"alastair" poems
Shantaigh siad a bheith
Chomth grámhar is Méidé agus a hIonsáin
Shantaigh siad a bheith chomth cáilúla is Didió agus Aeinéas.
Chomth torthúil is Iocasta agus Éideapús
Bhog siad le chéile
Ach ansin tháinig na troideanna
Agus bhi siad chomth trodach is Alastair agus a namhaid Dáirias.
Scar siad.
Agus nil aon chór thart.
Bhuel, sin é an scéal, nach ea?
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
Kind words
Full mind
Modern Athena
In a Christian arena
Dominated by daddies
Along with other baddies
She's beyond and behind
Her time and her kind
She's an oddity
Of space and time
A pure mind
From an impure kind
She's Athena
Up in the air
Here I am
Name's Crowley, Alastair
I am the beast you ride
Anger, frustration
Society's deviation
I am the body you hide
Bloated and rotten
Tainted by your thoughts
And the rusted knife
That anger that bleeds then rots
I am the monster
What holds the power
She's an oddity
Of space and time
A pure mind
From an impure kind
She's Athena
Up in the air
Freedom within
Under the skin
Ideas ferment
Dry off like cement
She sees so clear
Words of opacity
An animated shadow
Pure tenacity
An angel
Here's a demon
Not even an equal
Just all the freedom
Gone wrong
Here I am
Name's Crowley, Alastair
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
His wrinkles went somehow deeper
than those of a national will do.
And his eyes were somehow darker -
not without a brightness in them -
intelligence behind a film, foreign repose.
I saw from the hood on his red coat
that he was passing through the land
not that the coat was novel or strange
his hood was tighter, more practically donned.
His whiskers were somehow thicker
scratching the surface of the Great Land
a beard from three days’ unshaven growth
the stubble, wisdom of an Englishman.
Far different than I, not better, but old
emotions just a hair deeper hidden
than mine were: shivering in the cold.
I knew from his voice, his language:
mine was his, mine the younger.
A shaman with a home on the Eire
though not from that verdant spot
souls are all equal, nation matters not.
An infusion of Alastair’s yarrow root
diluted in cold, sprayed sea water
coaxed home to the waves the sunlight
our trust and a handshake.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 10:21 PM UTC
Upon a crest of ruby flames,
Was writ a list of seven names:
Of gods and goddesses untold
Whose quiet tenets never sold.
Mavis was the nymph of pallor,
Patron saint of putrid squalor.
Watching, with a tender eye,
The lives of those resigned to die.
Beatrice, with hair of scarlet,
Took the throne of seething harlot.
Harbinger of crippling sadness;
Queen of darkness, death, and madness.
Paul, whose eyes had never wept,
Ensured that secrets would be kept.
Cursed with blindness, deafness, dumbness,
A walking vault of tortured numbness.
Talim broke her mother's heart,
And many others from the start.
She, the deity of glee,
Knew ignorance and apathy.
Alastair, the golden thief,
Toed the boundaries of grief,
He sang to people with his flute
That there was more to life than loot.
Tess won't look you in the eyes;
Mistress of the compromise;
Smiling, even as she hums,
That "maybe next time" never comes.
Alex comes to break the silence,
God of wishes, drugs, and violence.
Crashing through with mighty clamour;
Hope the nail, and he the hammer.
Of all the deities we cherish,
Even those whose memories perish,
None are sad as those who don't
Beget belief. Or can't. Or won't.
And on a crest of ruby flames,
Another list of seven names,
Whose carvings have been long forgot,
Will sit amidst our trash and rot.
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
the thing about
Alastair is that
there are so many
things about him
that you will never
understand, growth
you will never witness
and a simple text saying
he's thinking about me
hope you're well
made me realize
that a lot of people
probably think
about me
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
I remember dad sitting and reading
each evening after dinner
once he and me had washed up in the galley kitchen.
After, I remember him stripping down to the waist
and body washing at the sink, then completing
his evening shave.
I remember his big old badger shaving brush
and a shaving mug refilled with Old Spice.
I remember the odour, filling the kitchen
and sticking to him.
But mostly I remember him in his white vest
in the brown armchair under the warm standard lamp,
feet up by the fire, reading his books.
Wilbur Smith.
Alastair MacLean.
Jack Higgins.
The Sound of Thunder.
Ice Station Zebra.
Wrath Of The Lion.
Always a hardback. Always a loaner
from the regular family trips
to the woods and the library.
Always sitting in his heady mix
of Old Spice, Brylcreem and St Bruno,
reading and relishing the opportunity
to pass the book on to me
telling me of his envy of my first read
of the adventure he’d just finished.
Aug 24, 2022
Aug 24, 2022 at 4:12 PM UTC
trolley for village deal 03.08.18
do you remember school
home work dreaded
easy for those with brain calculator tool
now arrogant flash and big headed.
home work was studied
not like mine on the never never
it prevents the truth being muddied
get a well paid job like john, alastair or trevor.
dedicated to profession
doing the mile that's extra
if some ones got a confession
teeth chattering like hannibal lecter.
who will investigate
even if me and bill cancelled engagement
just like the leveson calculate
can i strike a village arrangement.
don't want to highlight corruption
won't do no advert on instagram
from pgang and my village was abruption
its my life not a london programme.
can i please have permission
you all no i read the lego trace
the love of my life to destroy was phillips mission
if yes the trolley incident gone with no trace.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
Inspector Hornleigh
came to tea
with
Alastair Sim in tow
but
in Brighthaven you know
there's nothing else to do
and nowhere else to go.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 10:16 AM UTC