You define what this life is worth.
Fame and fortune are irrelevant.
The brightest star gifted to Earth,
Higher than the lucky heaven-sent.

The glove that is a perfect fit,
I’d jump without a thought for you.
If you catch then so be it,
If you don’t then that suits too.

For you are a poem that captures wonder -
Unforgotten and kept close by.
You are romantic rolls of thunder
Shaking tears from the silent sky.

The dew that drips from morning lands,
The white foam of a waterfall,
The sunset by the Cayman sands,
The nightingale’s vibrant call.

You are the beautiful view of a cliff
From the edge as you watch the beauty below,
Before I fall off and think you are gone
But cling on to you tightly and never let go.

I
The morning traffic settles down
When the smell of chips create a haze
By the arts block.
Squawking fills the passageways
And now a familiar face taps
Your weary back
While you are drowned by stomping feet
And despite the try your mind clots;
The name deletes
And you’re left thinking it is Scott,
While all this time his name is Pete.
He didn’t hear it through the stamps
And we sit lakeside by the lamps.

II
Morning: you arise from consciousness
And faint stale smells of beer
From the night on Dublin streets,
A night you won’t repeat, unless
The moon reclaims the lands.

And of course the Paddy’s day parades,
That, one naturally assumes.
Just thinks of all the hands
Raising pints by the spades
In a thousand bright green rooms.

III
You stretched your arms above your head
And yawned at a class you’ve never hated
You dozed, and watched the screen revealing
The thousand boring images
Of which World War II was constituted;
Their burning qualities weren’t appealing -
They stung until the world went black
But the light crept up between your shutters
And you heard the backgrounds snobbish tutters,
Despite meeting them on Grafton Street
Where you exchanged drunken demands.
You awoke and cringed as you were aware
Of the tuft sticking up about your hair,
But instead of a fix-trip, to save your feet,
You covered it with your hands.

IV
You stared up at the flawless skies
That fade behind the Newman block,
Or often watched insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock,
Or watched the fountain-spewing pipes,
And watched the swans watch life’s disguise
While you recalled wild fantasies,
Of walking down a college street
And opening your eyes to receive the world.

And now my eyes have been unfurled
And I feel like a god, a king
For I have seen an infinitely mental,
Infinitely wonderful thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
And treat the worlds like you treat the women
And hopefully both will give you lots!

The tear duct is a feeble thing
For little girls who dance and sing.
A man is a superior beast
Who swears, fights bears and eats a feast
Of steak! He knows his wants and takes
Those wants and has no fear of snakes,
But now and then those ducts are used,
But not out of choice - they are abused!
For shame those times when man has cried –
One hopes they died or died inside!
Perhaps it's okay and not quite mad
If the duct, per say, was maybe stabbed –
An eyelash broke, or one could choke
On meat! The heat could get a bloke
To force a tear to stain his eye
But no, my friend, no excuses this time
Because, even in a crazy rhyme
Real men, who fight bears and steak dine, cry.

On my bed, giving life to the latest poem
And suddenly a soft sound scratches my ears.
Again, again, again, constant:
One, two, three and there it is again –
Frustration flicking my bedroom window,
Staining that sparkly pane with its insane irritation.
The pain sounds again.
A delightful butterfly struggles to contemplate
The gap between the glasses of my prison wall.
Beautiful; fluttering frantically; fragile.
My intentions are purer than the billion colours
That elegantly engulf those deceptive eyes.
I delicately, ever so delicately urge
That curious creature back to nature’s beauty,
Urge it away from the blandness of the bedroom,
But humanity has never, will never be so forgiving.
My little push is the destruction of such beauty:
Maimed for freedom, slaughtered for escape,
A victim of war, humanity’s war.
I feel guilt but more so regret,
That, although that poor creature
Suffered such an untimely demise,
He had achieved a life worth living:
A butterfly who freely fluttered
The bedrooms of the world,
And escaped the irony of being
More humane than man could ever dream.
I envy that poor, superior creature,
For I am just a butterfly breaker.
I am just an animal.

The most refreshing of breezes holds you,
And you utter a sigh of pure happiness.
The sound of water splashing the shore,
Sloppily fumbling into the pool-side drain.
The sprinkles on the cake sparkle -
Stars are just as sweet,
Little beams of hope escaping the banality of life,
Escaping chalk - a dull blackboard cannot retain it.
Even the artificial blinding of humanity
Cannot take away from such beauty.
Palm trees are at their most stunning
At twilight, dancing to the rhythm of nature -
Darkness is much more majestic
Than it has been given credit.
The moon is but a sliver,
A small rip in the pitch black fabric of the sky-
It is smiling, a smile of pure content.
Believe me, my good friend, the feeling is mutual.

A dark blue duvet delicately sown,
A patchwork of delicate squares,
It is here where I soundly sleep alone,
It is here where nobody cares.

Those carefully crafted covers were made
As a net to catch my dreams.
It is here within my sleep I wade,
Swimming my slumber streams.

I twist and turn but can’t escape
From the nightmares that I fear,
But when a beautiful dream I make
The net knows the end is near.

I panic as it dives beneath the sea
And I try to recapture it yet,
I fail and fall, but delicately
I am caught in the dream catchers net.

I open my blinds to a golden haze,
As the colour ironically blinds me.
A swift turn averts his burning gaze
And my favourite t-shirt finds me.
It says ‘Mr. Cool’! It’s find – a peach!
It does what it says it would do –
It cools me down on my favourite beach
Because it’s all blue.

The palm trees dance and the ching-chings caw
As the soft sand burns my feet,
But I bury them deeper in the flawless floor
‘Cause I cannot feel the heat.
A few fluffy clouds caress the sky
And pose for pictures new,
Then they gently drift slowly by
To leave the canvas blue.

I step into the Caribbean waves
And my troubles abandon me.
Perplexed by the corals sunburned maze
As I gently drift to sea.
The pain subsides like the weary surf
And I drift to pastures new.
The sea helps erode the purple hurt
Because it’s all blue.

My shirt, the sand and the sun-splashed sky:
They now engulf my world.
The sound of a seagull’s desperate cry
Is seen but can’t be heard.
This fuzzy grave is a safety net,
I know that much is true.
I’m leaving Earth but I’ll never forget
That it was all blue...