A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.

Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.

To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.

What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.

i) up the stairs
red scarves and tight skirts
loose slacks and grey shirts
my how the landscape has changed
I can’t say that I love to be dipped into this *** of pretty
where the lipstick liner queens supreme
and the coffee is brewed to mitigate the colostomy retch
so I try a yellowed paper backed beat
but it held nothing to the shoebox diorama
of national care
where the alphabetised gates of ingress
more or less double as departure lounge
for the broken and spent where their god
might sit them on fashionably backed chairs
for the percentile of misplace repairs
or is it me that smells of warm ****?

ii) down the travelator
a troll lives under the MRI,
moved on from the bridge by the gruffest of beards,
now working externally of the fable
beneath the table of the magnetic eye

I
And that was the summer flowers
Came and gone
The pink patterned petals, fallen at long last  
Who did Christen the soft and the soil and the muck and the dirt
On which white frost now could  settle for the coming tunnel days

And still I haven't quite yet made up my mind
Torn between the two or three flickers
Of dim candle
shined on walls in cold catacombs
This is but the ideal of worlds

II
Along Grotty streets of Dublin
Once did I ponder down
That time I brought you down to Smithfield  
To fix the broken bicycle tyre
Up of lanes and smoke in air
Where ancients once did stroll
Along about the cobblestone towns
And the general cry from merchant carts

On these same streets did not Pearse declare his oath?
To Men who shall give their blood for Ireland's last remaining somber notes of song
Well now romantic Ireland's truly dead and gone
The wakes been hundred years now passed
And alone in one smoke filled alley I did stop in the cold to think things over

III
Thoughts they did come during December
On that morning of your funeral
that was I there in my black coat, red scarf and against myself
such morbid spirits for the season
I did sit at that last wooden bench  Father whispered of Himself our lord
Took I to bread and wine
And Peaked inside your Coffin
Only then have I truly felt grief

Such a friendly Barman from McBrides
Who joined me in a well deserved pint that afternoon
Full of pure ***** was he
Perhaps thrown off by my pale skin and red eyes
said to sail away to Asia
Said it was the best thing for to do
As Buddhist Monks on high up hills did know a think or two
But I would not walk such mountains tops to get you off my mind
All I needed was a little time
that would clear it all away

IV
And I awayed to look for peace
Across sea and land
To the hustle and bustle
Of a snow logged London
And that once more was I
At the districts tall and to Oxford street
Where tender never seemed so sweet
You and I had not been here
For penny drops fell without my say so
Slipping into grates
where no man would dare to fish for even the leanest of supper

And went I to a darkened flat
to give up for another night
The gruffest of London would put
even New York city to shame
And with Face clean and new again
researching merry streets
I watched as Steam did rise
from chimney pots up on high red roofs
And Wishing such dark troubles  would too flow away
I did peer down at my silver watch
Scratched face and sixth punch
And after a famous sigh
Wandered on to dock

V
Did not once you stop and think about the minute hand?
The slow and dropping sigh
or groan of the past
I certainly did
As shy as clockwork you were
perhaps love was not your game
Or was it was just me that turned you away?
And that was winter
Thoughts gone
thoughts passed

Then I couldn't even see the edges of everything that was wrong
Until I stopped to think

VI
And that was the bright light
a dark December night  
And me burst with hell flames
Grabbed my grey jumper with one hand
taken outside to drive
I just needed some time to get things off my mind
And if I did not fall
one bump one slide
As sweet time stood on head
If only I could have died in that moment
But that was you gone
No more lessons or sighs
No more slow afternoons
Just a handful of years for me
To be alone in December

And for all our great restless wanderings
There is nothing more to give
That was the end  
And if I was not me
I would journey on
In my own imperfect death

Keeper Of The Wind.

Who goes there says I out loud

But there came no answer to my silly question

But the wind kept rattling itself outside and came in through each smallest crack

And I stood there so silently thinking who was it that just moaned
And out it came

A vapor that stunk of rotted old cheese

And I slumped over myself for I could not stand being consumed by this over offensive odor

And I grew ever so queasy inside of the deepest part of me

And it growled out at me that nasty oldest thing that now grew ever so tall in front of me

And he snickered out loud
and he said in the gruffest voice

I am the master of the wind

The oldest survivor of all things

And you are now of me

And I was hurled forward deep within that humanless being until I was never more.

jo.

Keeper Of The Wind.

Who goes there says I out loud

But there came no answer to my silly question

But the wind kept rattling itself outside and came in through each smallest crack

And I stood there so silently thinking who was it that just moaned
And out it came

A vapor that stunk of rotted old cheese

And I slumped over myself for I could not stand being consumed by this over offensive odor

And I grew ever so queasy inside of the deepest part of me

And it growled out at me that nasty oldest thing that now grew ever so tall in front of me

And he snickered out loud
and said in the gruffest voice

I am the master of the wind

The oldest survivor of all things

And you are now of me

And I was hurled forward deep within that humanless being until I was never more.

jo.

I know I can forgive you
as that iris laps in the view,
of a knife up to my throat.
Your eyes, in sweet loathing; afloat.
The red truth on rings,
frantic in my ears
soft as butterfly wings.
Soft as butterfly wings.

Your voice, so near me, an ocean away
crashing and foaming
cursing my life, begging I stay.

Curled, unsure fingers
beneath the dark of my hair,
shadowed and lingers.
The day so forgotten, the moment so there,
forgiven, unfair.
Felt like an animal, fighting be tame,
and your hand - domestication, clutching my veins.

Thought of the clementines you so cherished much
as juice dripped down your boyish arm,
on and on, until crimson pulp, to touch.

Pulls at twin cords,
cold, practiced fear and warmer words.
Same pulse along the jaw.
Familiar flush of jade stroked wings.
The end, hopeless and raw
and the feeling your name, on brings.

Through all spite and longing,
days of sun forever dawning
I get fluttering creatures
still as a hand so seizures.
Deep in place unknown
between belly and throat.
Under gruffest tone
and nights alone.
They will never wish a wing to know
the hurt of hidden bones.
How it come, ever slow.

Your taste, your say, your meaner things,
soft as butterfly wings.
Soft as butterfly wings.

The angst of pain
is so foolish gone
when blade of gruesome lust and flushing hate,
is in your hands.
So, at my heart, it stays.