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

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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.

Impression.

Smile conceived

Deep in the eyes

Centuries old

Meaningful, wise.

Rewarding, fulfilling

To share this earth

With someone who waited

Patient from birth.

Never says much

Expression says all

Between heart and eyes

No barrier wall.

Human of body

Designed back in time

Yielding and warm

Subtle, sublime.

Creation’s mystery

Woman I’ve met

Briefly, so briefly

Never forget.

Questions prompted by Cleo

Herself went out for an hour with Cleo

and gave me a little uneasy space

to cross examine bits and pieces

and chat myself face to face.

Am I easy to live with or other

what truth in my diary, the entry?

Myopia a mirror of falsehood,

Long sighted; the gaze of a sentry.

Why does a man to keep him alive

consume only that which is dead?

Cold or reheated in cauldron or pot

like Yeats; consumed by the fire in his head.

A combed out braid, a maid unmade,

What consequence being alone?

Logical fear of the future;

Senseless fear of the unknown.

Consistency vital, especially in failure.

Unfamiliar relief of the truth,

Gain by accident is choice lost.

The young; destroyers of youth.

Justice hides herself well,

I've never heard her laughter,

Unseen the moment before

Forgotton, the moment after.

Splendid untouched isolation

like a pearl departed her shell,

still witout suitable setting

a clapper without a bell.

What use an unseen rainbow

What church is built on it's steeple?

are fingers in gloves inside or out,

Which gods pay homage to people?

Once learned, can man forget how to read?

Is ceasing to breathe such a terrible loss?

Are ashes and dust really dead,

petrified trunk suckles lichen and moss.

The loose rope of aquaintence

often becomes a noose

to stretch the neck of man

or strangle the fatted goose.

The Dark Blessed Night.

I was never a lover of the day

where pity and petty dwell,

reluctant blood brothers,

The night is my indulgence;

The bright is for others.

There is space in darkness

to think and feel

the muffled wisdom of the floor,

A bread knife by day, mere cutlery;

at my time, a dagger in a drawer.

My turquoise friends, warm shadows

stretch silent, nightime's capes,

by day a killing shade of gray

lurking behind  drapes.

Raindrops fall one by one after dark,

flat splashes together by noon,

like sheep huddling in a corner,

or the welded rushes of a maiden's broom.

By night no need for pointless words;

Just deposits

in the great safe of the unsaid,

Cobwebs, guardians of the furniture,

no gap between living and dead.

Linen and silk or cotton

matter little to blind eyes,

Pebbles on the path to posterity,

rocky roads in disguise.

Dreams and deleriums

nights not yet born,

I ponder a myriad of possible things,

Untreacherous friends

waiting to meet,

By request; only the cricket sings.

I dismiss my impossible bed

not fearing my lover's flight

as the moth at the window pane,

sole witness of my marriage to the night.

And When I'm Past

And when I'm past what will they say?

No knee on cap to “kneel and pray”

My dust will travel leagues away

To Lough Ree’s sheltered shore.

My path will pass the steel red bridge

Where Daltons left their last cream fridge

Two round bales on Ryan’s ridge

Where Michael swam no more.

They’ll claim that I was good for nought

Who never once did what I ought

And for the wrong cause always fought

And fought in vain.

It will all be above my hairless head

When I’m well and truly dead

I’ll slumber in eternal bed

My tent the grass, my bath the rain.

What legacy will I leave behind?

To benefit others of my kind

That they’ll remember time out of mind

When I’ve passed on.

There won’t be riches to be spent

No guinea, florin or red cent

No paying back of what I’ve spent

My assets truly gone.

Yet when I’m gone like Peters ass

My green will still be hue of grass

The leaves will still salute my pass

On stream of breeze.

A sentry still in drain and dike

The chain on Seanin’s Nellie bike

The flash on belly of proud pike

Valves in old TV’s.

I’ll see them then, I’ll see them all

The hags and bandits, big and small

From lichen on Dan Connors wall

At Ballymulvey bog,

I’ll read their thoughts and see their shame

And watch them relegate the blame

To other cowards, timid, tame

Those demons in the fog.

And when I'm past my lines will live

And seep through pores of human sieve,

No favours ask, no quarter give

To squatter, saint or squire.

If I can guide them from above

I'll point the way with spectral glove

For only care is born of love,

I know this from the men behind the wire.

I'll ride the wind, I'll be the wind,

They'll all know well that I have sinned

From all the cherries I've untinned

And thrown in the dust.

Heavenly gravel I will spread

Or ashes of a bloody red

They wont know if I am dead

Or walking with the just.

And then I'll see the total truth,

Who played the game or stuck the boot,

Who paid their dues or took the loot

From him who could not pay,

Transparent will be each low life

Backstabbing with the traitors knife

Who wronged his neighbour and his wife

Yet knelt with men to pray.

I'll meet again with friend and foe

With Ned and Nan and 'Comie' Joe

and Mikeen in the come and go

in land of country song,

I'll see Tom Yorke and Annie May

Bill Percival heading cocks of hay,

and Mickeen Keegan in a play

where all men sing along.

My gansey will be pure new wool

My whiskey tumbler always full

My servent will be called John Bull

Just for the blast,

I'll send a telegram from the sky

When you see rain, pretend I cry,

We'll be meeting in the by and by

That's when I'm past.

Genetics

     My son has stretched his legs to make a man,

      He looks at me and sees an also-ran.  

      I gave him human life and mortal pain,

      Now he gives it back to me again.

  

      I taught him right from wrong, I thought I should,

      How do I know myself, or bad from good?

      I stained his morals with my mortal sin,

      And never told him why the doubts begin.

      He bears the baggage of my tainted past

      on narrow shoulders, that must a lifetime last

      of treading, wary of my quicksand stride,

      Avoiding pitfall of my buried pride.

         

       This Dorian mirror of my futile life,

      Genetic vengeance of a fretting wife.

      Accusing stare ingrained in teenage face

      Raw reminder of a man’s disgrace.

        (The sins of the fathers?)

What Matters

The adult, deep in thought,

Ignores the babbling of a child

A she-wolf, in a feeding zoo,

denies the calling of the wild.

Litigious man, can ever choose

to find a limp for every bruise.

The briar and the golden grain

are children of a common rain.

Bright fire, glowing in the grate,

both sun and hell can imitate.

The vagrant, tramp in tramps attire,

to grandeurs greatness may aspire.

Green door, the universal veil,

can open castle or lock jail.

The magistrate, on lofty bench,

swings gavel like a monkey wrench.

A king, or Shah or Aga Khan

is nothing without common man.

True hate, false nemesis of love.

still walks with her forever hand in glove.

What conscience has the hound or hare?

Only man pretends to care.

     (There is good and bad in everyone)