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I
In a land of myths, from the jaded isle,
Great stories are told of the brave and the guile.
But no legend of druids, of hags or ghouls,
Can compare to that of our own Fionn McCool.
In the province of Ulster, before armalite,
There lived a race of warriors who knew how to fight.
And who was their leader? The fiercest of the feared?
Of course it was Fionn! With his glorious ginger beard.
He had arms like a gorilla, at an impressive 8 feet,
And lived on a diet of very rare meat.
He drank only water he squeezed from stone,
And discovered 47 uses for human bone.
It was his giant strength that brought McCool his fame,
In kingdoms far and wide people knew his name.
But what was less renowned was his mental might.
Aul Fionn had towering intellect and wit to match his height.

II
When news of Fionn's exploits reached a pub in Aberdeen,
A mammoth figure emerged from the pungent, men’s latrine.
The patrons gave a shudder as it stooped through the door,
“O...One more Ben?” stuttered the barman as his **** reached the floor.
The giant gave a shout and wretched a toilet door aloft,
“Who scrieved this scaffy drawin, sayin that I’m soft?”
Silence gripped the bar as the men examined with horror,
A crude etching of Fionn McCool thrashing Benandonner.
The men remained mute, as the giant turned carmine,
“You think this Fionn boyo’s tough, I’ll carve out his spine!”
And so the giant departed, making his way west,
But not before he slaughtered the group and downed the drinks they left.

III
A roaring voice came through the mist and reached our own Fionn’s ear,
But when he reached the Antrim coast, he near ****** himself with fear
Seeing Ben on Scotland’s edge, throwing boulders to the sea,
“I’ll turn yer lungs to bagpipes! Ye feeble wee beastie!”
Fionn trembled before the monster, twice as big as he,
With a chest as wide as a trawler and biceps thick as trees.
Now Fionn was not a coward but nor was he a fool,
As the rocks formed a bridge he saw ‘the late Fionn McCool.’
And so he sparked a plan to deceive the creature,
A plot in which his wisdom and his wife would feature.
Running to his house he rushed to build a crib,
And dressed as an infant to complete the fib.

IV
With the last stone in place, Ben crossed the sea,
With ‘murrrdur’ in his heart, his eyes mad with hateful glee.
He crouched to enter the house after kicking through the door,
Grabbing Oonagh in his hand, “Now where’s yer husband *****?!”
Fionn’s wife was calm as he held her off the ground,
But wretched as she smelt the breath of a gum-diseased hound.
“He’ll return soon,” she said as the shoes fell off her feet.
“but put me down and while you wait I’ll fix you something to eat”
While Oonagh was in the kitchen, Big Ben released a smirk,
“From the size of his wife, killing McCool won’t be much work.”
Oonagh lead the deception, returning with some cake.
But had placed rocks in the batter, before she’d begun to bake.
Benadonner was surprised, when he took his first bite,
He reached into his mouth and removed a pearly white.
Not wanting to seem weak, by refusing a McCool snack,
The giant continued to eat the stones until all his teeth had cracked.

V
Gumming back a sob, the brute looked around,
He spied the crib in the corner, and was disturbed by what he found.
A child sleeping soundly, but of such monstrous size,
Ben, now blind with tears was fooled by Fionn’s disguise.
Coughing to hide his alarm, the Scottish giant inquired.
“Is Fionn McCool the man, to whom this weeun is sired?”
Oonagh laughed and replied, “He’s his father’s son, no doubt.”
“Sure I remember he was six foot four when I popped him out.”
Now the Scot started sweating, THE BABY WAS FECKIN TITANIC!
When he imagined the father’s size the goliath began to panic.
He ran from the house, kilt flapping in the wind,
As McCool watched from his window, he kissed his wife and grinned.

VI
While Ben crossed the bridge, he dismantled his creation,
To ensure the ****** couldn’t follow, he divorced the nations.
Now centuries later, if you need proof today,
The remains of Ben’s bridge is called the Giant’s Causeway.
I want to dance in Ireland
in crowded pubs with rose-faced men
drinking my sanity with whisky, wine or gin.

I’d listen to angelic brogues spin
cherished tales, which they’ll profess yet again
oh, how I want to dance in Ireland,

amidst such folks I call my kin
whose natural pride is celebrated then
I will drink back my sanity with whisky, wine or gin.

my euphoric state of ecstasy will win
my senses from my limbs like a nervous linemen
yet, I want to dance in Ireland.

like the rest of my swaggering friends
I hope to be three sheets to the wind.
for I will drink my sanity with whiskey, wine or gin.

and in good company my lips will curl to grin
certain of such happiness when
life has brought me Irishmen
thankful to finally dance in my sweet Ireland.
Fluid like the Guinness that flows from the oil rust taps, rapid and white battered. It laps quickly between every bridges thigh, whining as waves do in captivity. The air is thick and dewy in the Galway harbor. Each breath tastes saltier than the next. The rush, the rapid race signals the open sea. Spring could not come sooner than is demanded. Still six old rust stained fishing boats bob along the mossy stonewall. Untouched. The flow churns quicker; the longer the eye stands in gaze. A ***** yellow sign signals caution –a stolen ringbouy, a stolen life. And there amid the unrest I like to rest and reflect beside fettered waters whose tempest surface hides my face.

I am not alone,
the troubled waters
call my name.
How do you know that the pilgrim track
Along the belting zodiac
Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds
Is traced by now to the Fishes’ bounds
And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud
Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud,
And never as yet a tinct of spring
Has shown in the Earth’s apparelling;
O vespering bird, how do you know,
How do you know?

How do you know, deep underground,
Hid in your bed from sight and sound,
Without a turn in temperature,
With weather life can scarce endure,
That light has won a fraction’s strength,
And day put on some moments’ length,
Whereof in merest rote will come,
Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb;
O crocus root, how do you know,
How do you know?
To earth.....
we fell
still and always
our footfalls together
mingle, entwined
our steps walk
the vastness of
time

To sea.....
sinking we swim
drowsily dream, lulling under
salty sea air breathes our lungs
Water weaves of dreams - bright distant sails
calmly blues, red rains
of willawaw gales

To air.....
deep the breaths
beat our hearts - to deepen
Expanding empty spaces - fully lunged our love
contracting smothered, small - undone

To fire.....
passion seeks it's flame,
billows the burning blue
We seek ever close, not to touch
lest we are consumed
by love
The birds sing sweeter
Flying free in the forest,
Than stuck in a cage.
The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the trouble of her laboring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.
The sky above the treeline hangs
grey and yellow as old linen.
A wild-hearted wind
is from the south,
arriving in waves and troughs,
arriving and turning and rushing past.
Out of sight, a bird trills its presence.
A red-wing blackbird rides the wind's current
up and over and down-gliding into a wide green field.
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