flutes;
of those swaying dances
over drunken floors
and sailing seas;

the jigs in heaven,
rock and roll,
ups and downs
between a nod and a wink -

the forever being,
cynically, hopeful
in the flux of things
that knock us flat
or cheer us on.

The heart in it's own world
is filled with rivers, mountains
and deep oceans,
currents, heights and depths
beyond comprehension.

Nearly drowning
in dark pools of failure,
guilt and regrets
it beats and breaths again
the joy of the  salmon's leap.

Pulsing forth
through good weather and bad;
one minute pessimism
but more often than not
the resilient common-sense of hope.

Love-shaped, vulnerable Cupid-target;
Hamlet died for you.

You are the betwixt-and-between
who commandeers the foetal spring
and death's heavily laden bed.

The white-horses of the mind,
approaching the shores of the body,
never, ultimately, reach their destination
but break and disappear
leaving time's waves
to slowly erode
our animal allotments.

I humbly ask You to unlock
the hidden silences and secrets
of my fugitive and forlorn heart,
that there may be in this exile
a fruitful renewal,
a new birth,
a total pouring forth
of without cessation worded petals
on the canvasses
of a continually blooming mind
with living acts of creation
in Your most holy of holiest names.

I humbly ask You to unlock
the hidden silences and secrets
of my fugitive and forlorn heart,
that there may be in this exile
a fruitful renewal,
a new birth,
a total pouring forth
of without cessation worded petals
on the canvasses
of a continually blooming mind
with living acts of creation
in Your most holy of holiest names.

O! Sacred Muse
where is Your voice
in this dry
and empty
desert of immensity?

In dark isolation,
this winter's morning,
the heart yearns apparently alone
while the mind remains vacant.

Havig put the radio on
music from a requiem
seems to add to a soul's distress.

I place my pen on the table again.