Something’s stirring
- hey honey, sweetie, sugar-
Something’s ******* up and in, like their stomachs,
(why don’t I look that flat, mummy?)
Something’s furious and seething, something strong
And stuck and breathing
My bones in. It’s the *** you see, yeah you bet,
All they are is ***; sweaty, oily, wet
With some such suffocating, suffering, surrendering
Desire to please.

Please the man, the thick man, with your eyes.
Please him with your deadened stare – glare -
Please him with your chest, your hair,
Feel the way that wind rustles and tousles, as you dance,
As you feel the liberation of a thrusty, *****, pleasing stance,
As they slip money between your legs. As they wrap you up, up,
Up in its crinkles, up in its arms,
Swept from your feet and in love, swept up from harm,
Just as you desired.

Love is the one – but what? Love comes from beauty, right?
Full lips, bright eyes, as dead as the night,
The best thing a girl can be is pretty.
(well that’s what they are on screens)
And that’s why I cried when they drew a picture,
Fourteen and they took all our ‘best features’
Ripped them from our bodies,
Bundled them up into one jigsaw creature
-where’s mine?
They forgot me,
But it’s fine – she’s got your per-son-a-lit-y.
And I cried.

It’s easy to say, I know, and I see
That things are better now, I am almost free.
But oh she’s been in the wars:
She’*****; she’s ripped; she’s cut; she’s lost;
That pleasing object onscreen – she’s yours.
But passion’s no good, gotta be pure, sweet and true
Well she’s gotta be new, and a girl's gotta do
What a girl only can do,
‘Til she’s through,
‘Til she’s cold cold and blue,
So hey lady, lady, lay-dee,
Who are you?

Sorry for the passion, words disordered in a heap.
Didn’t mean to make it bleak. Didn’t mean to make her speak.

But you see this is how she might.

Flocked in furious, in flight,
The little bird - the beast - is heard:
Each word, each word, each bite.

I think you're the sea.
Your blue plaid shirt the waters and
My red plaid jacket the sunset,
Our hands are oars,
Yours tracing my fingertips-
My skin-
Arms, legs, and stomach,
Sending shivers down my spine,
Exploring my body like a ship
Sailing out into the horizon.

I hear your heart,
It beats in time with the tide,
Your breath a sweet ocean breeze
As it tousles my hair,
And I'm hyper aware of how
Deep your eyes are.
Not blue,
But brown like the ground of
The earth underneath the water.

Our kisses are dives,
Striving to reach the
Sunken treasure at the bottom
Of your ocean,
Of my ocean,
The pieces are scattered but
We'll find them and
Piece it back together.
Our hands intertwine to
Lock the chest but
I find I drown in your stare

Because seas are violent.
I'd forgotten that, but the thought
Seizes my mind as your waters
Grip my throat and I
Gasp for air but I find I can't
See anymore.

Your hands are cold against my body,
Like the tide of your heart casting me out
Onto the shore,
Naked and sure of indifference
Your breath a typhoon of ice
Hurled perfectly at my chest-
You used this sunset and
Left a storm in my eyes.
Painted a picture of sincerity but
Blue is the color of clarity and
Mine won't forget your
Murderous waves or
Mischievous ways and

Through you I've come to know
Some people aren't that lucky-
We cry alone.
Throw a rock, aim right at our chest,
Our hearts are stone.
We suffer in silence. And
If I could catch all the tears I've cried in a pitcher,
I would rain them down,
Drown a river in my sorrow.
Drown my sorrow in a river?
What's the difference? Life is only borrowed, anyways.

A sensitive
little white
flower,
opens
her
petals
by the
opening
of lunar
light,
seeking
to heal
others
as they
lie in their
dreams, she
whispers
to them
within
their
hearts,
“hear 
these
words, 
and 
allow 
me 
to take 
care 
of you, 
allow my 
petals to 
heal your 
wounds, 
I will gently 
touch your 
tears and 
dissolve 
them 
within 
my own
heart”
the soft
wind
tousles
her, the
painted
one
touched
upon the
flowers
heart,
“tell
me the
secret
to flight”
the fragile
one asked,
it flew
again
into the
nightly
hour,
she felt
a dew,
she
looked
up, it
was the
florist,
who
sung
to her,
“the
secret
is love,
where
it is,
there
is flight”

Prelude to Introduction

We live in a world where our selfishness reaches a point of wanting immortality. Something that has been forbidden to us by a God who promises a better life will wait for us in the next life. Yet there are those who deceive the word of God, and chose to live by their own means of rules, unaware that they are only human, and vulnerable to one of God’s greatest creations. Death is a taboo topic in different parts of the world. Every culture deals with their loss differently from the next. When death comes into the lives of people they always seem to forget that the life of their loved one could have not been created if it were for the opposite of death; Love. Truth be told that the opposite of death is considered birth, but even before birth something had to have created that being before it was even brought to this world. Love has to become a factor when creating new life. As society continues to view these two as bitter opposites, there are those few who understand that the beauty in life does not exist in the way a person wants to life their life, but by how it is given to them, and taken.

When Love & Death Embrace

        What is the meaning in life if the essence that created it, is affiliated with the being that will end it? Why are we breathed in life, only to have it taken away from us? Can it be that we really aren’t meant to live forever, and death is doing us a favor in stopping what ever suffering we have? Can it really be true that out physical life must end, but our whole being will move on to an even greater life? One where love promises life will never end, and we thank death for this new life? Is Death our mother learning to let go of her precious child called Life? Is our father Love who created us through his seed of care?

When Love looked into the eyes of Death, he did not know what to say. For he had fallen for Deaths large, noir, orbs like a foolish romantic he was. Death was not someone people believed to be beautiful, but in fact she was more than beautiful. In a way, she was almost unreal. Unimaginably perfect, that any man would fall for her look of morbid grace to his death bed. The black hooded robe that everyone spoke about were actually her jet black tousles of wavy hair that ran past her whole body as she walked, framing her thin, pale face and physique. She was dreadfully tall that one could only imagine how long her ebony locks were. The stereotypical scythe that held the reputation of fear was actually just her long walking stick she used because…she was blind…

Love did not know exactly why he found Death so appealing. Maybe it was the way she carried herself. Unable to see the people in front of her, but still able to walk with grace towards those who have met their time. Maybe he was just infatuated with her appearance. He could't help but find her morbid, macabre state…warming. But if Love were questioned what it was he adored about Death the most, he would have said her smile, not missing a beat.

It was in her nature to not display any kind of emotions towards others, yet when he was in her presence she couldn’t help smiling with him. Her small, pouty lips were the only thing that has any color in them. Red, the color of romance and affection; the color of blood and deception. Because that was what she was. Love was okay with that…He heard her laugh once. It was random, and completely unexpected. But ever since that day he’s tried to make her laugh every time they would meet. He would even settle more a small chuckle, as long as he heard it from her. It was haunting, and hollow, but inside he knew she wasn’t empty and she wasn’t haunting. All she needed was love.

      The time had come for their reunion. Although they had been together just moments ago, to Love it felt like years had been put between he and Death. He always looked forward to these encounters, yet he still dreaded them. He knew that every time he would meet Death it wouldn’t be for a friendly chat; Death was going to rip his heart out.

Love: It’s nice seeing you again…how long has it been dear? Two weeks maybe? Haha.

Death: It feels more like two hours. Then again what do we know about time…it’s not like I’m a heavenly angel, or God.

Love: …No, you’re not. But then again you aren’t the devil either.

She stayed silent, not sure of how to respond to such a dramatic and confusing comeback from him. He always did this to her. Every time she would lash at herself with the worst of comments, he’d always say the opposite…She didn’t know whether she liked it, or if she was supposed to hate him for it. She didn’t even know if she was supposed to hate anyone at all. Death was always curious about Love’s actions. Ever since they were created he was always this hopeless romantic who was too hopeful in mankind's ability to remain faithful for his own good. He spoke about everything in such a blissful state that Death found herself enchanted by his words from time to time. The optimistic he was compared to her pessimistic. She couldn’t help but wonder if opposites can really attract. Because right now as he stood before her about to die for the infinite time he smiled, and that always pained her to see.

Death: Why do you do this to yourself…why do you let this happen to you every time when you know you can always tell God you’re tired of getting broken every time this happens…why do you let yourself die Love…why do you let the love die?

He smiled at her, and she looked away. **** him. **** his bright smile that made everything okay.  Why couldn’t he see that it literally hurt her to do this to him…She looked up, because she felt something different. Instead of a bright smile she always felt from him…she was met with broken, tired eyes, and a bittersweet smile.

Love: Nothing is meant to last forever dear, not even us. Thats why…when we have to end it, I always look forward to seeing you again. Even if it took a day, a week, a month, or even years. You and I are inseparatable. We’re made for one another darling.

He closed the distance between them, taking her in a warm embrace. If only she could see his face. His angelic, perfect face. Her white eyes could only see a dark outline of him, but even with that she knew he was beautiful.

Love: God really knew what he was doing when he made us. Opposites by fate, yet destined to be lovers. God’s a pretty good Shakespeare isn’t he? Then again he did create him too.

Death could only laugh at his witty thoughts. For once she realized he was right. They were destined to be lovers, just not always together. She guessed thats what it must be like to be a human too. Not everyone born spends their life with their first love. She sort of thought her situation was like that, but it wasn’t either…With the distance they shared coming to a close, Love couldn’t help but get lost in Deaths large pale eyes. With their faces only inches away Death brought their lips together with her cold, thin hands for life’s most bittersweet kiss.
Love: Until next time, my sweet Death.

Death: Until next time, by everlasting love.

In the event of life’s misfortunes, there will be two things that will always be a part of life. Love and Death. Life cannot be created with the absence of love, nor can death keep the balance without the existence of life. Love will forever continue to create life as long as Death continues to let it go. The two things that people can come to fearing the most are histories tragically, oldest soul mates that can never be. Love will always be understand, and Death will always have to let the love go, and Life will continue to be their children they must learn to set free for a better life.

sometimes my apathy falls
like a silk robe to the ground,
and once again I stand before you

naked.

ashamed of myself
I try to cover the monster that you ran from.

I walk on the sands of the hourglass
for our time has ended.

there is only one set of footsteps
because I needed you to carry me
but failed to realize that you were not strong enough.

I sit alone on the beach
unable to listen to Best Coast
because that would make me cry.

I hug myself
and feel very
very small.

the gentle waves of memories
lick at my feet:
your unimpressed face when I laugh at the way you mispronounce words,
or just your face
or just the way you could make me laugh
your disgust when I joke about your **** ***,
or just your ***
or just the way we could joke about that.

it almost makes me smile
but you are the only person alive who knows my tickle spot.

the way your fingers comb from the back of my neck
to my bangs like a fisherman's net,
a feeling the sea breeze wants me to forget
as it tousles my hair violently.

the shore has too much of your face.

I dive into the water to cleanse myself
of the haunting absence of your presence

but I am too small.

my thoughts and your words surround me,
and in my attempt for closure
I am nothing more than closed.

cleansing nothing at all,
I drown in this baptism
as the distorted and unfamiliar
waters of the past soak my lungs
emptying me of breaths of hope
filling me with waters of desperation.

I am sinking into the darkness of depression
my chest compressed like the lungs
of a deep sea diver with no chance of return.

Get a tailor.
If speeches are edited, so should your clothes.
Suits shouldn’t be as big as your dreams.

Marry and be miserable;
or stay a bachelor and
bite the bullet at the ballot box.
Don’t love your mistresses.
Never let a mistress fall in love with you.

Cultivate coldness over glass of sweet tea
and write your principles in pencil,
but keep erasers handy.
Lead gets heavy with idealism.

Cover your tracks with charm,
but keep track of your steps.
Push down ladders as you climb them.

Finally, when you see your reflection in the gloss of your desk
and feel the smooth curves of your cherry bookshelves,
remember that under that finish are the remnants
of what once stood tall and proud.
A glossy exterior can only hope to mask a wild past.

And when you tire of tamed marble;
seeing yourself reflected in nature cut and polished,
come to the sea.
Cast off your leather shoes
– those casualties of your closet –
Roll your suit pants.
Stand firm and absolute.

You, the blond, bright-eyed pilgrim–
camouflaged in slate suits and
ties that hang like nooses.
Love the biting wind as it tousles your hair.
The coldness that demands to be felt.
Let it break like the surf, through your suit
and note the driftwood as it crashes to shore.
So smooth and strange.
A product of its past,
perfect in its imperfection.

Shivering in the wet air,
Grasping to the last of the pink, fragrant
     petals for whatever warmth
     they may provide –
Rain runs over the soft, moistened bark
And falls off in sheets.
The wind tousles outreached branches,
And sighing, it waits
For the sun to bring warmth once more.

The sun caresses my face
And kisses me with tender care.

The wind tousles my hair
While the breeze floats across my unarmed skin.

My iced coffee is cold and bitter on my lips;
I rise to meet the glorious day.

The bell rings in its tower
10 strikes to mark the early hour.

The sky, a piercing and unabashed blue
A color unlike any other hue.

The vernal equinox still lies weeks ahead
But I'll enjoy this brief, warm stead.

I listen as the birds converse and sing their transient songs
I smile, and do my best to whistle along.

Today is a good day.

How dark it gets in the woods on the shadow side of the hill
A fresh breeze of air and how it makes your skin feel

The leaves next to you are moving but you don’t feel the wind through the heat
The earthen smell of summer ending makes your heart skip a beat

A clear blue sky and a playful wind tousles the cornfield
Look at those trees and all the fruit they yield!

The sunshine through the leaves draws a kaleidoscope of color
It makes the forest look so much taller

The pretty spectacle makes you want to say thank you
You feel like hugging a tree and then you just do

"What's your current mood?"
"Well, I'm anxious. But I'm literally anxious all the time. And sleepy. Basically I'm just chill today."*


What makes us girls
might be
when we're silhouetted
as we walk home with a pizza in our arms.
When I stole your band shirt and washed my hair in your sink and then cut it over a pink towel in my lap.
Us sitting under a bridge,
graffiti,
telling us nothing is real,
as birthmarks,
next to the railroad tracks as a train flies by
and tousles our hair.
Your eyes hurting because of the sleep hanging on them
with dark, stained fingers.
Passing a wedding
and being tempted to crash it.
An empty, blue bottle of whipped-cream flavored *****
lying in the dry grass.
Waking up to the sounds of a block party outside.
Knowing that if 11-year-old you saw you now,
she wouldn't believe her eyes.
Laughing until you're positively sure you're bruised inside.
Screaming with joy
because I finally finished my math homework.
Swearing I'm going to grow up and write a sitcom
based on our adventures when I grow up.
Wearing shirts with angel wings on the back.
And
being both terrified
and back-of-your-head-hurts-excited
for the future.

INTO THE INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE INELUCTABLE VISUALITY

Leopold Bloom
tousles my hair.

Tells me I'm a
"...grand little fella altogether!"

His large black eyebrows
look as if they will leap

off his face and land on mine
chew my mind.

Of course he is
only Milo O'Shea.

Actor extraordinaire
from Strick's ULYSSES.

Some concert in the girl's gym
has mad him appear here

before me
quaking in fear.

He is the first man I see
in a tux.

Our class is to recite
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

Was I not nervous?
Jaysus I was so I was!

The spotlight a Medusa
turning us to stone.

An audience a many
headed monster.

I...I...I
petrified.

I throw my voice
out into the dark

like throwing a mad dog
a bone.

"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky."

Guy beside me starts to cry
wee running down his left knee.

Now it's over and I
am returned to myself again.

Meeting Mr. Milo
is just a happenstance.

Later he will will become
Durand Durand

trying to **** Barbarella
with sheer pleasure.

Now,  Zeffirelli's kind friar
in ROMEO AND JULIET.

But for me
he always blossoms

into Bloom
tousling my many many curls.

"A wink of his eye and
a toss his head.

soon gave me to know
I had nothing to dread."

She strokes the beautiful piano keys,
Her music speaks to me.
Her enchanting melody,
So soft and long,

Mingles with the sadness
In her unique song.
The more I listen,
The more the meanings spread,

As her gentle notes dance in my head.
Her delicate hair tousles in the breeze,
As one single tear strokes the piano keys.
Her heart is so broken,

This I can see,
As her beautiful music speaks to me.

I'm at the park on a beautiful, white-sunny day.
I'm with my loved ones, I see them playing in the sand.
My eyes get that lovely ache from the bright sun,
and I am warm, dry, and sleepy.
The wind tousles my hair softly,
I have dandelions in my pocket.
My head is hot and my feet are not.
I could stay this way for the rest of my days.

New bench, new scene.
Cooler wind, more green.
I smile at the leaves and yes, they smile back.
Ducks in the stream go quack quack quack.
Under my **** it says "NATE + MANDIE FOREVER".
Somewhere I wonder if they're still together.

THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT
      RICHARD MILHOUS NIXON

( for John Smith )

It was...
Oct 5th - 1970.

A Monday.


The day had gone
from dry to drizzle to

wet.


It was the 278th day
of the year...only

87 days remaining
until the end of the year.

I knew I had to act now.
It was now...or never.

Time? I forget the time.
Time was standing still.

Huge clouds
menaced the horizon

impersonating an Armada
of Spanish Galleons.

Full sail ahead then.
I took a step into my future.

The smiling President drawing
nearer and nearer.

In Nass
the drenched crowed cheered.

In Newbridge now
flocks of children chase the car

like he was some
kinda Piper from Hamelin.

I kept a close eye on
the secret service

all dressed in the same suit
looking like clones

of one another
talking into their sleeves.

My gaze searches and settles
upon him

like the cross-hairs
of a ******'s rifle.

Sure he had called his setter
King Timahoe

after where his folks came from
another American looking for his roots

bolstering the Irish-American vote.

And now here he was
the man himself

in person
the 37th President.

Irish colleens dancing
upon a make-shift stage

in the square
of Kildare.

He's here oh so near
I can see the pores of his skin

a bead of sweat trickles into
that infamous Nixon grin.

Dare I do it now?
My hair falling into my eyes.

My mind flashes back to
1729

when his Quaker ancestors
fled the Emerald Isle.

Three centuries pass by in a second and
we're here

in the middle of
The Vietnam War

and he speaks of
"a passion for peace...preventing war...building peace."

Yeah yeah...sure sure!

Carpet bombing Cambodia
the famous Nixon duplicity

the "credibility gap" opening
between what he says and what he does.

Oh there are protests
he has 5 eggs hurlers.

"Splatsplatsplatsplat and splat!"
Only one near hit.

And one man protesting
the price of a pint

up'd( for the occasion )to
one shilling and jaysus seven pence.

What's the world
coming to?

School kids waving
their plastic( in slow mo )

American flags
on little plastic sticks.

I raise my flag.
I raise my...voice

shooting my mouth off
with a great shout:

'TRICKY DICKY! TRICKY DICKY!
WOULD YOU BUY A USED CAR FROM THIS MAN!"

Several secret service scowl.
My words hit him...Nixon frowns.

Character assassination.

Mr. McCann
aka "The Bicycle Man!"

curses me
in Irish.

After all he is
my Irish teacher.

D'anam leis an diabhal...Ó Diomasaigh!"
("Your soul to the devil...Dempsey!")

"THE TIME HAS COME TO CALL
A ***** A ****** SHOVEL..."

I yell as
I get a clip around the ear.

McCann holds his hand
over my mouth.

Then suddenly Nixon
is no longer

there.

The hurled words
disappear into the air.

Us school boys
***** damply back to double Maths.

The De La Salle
Academy looming up before us.

Mr. McCann
hoovers near.

I cover both
my ears.

But he only tousles
my hair.

"Ahhh mo amadán beag cróga!"
( "Ahhh my brave little fool!")

"Maith an bhuachaill...maith an bhuachaill!"
( "Good boy...good boy!")

He grins.
Slips me a sixpence.

I sing the new Led Zep
only released that day.

"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing."

Being only 12
I had done what had to be done.

My political life
had only just begun.

I'm fighting the breeze as it tousles' my hair.
My fingers are rapiers, they're cutting the cold
The wind carries lances and they're fighting back.
The glowing sun is icy.
Brightens up the morning sky.
Still so cold, I am ready to cry.
Inhaling the cold and my lungs feel like cracking.
Deceit fills the sun loaded skies.
The smart bite of frostbite, still waters my eyes.
Flowers, fancy flowers.
Annually sparkle the beds.
They're no longer sleeping.
Springtime's weak sunshine, gives them their life.
Naughty husband pinches a few to give to his wife.
The children know mother's day is on the way.
I remember stealing daffodils from the roadway outside my house.
To give to my mother when I was a mouse.
Could never steal flowers now.
It's a criminal offense.
They smile so very beautifully.
Behind a gilded fence.
(c) Livvi

In the distance, there is a cliff
I go there sometimes
To hang my toes off the edge
Maybe my legs; eat some lunch
Look out at everything

There's an old oak there
Half off the edge
It's roots are dug in pretty well
But that's only half
Others seem to keep growing
Seeking down, looking for soil
You can tell its alive

You can tell its strong
It seems to have this perspective
Probably from the view
But most of the cliff is gone
And it's still here

So I'll sit in its shade
Eat my lunch, take a nap
A gentle breeze tousles my hair
Like a lover's hand, finger's touch
But it's just a branch
The old oak's touch
Just the wind

So here we lie in our bed of lies but really it’s just a couch in an overheated dorm room. We try to alleviate the aroma of our sin by opening a window, letting the breeze of conscience in. It tousles my hair, but yours lies flat.  It cools the sweat on our bodies and the heat of our action. In a moment what was pleasure has turned into shame. I become awkward and wish the courage liquid provided me hadn’t worn off. I notice my naked body in a way I didn’t before. I suddenly want to cover up; I’m embarrassed in front of you. We delved into the initial sin, letting lust be our next. Now we’ve conquered lust and made it our own. But what happens next? Naked bodies, afraid to touch, realizing that the other doesn’t belong to us.  It’s still warm in here although the breeze is cooling. Your body is cold and in return so are my words. Awkward silence, each to our own thought. The quickest escape? I can read your mind. I throw you your clothes. We hesitate a goodbye kiss. Goodbye had meant nothing before this. Your face is red, your hair a mess. You leave in a hurry and I’m all too relieved. With the door shut behind you I return to the instigator of our lying bed. Which is really just a couch. Enough liquid: to give me the courage, to ignore the shame, to do it again.

That I was alive: I suppose,

there was a certain eager meaning to
these moments–wide and short–these
hours–fat and narrow–these years
long and deep–

the stars, the lunging of my breast, the
turned curving of a sunrise, the rapid
expulsion of blood, tunneling suddenly through artery and vein;
I guess.

Looking and wondering; I turn my
hand over in a spent beam of sunlight. Its span tumbling with that heavy glow–it iridesces.

(I love you.

Knowing I will die–I love you.)

I am walking in some hall. There is the fast purring of a cat. Easily my breath inhumes and exhumes the space within my chest. Heart beating. Air and flesh exchange.

How easily it is to be–it seems these
hands are mine over your *******. I put
my fingers in your mouth. Your tongue
tousles their fiber. I make and unmake
myself in your hips.

The thick leaning of this chair into my back–where are you?

(Reading this perhaps.

And am I alive? And where?

Or dead?

Could be.)

And what is death?

Dying after all, it is, I guess, what I am.


There was the forest today. And five minutes ago I kissed you.


I am incomplete–I can feel
the way this shirt turns over the skin of
my arm. Somebody is speaking French on the radio.


"I will be dead someday." I want to whisper.


(I will be dead someday.


I love you.)

The wind pulls on me
It tousles my hair and says come and play
Pushing and pulling me as I walk
Gleefully blowing dead leaves into me
When inside I don't feel it at all
That tug for adventure that thirst for thrill
The wind is there as a reminder for you
A reminder that nature is always there and ready.

THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT
      RICHARD MILHOUS NIXON

( for John Smith )

It was...
Oct 5th - 1970.

A Monday.

It was the 278th day
of the year...only

87 days remaining
until the end of the year.

I knew I had to act now.
It was now...or never.

Time? I forget the time.
Time was standing still.

Huge clouds
menaced the horizon

impersonating an Armada
of Spanish Galleons.

Full sail ahead then.
I took a step into my future.

The smiling President drawing
nearer and nearer.

In Nass
the drenched crowed cheered.

In Newbridge now
flocks of children chase the car

like he was some
kinda Piper from Hamelin.

I kept a close eye on
the secret service

all dressed in the same suit
looking like clones

of one another
talking into their sleeves.

My gaze searches and settles
upon him

like the cross-hairs
of a ******'s rifle.

Sure he had called his setter
King Timahoe

after where his folks came from
another American looking for his roots

bolstering the Irish-American vote.

And now here he was
the man himself

in person
the 37th President.

Irish colleens dancing
upon a make-shift stage

in the square
of Kildare.

He's here oh so near
I can see the pores of his skin

a bead of sweat trickles into
that infamous Nixon grin.

Dare I do it now?
My hair falling into my eyes.

My mind flashes back to
1729

when his Quaker ancestors
fled the Emerald Isle.

Three centuries pass by in a second and
we're here

in the middle of
The Vietnam War

and he speaks of
"a passion for peace...preventing war...building peace."

Yeah yeah...sure sure!

Carpet bombing Cambodia
the famous Nixon duplicity

the "credibility gap" opening
between what he says and what he does.

Oh there are protests
he has 5 eggs hurlers.

"Splatsplatsplatsplat and splat!"
Only one near hit.

And one man protesting
the price of a pint

up'd( for the occasion )to
one shilling and jaysus seven pence.

What's the world
coming to?

School kids waving
their plastic( in slow mo )

American flags
on little plastic sticks.

I raise my flag.
I raise my...voice

shooting my mouth off
with a great shout:

'TRICKY DICKY! TRICKY DICKY!
WOULD YOU BUY A USED CAR FROM THIS MAN!"

Several secret service scowl.
My words hit him...Nixon frowns.

Character assassination.

Mr. McCann
aka "The Bicycle Man!"

curses me
in Irish.

After all he is
my Irish teacher.

D'anam leis an diabhal...Ó Diomasaigh!"
("Your soul to the devil...Dempsey!")

"THE TIME HAS COME TO CALL
A ***** A ****** SHOVEL..."

I yell as
I get a clip around the ear.

McCann holds his hand
over my mouth.

Then suddenly Nixon
is no longer

there.

The hurled words
disappear into the air.

Us school boys
***** damply back to double Maths.

The De La Salle
Academy looming up before us.

Mr. McCann
hoovers near.

I cover both
my ears.

But he only tousles
my hair.

"Ahhh mo amadán beag cróga!"
( "Ahhh my brave little fool!")

"Maith an bhuachaill...maith an bhuachaill!"
( "Good boy...good boy!")

He grins.
Slips me a sixpence.

I sing the new Led Zep
only released that day.

"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing."

Being only 12
I had done what had to be done.

My political life
had only just begun.

there are good days
and i can love the sun beaming at my laugh
i can feel the canine affection
as the wind playfully tousles my hair
i can sing along to the sweet melodies
that the birds chime into the air
there are good days

but there are days when
the sun seems to stay in the sky for too long
and its malignant rays seem to pierce my eyes without mercy
and when night,
blissful, dreamless night,
finally sets
all i can hear is the echo of a tap
drip

          drip

                    dripping

its hollow notes a dull ache in my mind
where i reel with a tempest of self hatred
while i bite my knees
and rock to and fro to the eddies of worthlessness;
i am losing.
i'm fighting, believe me,
i'm fighting
but my arms around my knees
and the movement of my body
is a dull sword
and i am tired, so tired

but there are good days



There are good days.

Salt in the air
Wind on my skin
Tousles my hair
Breathing it in.
Spray from the mist
All stresses cease
Time won’t exist
Life is at peace.

I breathe your loving words in deeply
Fill my lungs with your sweetness
And exhale those petty insecurities
That once stained them black.

Your gentle smiles tickle my skin
Your laughter tousles my hair,
Dead leaves swirl upon cold concrete
In the wake of your joy.

But your fury.

It is screaming against my window
Rattling the glass like old bones
It is scraping my skin raw
I cannot speak with such chapped lips.

And the silence after,
My hollow chest still echos your gusts
Your cold front has torn the warmth
From my very bones.

Perhaps,
Next time the wind howls
And the trees shudder
I will just stay inside.

It was so long ago a lifetime it seems.
I had no idea I was happy back then.
In the cool spring morning the light
is lilac drenched the trellis hanging
In its fragrant abundance.
Reaching for the coffee ***
We sit on the porch for a moment
of marital tranquility
Our children
Still sleeping the youngest as new
as the springtime.
I looked at you then, I remember
not as my wife or mother
of our children but as the woman
I could never get enough of when
We first met.
The fragrant breeze tousles your long hair
I think how sweet it would feel
Against my bare chest in our bed.
If only I could capture the purple
fragrance of the lilacs
and trap it in jar together
with this feeling of love I had for you.
To open again and again
through the years.
If you were to ask me now
Were you happy back then my love?
There in the mystical glow
of a lilac carpet
in a distant spring morning
I would have said
Yes my love
Very Happy
So Very Happy.

Lost leaves ago, before
the bark- clad savage
ruled with iron lung,
when  laurels of
a one- room den, grew
sleek with wet- lid plunder
my sauntering in tousles of
a quick and crease-less happiness
percieved the gifted wish of secret birds.

birds that combed the milking beech
in lemon centred madrigals
to cove their Egypt orison
from dragon banks of slippered fern
Who threw their mooted sermons on
a shivering uncertainty that bubbled
through my vernal rut of optimistic blood


Such useless pleasure, I was told
That I was not a Father's son
yet bore his term an absolute.
As all my nimble colours ran, I
wore his pungent bitterness
Became the thing that he preferred

Before the dungeon keys had turned
basket weaving weeks of youth

I took the gifted wish
of secret birds.

It was so long ago a lifetime it seems.
I had no idea I was happy back then.
In the cool spring morning the light
is lilac drenched the trellis hanging
In its fragrant abundance.
Reaching for the coffee ***
We sit on the porch for a moment
of marital tranquility
Our children
Still sleeping the youngest as new
as the springtime.
I looked at you then, I remember
not as my wife or mother
of our children but as the woman
I could never get enough of when
We first met.
The fragrant breeze tousles your long hair
I think how sweet it would feel
Against my bare chest in our bed.
If only I could capture the purple
fragrance of the lilacs
and trap it in jar together
with this feeling of love I had for you.
To open again and again
through the years.
If you were to ask me now
Were you happy back then my love?
There in the mystical glow
of a lilac carpet
in a distant spring morning
I would have said
Yes my love
Very Happy
So Very Happy.

the suns soft soothing rays:
golden, gleaming.
honeysuckling throughout the field
where you used to play.

your childhood waning with the moon
the sweet grass once a forest:
never ending. a story that
strayed between you and I.

ere long the wind blows,
and tousles your hair.
a glint in your hazelnut eyes
straying towards my plane.

so I linger for a mile:
listlessly, illusory.
and I saw your sweet smile
hidden beneath the mire.

I grieve the day I breathe my last and
can no longer see the way the
spring sun shines through trees and
dances through the grass in
so many shades of green.
Or how it brings out the red in your hair you
always swore was there as the
wind tousles it across your face,
getting caught in the corner of the
smirk you can’t hide.
I’ll miss you being mine.

THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT
      RICHARD MILHOUS NIXON


It was...
Oct 5th - 1970.

A Monday.

It was the 278th day
of the year...only

87 days remaining
until the end of the year.

I knew I had to act now.
It was now...or never.

Time? I forget the time.
Time was standing still.

Huge clouds
menaced the horizon

impersonating an Armada
of Spanish Galleons.

Full sail ahead then.
I took a step into my future.

The smiling President drawing
nearer and nearer.

In Nass
the drenched crowed cheered.

In Newbridge now
flocks of children chase the car

like he was some
kinda Piper from Hamelin.

I kept a close eye on
the secret service

all dressed in the same suit
looking like clones

of one another
talking into their sleeves.

My gaze searches and settles
upon him

like the cross-hairs
of a ******'s rifle.

Sure he had called his setter
King Timahoe

after where his folks came from
another American looking for his roots

bolstering the Irish-American vote.

And now here he was
the man himself

in person
the 37th President.

Irish colleens dancing
upon a make-shift stage

in the square
of Kildare.

He's here oh so near
I can see the pores of his skin

a bead of sweat trickles into
that infamous Nixon grin.

Dare I do it now?
My hair falling into my eyes.

My mind flashes back to
1729

when his Quaker ancestors
fled the Emerald Isle.

Three centuries pass by in a second and
we're here

in the middle of
The Vietnam War

and he speaks of
"a passion for peace...preventing war...building peace."

Yeah yeah...sure sure!

Carpet bombing Cambodia
the famous Nixon duplicity

the "credibility gap" opening
between what he says and what he does.

Oh there are protests
he has 5 eggs hurlers.

"Splatsplatsplatsplat and splat!"
Only one near hit.

And one man protesting
the price of a pint

up'd( for the occasion )to
one shilling and jaysus seven pence.

What's the world
coming to?

School kids waving
their plastic( in slow mo )

American flags
on little plastic sticks.

I raise my flag.
I raise my...voice

shooting my mouth off
with a great shout:

'TRICKY DICKY! TRICKY DICKY!
WOULD YOU BUY A USED CAR FROM THIS MAN!"

Several secret service scowl.
My words hit him...Nixon frowns.

Character assassination.

Mr. McCann
aka "The Bicycle Man!"

curses me
in Irish.

After all he is
my Irish teacher.

D'anam leis an diabhal...Ó Diomasaigh!"
("Your soul to the devil...Dempsey!")

"THE TIME HAS COME TO CALL
A ***** A ****** SHOVEL..."

I yell as
I get a clip around the ear.

McCann holds his hand
over my mouth.

Then suddenly Nixon
is no longer

there.

The hurled words
disappear into the air.

Us school boys
***** damply back to double Maths.

The De La Salle
Academy looming up before us.

Mr. McCann
hoovers near.

I cover both
my ears.

But he only tousles
my hair.

"Ahhh mo amadán beag cróga!"
( "Ahhh my brave little fool!")

"Maith an bhuachaill...maith an bhuachaill!"
( "Good boy...good boy!")

He grins.
Slips me a sixpence.

I sing the new Led Zep
only released that day.

"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing."

Being only 12
I had done what had to be done.

My political life
had only just begun.

THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT
      RICHARD MILHOUS NIXON

It was...
Oct 5th - 1970.

A Monday.

It was the 278th day
of the year...only

87 days remaining
until the end of the year.

I knew I had to act now.
It was now...or never.

Time? I forget the time.
Time was standing still.

Huge clouds
menaced the horizon

impersonating an Armada
of Spanish Galleons.

Full sail ahead then.
I took a step into my future.

The smiling President drawing
nearer and nearer.

In Nass
the drenched crowed cheered.

In Newbridge now
flocks of children chase the car

like he was some
kinda Piper from Hamelin.

I kept a close eye on
the secret service

all dressed in the same suit
looking like clones

of one another
talking into their sleeves.

My gaze searches and settles
upon him

like the cross-hairs
of a ******'s rifle.

Sure he had called his setter
King Timahoe

after where his folks came from
another American looking for his roots

bolstering the Irish-American vote.

And now here he was
the man himself

in person
the 37th President.

Irish colleens dancing
upon a make-shift stage

in the square
of Kildare.

He's here oh so near
I can see the pores of his skin

a bead of sweat trickles into
that infamous Nixon grin.

Dare I do it now?
My hair falling into my eyes.

My mind flashes back to
1729

when his Quaker ancestors
fled the Emerald Isle.

Three centuries pass by in a second and
we're here

in the middle of
The Vietnam War

and he speaks of
"a passion for peace...preventing war...building peace."

Yeah yeah...sure sure!

Carpet bombing Cambodia
the famous Nixon duplicity

the "credibility gap" opening
between what he says and what he does.

Oh there are protests
he has 5 eggs hurlers.

"Splatsplatsplatsplat and splat!"
Only one near hit.

And one man protesting
the price of a pint

up'd( for the occasion )to
one shilling and jaysus seven pence.

What's the world
coming to?

School kids waving
their plastic( in slow mo )

American flags
on little plastic sticks.

I raise my flag.
I raise my...voice

shooting my mouth off
with a great shout:

'TRICKY DICKY! TRICKY DICKY!
WOULD YOU BUY A USED CAR FROM THIS MAN!"

Several secret service scowl.
My words hit him...Nixon frowns.

Character assassination.

Mr. McCann
aka "The Bicycle Man!"

curses me
in Irish.

After all he is
my Irish teacher.

D'anam leis an diabhal...Ó Diomasaigh!"
("Your soul to the devil...Dempsey!")

"THE TIME HAS COME TO CALL
A ***** A ****** SHOVEL..."

I yell as
I get a clip around the ear.

McCann holds his hand
over my mouth.

Then suddenly Nixon
is no longer

there.

The hurled words
disappear into the air.

Us school boys
***** damply back to double Maths.

The De La Salle
Academy looming up before us.

Mr. McCann
hoovers near.

I cover both
my ears.

But he only tousles
my hair.

"Ahhh mo amadán beag cróga!"
( "Ahhh my brave little fool!")

"Maith an bhuachaill...maith an bhuachaill!"
( "Good boy...good boy!")

He grins.
Slips me a sixpence.

I sing the new Led Zep
only released that day.

"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing."

Being only 12
I had done what had to be done.

My political life
had only just begun.
*

The long forgotten "never-to-be-forgotten" visit made to Hodgestown near Timahoe in the county of Kildare back in the day as we leave the Sixties sadly behind us for the austerity of the '70's and the "Yes we can" of the Sixties begins to loose its lustre.

The Timahoeans are not exactly proud of giving the world Mr. Nixon and stay quite quiet about it. The Kennedy visit was the golden one and Clinton and Reagan had theirs but Tricky Dicky's one has faded into the fog of history.

"Jessamyn West, who has written so eloquently about the background of our family, has said, the Quakers have a passion for peace. My mother was a pacifist. My grandmother was a pacifist. Jessamyn's mother was, her grandmother, her grandfather, going back as far as we know."

President Nixon in the Timahoe graveyard.

Don't know what happened to him then!

"The time has come to call a ***** a ****** shovel. This country is in an undeclared and unexplained war in Vietnam. Our masters have a lot of long and fancy names for it, like escalation and retaliation, but it is a war just the same." - James Reston.

"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing."

Led Zeppelin 111 - Immigrant Song.

love was there,
I couldn't see her,
got caught  once again,
in red mist,
kicking for reactions,
with a litany long, list,
love doesn't act like this,
she hugs you closer,
plants a kiss,
on kicking boot, when hurled out door,
her sweet voice moans,
I love you more.
loves you, when you're at the gate,
swings on the axe,
that pounds out hate ,
love held you closer,
talks soft and low,
she understands your feeling so,
"at least" she whispers,
"you act so real,
when tormented by, the way you feel",
She never judges, never warns,
sits with you
all night and day,
she doesn't tell you "life is grand",
just feels your pain
holds your hand,
illuminates your pardon if you need,
kisses your wounds,
when you bleed,
she holds your face, tousles your hair,
rebuilds your temple,
with special care
hugs warmly, when you shake with fear,
i didn't know,  that she was there,
following down to depths of earth,
walks with you in fire,
rubs off the dirt,
she carries a light profound, from skies above,
the twinkling of stars,
white feathers, peace dove.
She is there for everyone,
all are equal under this sun.