Remembering Seamus.

Since the launch of “Patience and the Prodigal” which was so successful we took time out to reflect and reassess. The death of our greatest poet, Seamus Heaney, spurred us into scribbling again. He shall not be replaced in our lifetime. We dedicate our first entry of this new phase to his memory and the celebration of his special life.

Remembering Seamus.

Departed from the heaven of education

to the education of Heaven

swaddled in Mercury's mane,

Cirrus mopping his brow

Abandoned for now; the rain.

In the hedgerows the blackberries ripened

to bid farewell in purple salute,

The populous moths fluttered in tandem

Sir James gave voice to his golden flute.

The land faintly swelling in weary sigh

at the leaving of one of it's own

fair sons, perhaps the pick of the crop

another stalk dug, another meadow mown.

His name thrumming in the telegraph wires

the lapping of Lough Neagh, a lament,

the saucer eyed silvers pause for a while

in the Gulf Stream, snake bodies bent.

Eustachian tube retired now

as locking lung and milling mind,

Grateful we are to his snug squat pen

His greatness left behind.

Is his the happy haunting ground

better than the hooded crows?

His final verse is grounded

now he finally knows.

 

Walter.

 

He was of the fields of lonesome bush

of grass and dock and stubborn rush

the golden birch and hawthorn bush

brown clay and rock and earth.

Bigger than life, that simple mile

that left him such a little while

Big man, big heart, beaming smile

he wore each day from birth.

Tractor, trailer, nut and wheel,

Cattle and chat, tangle and deal,

Apple juice and wide appeal

These were his favourite toys.

Working steady, in yard and shed

By the sweat of brow he won his bread

Mother, family, curls on head,

His treasure trove of joys.

He left his post, his human face,

He left us robbed of his good grace,

and filled us with an empty space

to go to those on High,

His body lies in sacred ground

the mourners scattered all around,

The wings of doves echoed the sound

of Walter's spirit fly.

(dedicated to Walter Moorhead, his life a tribute to nature)

Why Bother?

You pay your Easter dues,

Tell your neighbour all the news,

Pretend you like the blues

to suit the listener.

Climate change is cool

Al Gore is no ones fool

Baby needs a name; you'll

go and Christen her.

We polish up the car,

Buy all round us at the bar

Never better par

They might resent that.

Hunt with hungry hound

with hare still pal around,

Sure both of them are sound

which way you look at.

From Calvary I borrow nails

From Kipling I invent my tales

Of Jungle Books and schooner gales

and ends that conjure If,

These games are played to suit the mob

To cater for Jack, Jill and Bob

and hands outstretched to hob

of supple fingers stiff.

We play a game, its all the same

to mantle hewn to hide our fame

and find a victim for our shame

in any corner,

We live the metamorphic lie

and truth convinces us to die,

Lie stark to unforgiving sky

but never warn her.

Friend to one, friend to all,

To ox and ass in humble stall

Patrick, Peter and Saint Paul

and Holy Mother.

Say thanks when you are duly paid,

Smile when you are still afraid

Dismiss the truth, bring on charade,

Why should I bother?

Patience and the Prodigal/Launched.

We thank our readers who inspire
our syllables, commas and colons
word, verse, phrase and full stop.
We wondered ourselves would it end
of a sudden or slowly like the
wind-down of a spinning top.
Comments come kindly if fair
be the fare of the bleeding nib
dribbling on blank,
No comment at all is a mercy
betimes when cruel might
be one with frank.
Ten times more than the years AD
the views on our blog
in a year and a half,
To think when we started
we did it for fun,for amusement,
diversion, a laugh.
We the converted, converted the words
into tenants for pages
folded and creased under cover,
Words about people and dreams
and events, towers and ships,
sad silent maid and her lover.
Its all together now,
back from the printers
spine as proud as a column,
We invited our pals and their pals
to a party, a word celebration,
Tonight we launch precious volume.

My Father's Steps

My father developed a curious walk

after he took the pledge,

Foot-falling spot carefully chosen

as if he were treading a narrow ledge

on the rim of a great lake of porter.

Inhale twice, exhale once,

between each ponderous pace,

I never saw anything so measured,

Square root of a sober face,

Dry now since October.

Even as he stepped to the side of his bed

to ground his prayers in a trance,

He left just enough room for his knees

as would any lover of the dance,

Jig or reel,above her.

After the pledge he trod carefully

never treading on her dreams,

A decade of years and one of the Rosary

and then it all ended it seems

to my bended recalling.

He went back to his random gait again,

Little regard for steady or sure,

Sometimes a rock, often a leaf,

three months rich, six months poor

at the whim of the demon.

Today in my wanderings it came back clear

in the trees, from my own out loud talk.

Of late my own young man said wryly,

“Dad, where did you get that funny walk

I never noticed before”.

(dedicated to Edward, grandson of Ned)

The Busker

On Tuesday, on main street
I passed two relic wrecks,
An old man and his music
fused in wheezy breath.
Accordion stretched and strangled
giving off its pain,
I'ts puppet-masters fingers
sheening in the rain.
He filled the man-made lungs with air,
exhausting fumes, his own,
He tried and failed and tried again
to give the air a tone.
Scant heed he passed to passer-by
who swept the shuttered face,
The copper sodden penny cap,
pathetic saving grace.
The old man and his failure
kept each other warm
to a dirge of long lost melody,
Pandora's box in arm.

(dedicated to the 'box', Irish accordion)

To my Children. May Day 2014

 

A point of life between my parents dust

and yours, my precious children, that is I.

A bearer of the ills which bear I must

We breathe together briefly; soon I fly.

I've seen you come to being, one by one,

In labour wards of nurse and sometimes stay,

Like prismatic colours from the rising sun

Willing you to live another day.

New feathers, dropped from angel's wings,

Satellites, around your mother's sun,

Begot from the wisdom that with fear begins

The unimaginable wheel of time is spun.

Labour's storm that has found a nest

when wisdom stands aside for nature's force,

I tell myself you're better than the rest,

No father ever spawned a Trojan horse.

Love transferred by lips that form the kisses

to eyelids shutting out the the unseen face,

Repeated, thousand times on nights as this is,

You had no say in choosing time or place.

You know me well now; don't know me at all!

Can only gauge myself when I'm asleep

You have no probe to measure rise or fall

or tell if I'm a shallow well or deep.

I never did enough for you or can,

Can't even guess what you expect of me,

Sometimes a furtive glance or curious scan,

If only I could see what you can see.

The Reaper has no diary, makes no date,

Life and death, each the other cause,

There is no antidote to fate,

Flesh will perish, to prove it never was.

A convicted prisoner in my grated cell

I am, awaiting truth, grim arbiter of all,

The moon, the waiting and the tremulous bell

still penetrate this finite wall.

Departing sunbeams cannot last,

Hearken the ferryman, one way ticket from land,

And what my judgment when I'm past?

A safe or slip from your father's hand?

My Abbeyshrule

Where Inny sneaks past sentry arch

February's breath puts life in March,

And silver birch looks down on larch

By Abbeyshrule.

Where simple people cross the bridge

to set a drill or Champion ridge,

the well stocked pantry is the fridge

in Abbeyshrule.

Royal Canal and graveyard full

murder of crows, one herring gull,

Repeated gossip never dull

at Abbeyshrule.

The peat is deep in Askey bog,

Twin green shades of grass and frog

Man's thirst is quenched by rustic grog,

near Abbeyshrule.

Where bell sticks out it's tongue at noon

Sign of the Cross, Angelus tune,

Maple dressed in light maroon

round Abbeyshrule.

Where hope and friendship never die,

Our tent a bright Cerulean sky,

A glorious jigsaw from on high,

My Abbeyshrule.

( Dedicated to Seamus MacAogain 'El Peregrino' master scribe )

The Maid in Waiting

I saw her standing at the gate,

She of slender solemn face,

The shoe-horn hollow of her throat

Modigliani model out of place.

Alone she stood beside that gate

Waiting for what, a lover late?

Sentry gaze searching far,

Slim fingers coiled on topmost bar.

She wore an oatmeal dress of stuff

Not shop bought, made by hand,

A brown plaid shawl on shoulders thrown

A maiden of the land?

Freckles dotted nose and cheek,

Frozen lashes long and sleek,

Bosom slight yet shyly proud,

Profile framed by fleecy cloud.

And once or twice she seemed to sigh

As if resigned to God knows what,

Yet still immobile she remained

Reminder of the wife of Lot.

I watched her for what seemed an age

Still she never changed the page,

Quick heel and she deserted me

Left with no choice but to be.

Reparation

I've done a lot of sinning in my time

both home and away,

now it's time to pay;

to whitewash stains with penitential lime.

Some beat their breasts with clenched claws,

others fast and pray,

this is not my way,

I prefer the Camino of plod and pause.

Like Padraic Colum's 'old woman of the roads'

I meander quietly in lanes

exercising varicose veins

hauling hempen sacks full of discard loads.

For my sins I walk many miles by day

Picking up litter and dirt

sharing a common hurt

with all things rejected and thrown away.

I wipe plastic bottles from the face of the grass

beer cans and cardboard

soft toys once adored

daily mirrors, daily mails, brown and white broken glass.

Like Frost I take the roads less traveled

remote trails and paths,

rusty pails and baths

I haul to roads with surface graveled.

Today in a farmer's feeding bag I found a little lamb

still warm but dead

the plastic red

and pondered the memory of the little ones mam.

Was there grief for the life finished at the start

no gambol or bounce,

no flurry or flounce,

just the basin of a drain to house a silent heart.

Everyday a pilgrimage of recovering the dead

and useless forgotten sins

without the benefit of bins

or the dark restful sanctuary of a garden shed.

Sea of penance never ending debt of compensation

for wayward ways

and wicked days,

an endless trek in search of reparation.

This and That

Happiness has limits,

Suffering has none

Darkness can blind

as can the sun.

Truth can be bitter

lies often sweet,

Victory's sibling;

Undervalued defeat.

Sometimes neglect

is safer than care,

Foul can be handled

better than fair.

Plumage is flattery

so is a kiss,

Lowly the cat

at chimney-top piss.

Nose and eyes

look down on mouth,

North wind is bitter,

deadly the south.

A hearth has two sides

fire between,

ripe black banana

better than green?

With duck quill in hand

where writes the sage

Is the verse better

in margin or page?

Freedom is complex

slavery plain,

where is the healer

without pain?

Futures left lying

in old men's wills,

Life is a trial,

Death cures all ills.

The Shrew who knew.

I met an old lady in the forest today,

A weathered tarmagent shrew,

She bound me in the noose of chat

and told me all she knew.

She said “clipping hair is a waste of time

it always grows back again

despite the fact that it's dead,

and died free from pain.

People are like childhood diseases,

endure them and quickly pass on

by the greedy and well dressed, they're vulgar,

ignore them, they'll soon be gone.

The practise of hardship

is the one true religion,

Reason has no life of it's own,

the back stroke of revenge swims everywhere,

thought and tongue rarely agree,

you must trust yourself alone.

Colourful and useless as a cage of canaries

are the colons and commas of the mind,

a morsel of ground, a handful of grains,

are more than enough to bind.

Condemn the parson, poverty,

never neglect the poor,

care for the sick and the maimed,

banish disease from your door.

Fence only with words, sing with the birds,

make friends with bramble and tree,

pray direct to your maker

to guide all your dreams

and set all your losses free.

There is no evil in the bag of sin

where is the law for mute swans?

the clay is your mother and father

only earth can loosen your bonds.”

“I'm off now” she said, “I have further to go,

and must gather fresh herbs for my tea,

think of me now and then, and if you have time

say a prayer for yourself and for me”.

My Guardian Spectre

My spectre with me night and day,

Wild beast, she guards my way.

Images far within, cause

constant weeping for my sin.

My pride and scorn

cause my spectre to mourn,

With jealousies and fears

I fill for me a vessel of tears.

A fathom into the deep

we wander, then we weep.

I am sorrowfull, she is gone,

How will I face the next dawn?.

Plans.

Father Pius heard confession

from every sinner there,

Before granting absolution

he passed on,

to God knows where.

Grandad told a story

about old Shep

his faithful friend,

Grandad closed his eyes

before his story reached it's end.

My father tilled

the narrow drills

and measured each the same,

and father melted into earth

before the harvest came.

Mother hung

the dripping clothes

while measuring the sky,

and mother joined the rainbow

before the clothes did dry.

I never plan

too far ahead,

just one step at a time,

for deeds yet to be acted

can be saintly works or crime.

Dreams I Barely Remember.

Sleep, that friendly darkness,

that reality in escape,

brought me many places without fare,

Made me at ease, bade me lie down

with the fox the badger and the hare.

On a Tuesday night at ten

I climbed the Eiffel Tower

and with one spring of boundless power

I lit he torch of the Lady in Liberty's Bay

without flame or taper,

just a glint from rainbows ray.

I met my mother one trip,

she told me a dirty joke;

I chastised her there and then,

she, who never in life

a vulgar word spoke.

I rode a wooden horse twice

round the Derby test

and got there first in record time

waited for the rest

who must have lost their way

at Epsom Downs that day.

I asked a wizard to tell me

the texture and taste of swan

He told it was poison unless

shot in the back of the neck by a

bullet out of the mouth of a gun

that had never killed before.

I aimed my pea shooter at the moon,

the ricochet felled the brave bird

feathers flying aft and fore.

She landed both plucked and trussed

and roasted on Vesuvius spit

Moses and I broke the wishbone

It wasn't a one-sided split.

One night in a fit of pique

I dipped my straw in the Red Sea

and supped and watered the Kalahari

and sang “what will be, will be”.

On another occasion I rambled buck naked

into a party on Capitol Hill,

Michelle was scarlet, mortified,

Barrack is glaring still.

With big red cabbage leaves

I have played 'she loves me, she loves me not'

I can only hope and pray to remember

the millions of dreams I forgot.

A man I once knew.

I once knew a man, a remarkable man,

a man called Adam Bell,

His comings and goings were strange and alone

sacred and sterile as an old monk's cell.

At the back door of mediocrity

he pitched his tent,

Hung his soul on the gable of Heaven to dry,

fumbled and fell on the rungs of fate

narrow grin on the lips, smile dead in the eye.

His face was the colour of a fallen leaf,

His hair crow-black as a furnace door,

He wore new hands to shake with the master,

Forehead, mesh of wrinkles, waiting many more.

He found the pathway into silence

thought that wisdom beckoned him as a guest,

Many lies gave him room to manoeuvre

Hoarding sentiment's rations to his chest.

His future not demanding but impatient

Never did he mention his obvious pain

He spoilt his fire with too much poking,

the cloth of the mind absorbs many a stain.

His destiny progressed at it's own slow pace

and he prayed to the stars and the moon,

as all the insane he knew the world was mad

His clock went on strike before noon.

Still lies can walk while the truth stays rooted

Time here is merely granted, we can't make the call,

Adam Bell died in a house of foul humour

He that is down fears no fall.

The Company Of Men.

I came from a town, a small town

where small minded people didn't mind me

and the ones that cared were never girls,

they only pretended to admire my curls.

And the men might say “who cut your hair,

it isn't fair to shear your locks like that,

Who did that, and why and when?

Thats when I fell for the company of men.

Men speak the truth as it applies to women

Nothing to gain, nothing to lose it seems,

drink beer, no fear, secure together,

Ignore the models bonnet, except for the feather.

That feather would make good flights for darts

whether it came from a cock or a hen,

Aim straight and true, it's die or do,

thats why I admire the company of men.

My other half was a country boy

Mollycoddled by a doting mother

He could do no wrong in thought or deed

He hadn't hands to bless himself, or another,

She washed his socks and combed his hair

and fitted out his indulgent den,

He never said thanks, enjoyed the ranks

and the bonhomie in the company of men.

I'm still a woman in spirit and soul

My parts and their parts are north and south,

Their world is a ship on a course, not mine,

and I know now their vessel will never come about.

I envy them, those cocky bastards,

I'll say it and I'll say it and I'll say it again,

They've no respect for me, and so shall it be,

I can only be a voyeur in the company of men.

Rejection.

Young man, a lifetime your friend
telling you why, with his eyes,
why you no longer deserve him
are no longer worthy of ties.
Shy girl you nurtured from birth
rejecting benevolent smile,
Fondness forged in life's marathon
fractured in misery's mile.
Nominal friends keep a distance
fearing infection of shame,
Stare in the eyes of the mongrel
not hostile,yet not the same.
Cigarette seems to burn faster
dreading contact with lips,
food on the plate fears consumption,
tea demands swallows, not sips.
Community leper in shadow and soul
distance-demand on the make
living in dungeon of plaster and brick,
sleep you need keeps you awake.
Once friendly face in the mirror
scowl returns, sullen, uncouth,
Courage; the source of rejection,
Isolation; reward of the truth.

Today.

Timing.

Today, the ice-cream van pulled up outside,

Yankee doodle jingle, driver smiling,

white jacket with cherry on hat.

Two below; not a child in sight,

I know times are tough,

But fuck that!

Trust.

Today, we spent four hours in the garden

sawing timber to keep out the cold

of winter, that's a must,

Four hours with saw teeth as close

to her fingers as a kiss,

Superlatives not my forte

Never, have I seen such trust.

Generosity.

Today, I said to Gerry, “I must go some place

and you can see I'm covered in dirt”,

Gerry wouldn't give me

his bar of soap;

Instead he gave me his shirt.

Warmth.

Today, we rekindled two fires,

one in the grate,

one in the heart,

Each glow, still more than an ember,

The cold might keep us apart.

Little incidents from today.

The Stuff of Souls

My soul, if I have a soul, is like a camel

Bearing baggage that will surely break its back,

Lodged between twin humps of past and future

Present of quicksand, futile, heroic, another Joan of Arc.

The menace of prayer, a double-edged sword

Recital of misery to give birth to misery more.

Create a life to shield from life the truth

Delirium and half-dream stranded on dreamings shore.

Sheltered ambling from noon to dusk

Wreck of a man, ripe, or onset of decay.

Eyes, lashless and bloodshot, half conviction in a glance

Stretching life’s allowance, boughs and branches, no leaves today.

Older than my years, no sap reaching my roots

Conscience sleeps fitfully, soul’s door ajar

Waiting the stress test of time

Higher office beckons, surely a bridge too far.

And the Lord might say, if He exists,

“What’s your pleasure”?

I couldn’t answer, wouldn’t know

The magic of such measure.

Can moral disease be fought by human means?

Or is the concept futile and absurd

Why is man less finite than hoar frost?

Why is God a household word?

Florid faith, in flesh filled collar white,

Martyrdom in cassock, routine religion overdrawn still,

The problem of all flesh is self-inflicted

The bigger problem, problem of Gods will.

The sea of pain laps ever, ever spewing

Time never stops, looks sideways or forgives

Conclusion, no conclusion, vanity appeased for now

What does it matter to our dead for whom the past alone lives.

Where are the million others who aspire to do better?

Hell of human longing stamped on each brow,

Stripped trees, grey mossy lawn, relics of summer

Bloom and blossom, colour and scent, where are they now?

How can we find a way to see the working of each other?

Mock manliness and bravery, repose in bed the same,

Lend me your eyes and I’ll see you as might your mother

Rabbit and rook hail the keeper; they know they are the game.

Archangel Gabriel.

The Jap got it right

the second time around,

The world changed a little bit

when Gabbie hit the ground.

A Ballymulvey man,

Is, was, and will be,

and when he goes to God

he surely will still be.

He flashes a wrench,

a vice grips and a socket,

They say he was born

with a spanner in his pocket.

Slope of the shoulders,

it was always there,

Fits to perfection

in Granny’s chair.

And he likes a little flutter

but never nags,

And he’s the one that told me

never touch the fags.

I reckon that John Wayne

and his western roots

gave him his love of cowboy boots.

I want you to know

that you’re loved, Grandad Gay,

and here’s wishing you

A happy father’s day, everyday.

NIAMH. 2011

She glides through the bar

-->

Cuddles, puddles of affection

yearning to linger,

Pupils locked in silent conversation

her cheek seducing my finger.

Face, figure and essence

rash remnant of Venus,

Conveyor belt of our conscious

ferrying fondness between us.

A mile is a league too close,

a foot is an inch too far,

And I smile a sly smile of knowing

as she glides through the bar.

Mindful, meaningful twinning of limbs

Compliment blending of form,

Familiar crevice contours

Delightful, delicate, warm.

Eye-closing, heart-pulsing nearness of her

casting all logic aside,

Pounding, resounding resonant beat

approaching cosmic divide,

Tradition and caution gone to the loft

as I order another undrinkable jar,

And the till and her eyes tinkle in tune

As she glides through the bar.

And I spied her seven times in a row,

A truly remarkable week,

Never proud, never loud never brash,

I could scarcely describe her as meek.

The hooded power of embrace

can’t sully, sunder or sever

This fabric of closeness we weave

Cuddling  together forever.

And these are the thoughts I favour

She makes me feel like a Czar

And I watch and I wonder and wait

While she glides through the bar.