On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.

Four hundred of us pour out
from the lights turned on,
girls in bare feet in the rain and the wind
to see Christmas lights on Grafton street.

Trinity’s beautiful, but not where the heart is,
the grass is muddy on college green
a cold breeze is whipping off the Liffey,
and everyone’s singing, low lie the fields.

The guards are milling, we’re trudging,
some holding hands or kissing –
bring me back to Stillorgan for ten euro?
*******! No come on sir, I’m freezing.

It’s grey, it’s wet and it’s cloudy.
I want Burdock’s or some dodgy chippy,
I want to hear the song of a boy from Ballymun
and live forever young in Dublin’s fair city.

For Beep & Sue Robinson, Foreman, Victoria Park Tunnel


Auntie Elaine Kingii
Died last night in her sleep,
Ninety years of age
Keeping secrets she would keep.
Last night she passed away
In her tiny single bed,
At the Onehunga rest home
Where she finally laid her head.

Auntie Elaine Kingii
Lived her long life on the street
Helping other vagrants
Find a kinder place to sleep,
Helping other street kids
With the hassles of their day,
Sharing a quick cigarette
Or a dryer place to stay.

Auntie Elaine Kingii
In her ninety years of life
Had eighteen babies born to her
From sailors , waifs and like.
Eighteen babies born to her
Beneath the Grafton bridge,
Each with unknown fathers
Or a family heritage.

Auntie Elaine Kingie
As a girl danced out of class
Where the morning sunshine sparkled
On the crystal dew, clad grass,
And her green eyes shone with lustre
In her  joy of dancing free,
Whilst the street kids stood in cluster
Quite entranced by what they see.

Auntie Elaine Kingii
With her eyes of emerald green
Lived her days among the lost souls
Of the City Mission scene.
Life amongst free spirits
Was a chosen path for her
Shunning organised prosperity
With a structured raconteur.

Auntie Elaine Kingii
With her eyes of emerald glass
Chose to die the way she lived
Quite serenely with her class.
Happy with the company
Of whom she would befriend
In the park surrounds of Auckland city’s
Busy people blend.


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 June 2011

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!

Brother John,
unfurl your purple banner,
let the peace dove soar
above Grafton township
proclaiming victory
over endless oppression.
Ring the chapel bell,
light the candles
in the sanctuary,
shelter us with tea &
the word of God.

Brother John,
the forecast is gray.
I want to hear the truth.
I want to hear your voice
as the world grows dark.

Brother John,
will we ever forgive our transgressions?
Will we survive the winter intact
to bloom once more into the flower of art?
How do we find our pathway back
to our spirit?

Now is time to travel within.
Pray. Forgive.
Create peace. Walk with God.
Make magic.

you mentioned in passing today how there are times when i will give you a look and it sets you off balance and you don’t know why. i rambled on about my innate awkwardness and lack of control over certain ****** expressions because i was too afraid to tell you how those looks are me trying to keep it all in. you bring out a side of me i have never seen before, someone who is happy and steady and settled close to the warmth of the ground. it’s exciting and nerve-wracking. at night i have these dreams of us in your sitting room with you banging away on your piano and we’re both sweating from the heat from the fire in the fireplace we put together ourselves. i have these dreams where we’re back on grafton street, our palms pressed tightly together in the pocket of your coat and it’s so real that i wake up with my hands still tingling from the cold dublin air. you are thousands of miles away and you are everywhere at the same time and i am ready for whatever comes as long as i get to keep you with me at the end of it all.

23 sept, 2012

In Dublin's mist-kissed streets, we wander,
Two souls entwined, hearts aflame,
Anam cara, whispered by ancient stones,
A love deeper than the Liffey's flow.

I. Dawn's Embrace

At sunrise, we meet by Ha'penny Bridge,
Where copper pennies shimmer on water,
Your eyes, twin pools of mossy green,
Hold secrets only Dublin's cobbles know.

II. Whispers in Temple Bar

In Temple Bar's lively hum, we dance,
Fiddles and laughter weave our tale,
Your laughter, a melody of joy,
Echoes through centuries of poets' dreams.

III. Trinity's Library of Love

Beneath Trinity's ancient arches,
We read love letters etched in oak,
Your touch, a parchment of longing,
Pages turned by winds from distant shores.

IV. Stolen Kisses on Grafton Street

Grafton Street, where buskers serenade,
Our stolen kisses taste of rain and tea,
Your lips, like Dublin's cobblestone alleys,
Hold the promise of forevermore.

V. Cliffs of Howth, Our Sacred Cliff

On Howth's cliffs, we stand as one,
Wind-whipped and salt-kissed,
Your heartbeat, a rhythm of tides,
Pulls me closer to the edge of eternity.

VI. Guinness Pints and Shared Dreams

In snug pubs, we raise our Guinness pints,
To love, to laughter, to Dublin's magic,
Your whispers, like foam on stout,
Intoxicate my senses, leave me spellbound.

To the victims during the Boston Marathon, April 15, 2013,

Children of Boston
Children of Euston
Children of Kingston

Boys of Mesa
Boys of Tuy Hoa
Boys of Kalba

Teenagers of Kyoto
Teenagers of Toronto
Teenagers of Lesotho

Wives of Berlin
Wives of Kremlin
Wives of Yulin

Humans of the world
Let us spare one word

Let us pray,
From Larissa
To South Kensington
From Tokay
To Grafton

Humans of the world
Let us spare one word

For the children of Boston.

April 15, 2013
Montpellier, France

You're coming back.
For eight days.
In September.
I don't know where I'll be then.
Obviously with you.
But I don't know if I'll be at school.
Or have a job.
Or just trying to find ways to fill the days.
All I know is you're coming back.
And you're staying in a ****** apartment.
And I'm going to be with you.
And I kind of want to take you to Dublin zoo..
Just for some fun.
But I guess we'll see where it goes.
Youre gonna busk on grafton street.
Then we can have the day.
In stephens green park.
Along the river Liffey.
Wherever.

One thing I'm sure about is that they all disapprove.
I know you two days they say.
That's not long enough.
He could be a serial killer.
A kidnapper.
Love.
They say.
You're a child.
You know nothing of love.
Crazy girl.

But I know for a fact that I love you.
And I know for a fact that fate has something planned for us.
I can feel it.

and we would get up early
so early that the stars
would still sit high
in the dark night sky

we would drink milo
out of plastic cups
and eat oval arrowroot biscuits
spread thickly with butter

we would line up to go to the loo
one last time before piling into
the old car, sliding across bench seats
half our world packed into the boot

then we were off, on the old country roads
still sleepy for the first couple of towns
stopping at Jacaranda for a cup of tea
lukewarm, milky and sweet from the thermos
half a cheese sandwich each, and a fearful trip
to the draughty long drop toilet...looking for redbacks
the whole time, but only finding spinning daddy long legs

after that back into the car, for two hours of
winding our way down, the big hill,
listening for the clearnote  call of the bellbird,
watching for wallabies and wombats on the road fringe
and the bigger kangaroos, bouncing away
across the clearings...

at the bottom of the hill, Grafton a quick stop
to stretch our legs eat the cupcake,
used to bribe us into decent behavior up to that point
and another vist to the conveniences.
before the run down the coast,
past the big white resort
and into Brooms Head,
for a week of surf and sun
fish and chips, buckets of prawns,
frosty fruits and sunny boys
in tent and caravan,  
swimmers and towels,
we were tribal and free,
roaming the tideline
staying up at the campfire,
sleeping and waking
with the birds......
always such an adventure....
those idyllic days of summer

When I was a child, on Grafton Street,
My brother and I used to pop bubbles.
We also built great cities and bases,
Arenas of Jenga, where soldiers did battle.

These creations were places of retreat
To escape from childhood pain and troubles.
Now we wear our masks instead of our faces
And herd ourselves onto trains like cattle.

It's hard to pinpoint when the dream truly dies -
The suicide rates will not be televised,
But be assured that your job is distracting
You from your lack of power, hope, and truth.

We live in our own little bubbles of lies,
And now know that life's not as advertised.
You might think that I'm overreacting
Until you have lost all sight of your youth

And all that is left are dogs chasing bones -
Are we anything more than just monkeys with phones
Searching for comfort and love in our loneliness?

He wanted peace,
Which came in the form of broken sleep
On Grafton street,
A lullaby sang by chemical imbalance in the brain,
So for that this one time frame,
Things weren't quite the same,
Who is he to blame?
For wanting relief,
A prisoner of the streets,
Moved on by the police,
But the people that walk by,
They'll never miss a beat;
'****** ****, doesn't deserve my coin'
But you'll go then
To your warm home,
Sit on your throne
And you'll still moan,
'They deserve to be alone'
You won't pine,
You'll drown your brain in that nine euro Tesco wine

See you get your relief too,
But with you
It gets to be taxed,
Regulated
And swept under the rug,
So next time you judge,
Have a look within,
You'd be surprised
What you might discover
In the wind

Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday
during month of May
can be traced back
to ancient Greeks and Romans
devotional festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday.”

Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
(a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter

paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen

commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies
such as Hallmark generated a market
(money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed
companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea
of Mother's Day and met

aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the ****** appetite
of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator

(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
fêted, lionized, revered re:
formed unsanitary
squalid living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where
greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale mum
(mine) deceased after rigor mortis
immediately thereafter her sole son
found himself saddened severely glum,
and uncomfortably numb.

Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday
during month of May
can be traced back
to ancient Greeks and Romans
devotional festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday,”
the other three hundred
and sixty five or six,
when leap year occurs,
especially Jewish mothers smother
also manifest courtesy
eldest sister or brother.

Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
(a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter

paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen

commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's embolden
greeting card companies
such as Hallmark generated a market
(money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed
companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea
of Mother's Day and met

aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the ****** appetite
of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator

(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
fêted, lionized, revered re:
formed unsanitary
squalid living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where
greater longevity doth hum
bull all because, she sought to regale mum
(mine) deceased after rigor mortis
immediately thereafter her sole son
found himself saddened severely glum,
and uncomfortably numb.

ever wonder why i'm so into you?
there are just so many things
i love about you

like the way you prounounce "grafton street"
or the way you look at me funny
when i say something weird

i love the way your lips curl up
as your eyes lit up
when you see something of your interest

how you can't seem to win against me
in our on-the-spot staring contest
always the first one to look away, blushing and embarassed

but besides those little things,
i specifically love
when you radiate happiness

no matter the reason behind,
even if it's not because of me,
even if it's for other people,

when you smile,
the world smiles back

and i think that's lovely.

Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday during month of May
can be traced back to ancient Greeks and Romans
festivals held

     to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
     where early Christians fancied festival
     known as “Mothering Sunday.”

Fast forward to the early
     twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis (a social activist then,
and community organizer

     during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
     as informally memorializing her mother,
     who begot said noble men
     touring daughter
     paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
     to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,

     this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
     in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open

the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies such as Hallmark gen
er rated a market (money making of course) even

though Jarvis believed companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
     and exploiting idea of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the ****** appetite of the ole mighty dollar,
     but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
     the quaint idea,
     plus she feared going in debt

and though the industry
     (initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
     (Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
     lionized, revered re
formed unsanitary living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale "mum."