The old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen Strand,
Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand;
Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies,
But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knock-narea,
And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say.
Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat;
But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare,
For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air;
Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood;
But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood
Is Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

Oh, I should like to ride the seas,
  A roaring buccaneer;
A cutlass banging at my knees,
  A dirk behind my ear.
And when my captives' chains would clank
  I'd howl with glee and drink,
And then fling out the quivering plank
  And watch the beggars sink.

I'd like to straddle gory decks,
  And dig in laden sands,
And know the feel of throbbing necks
  Between my knotted hands.
Oh, I should like to strut and curse
  Among my blackguard crew...
But I am writing little verse,
  As little ladies do.

Oh, I should like to dance and laugh
  And pose and preen and sway,
And rip the hearts of men in half,
  And toss the bits away.
I'd like to view the reeling years
  Through unastonished eyes,
And dip my finger-tips in tears,
  And give my smiles for sighs.

I'd stroll beyond the ancient bounds,
  And tap at fastened gates,
And hear the prettiest of sound-
  The clink of shattered fates.
My slaves I'd like to bind with thongs
  That cut and burn and chill...
But I am writing little songs,
  As little ladies will.

Under the I-20 bridge
over the Chatta-
'hoochee suits me
fine as fishin' line

- I've been retried
and found
I ain't wanted

nothing but a winter coat -
my sweet mutt Woof
- an old six string Martin
and a 'frigerator carton

for sleeping in the winter wind
when the sun don't shine -

I don't have a bone to pick
- my fingers ain't quiet as quick
and nimble on a riff - my back is stiff
- but my voice is still whiskey

smooth and my words turn
water into thunderbird - wine

retried suits me just fine
- jailhouse jeans
and salvation army boots -
refried beans and cheap cheroots
- sitting on an old truck tire
around an open fire

I've been  retried and trued
but I ain't yet retired -

somebody's got
to feed my dog -
sing some songs
- catch these fish
and start the fire -
drink a little *****

- 'neath the I-20 bridge
over the Chattahoochee

rivaaa····

r ~ 10/16/14

I think I will read a sacred book
tonight
reminisce on His glories
recount the incredible leelas
of the Lord
then I will sweeten my heart
with songs to my beloved
anything that will bring You
closer
quiet the baying hounds
comfort the lost souls
light a candle in the darkest
hours before the
golden dawn

Love, let me be the
ink of your quill, the very
blood of all your poems.

*** *** *** that's it?
I need to give it up to
make you love me more?