TINE

The Gods, in playful mood
Snipped a forelock from the Sun,
And Prometheus in turn
Stole this Fire for everyone.
In the name of the Fire
the Sun and the Stars
This forever flame
Borrowed it's colour from Mars.

This fire got life from friction
As does every living thing,
From flash, flame and flicker
The cricket learned to sing.
Fire conspires with air
To bring liquid flame alive,
Yet still the mystery remains
Why only the pure survive.

And man believes in control
Of this element for himself
In forge and kiln and stove,
Red matches on the shelf.
The stake; democracy of fire
Invented by soul-savers
Not to lead better lives
But be owned by soul-slavers.

This fire produces Light
Frail shadow of the Dark,
Impatient fire never still
Using every spark
To brighten conversation
At the hearth of every grate.
Shape-changing theatre of tale,
Matter into nothing; nothing matters; too late.


Tine (Irish word for fire) is perhaps the most feared of the elements
and therefore deserves maximum respect.


  

AER

Air, home of the spirits,

Breath of God.
Kinetic sculptor of all shape,
Defining master of sea and sod.
Air, benefactor of all bellows,
Human, and made by hand,
Shaping a wraith of cloud,
Polishing a grain of sand.

Air, ferries life to each of us

And randomly takes it away,
She lends form to the dance
Gives voice its say.
Air, great runway of the heavens,
Gives grounding to earthly aspirations,
Sounds the death knell of ones
And twos and all passing nations.

Air in singular majesty
Decides what might be,
Syllable, phrase or sentence
Or page of history.
Air of contract and expand,
Accordion never still,
Stroked by invisible fingers
Tuned by ethereal will.

Air, lavish larder of countless scents,

Home of myriad memories and dreams,
Unseen guardian of mists and moisture
Eternal proof of all is not what it seems.
Air, life source of every flame,
Greater than gravity your power,
Ferryman of dark and light
Pendulum of every hour.


AER (Irish for Air) is everything and deserves to be revisited.


 

My Father Said

‘You’ll never miss the water till the well runs dry’

Me father said; now he’s dead,
And she said Goodbye!
When you turn down the radio at eleven
She started reading at seven,but
Not even in the house; ask why.
 

How come you can’t see her back when she leaves?

Only her face and front
And that top that she bought in Dunnes,
Gone to that big shiny aeroplane
Never had ambitions to go down the drain
She liked ‘Spotted Dick’ and penny buns.
 
Longest legs I ever saw from ground to ceiling rising
Going everywhere and nowhere baby
Sometime walk back maybe, perhaps.
She said I was a total absolute ballhooks
With not a chance of changin’
Nobody perfect; maybe Chinese or Japs?
 
She’s gone but still here wreckin’ my distracted head,
Musk scent of her still in the bed
She’s here even though she went.
It was time; she needed the space and the place
And Emma’s grace; my father said
‘You always see better value when your money is spent.
 
Now we talk every day, sun and hay, and she says ‘whatsUp’
Nothing at this end, same good story
Of me and the Jap and buttery bread.
To know what she’s feelin’ or thinkin’ or wantin’,
Maybe my father was right a long time ago
‘girls are like dolls for playing with' he said.

 

 

The Why and the Wherefore.

Where is the pass over the mountain

That leads to Tír Na nÓg?
Is it found only in dreams?
Faery dreams, those friendly sisters
Hand in hand on their journey
To the meeting of the seven streams.
 
How many feathers are needed
To balance a bone on the scales?
The bare bone of hope and despair,
Why follow those poor misguided fools
Who cast their nets in stagnant pools?
And never a fish find there.
 
How many leaves of the sycamore
Does the wind count at dusk
Before he settles to sleep,
Is it better by times not to have the words
To say what would wound
And kindly counsel keep.
 
A blind man sees well enough in slumber
Silence conveys better meaning
To those who know the secret signs.
The wasteful unimportance of life
A wounded creature among the complete
Great oak strangled by serpentine vines.
 
Are the moon and oceans Siamese twins
And the land and sea blood brothers
Do wild geese fly in blue formation?
Is the crusader welcome home?
Might wars end if men refused to fight?
Would we join this conversation? 

Will a clock survive on just a tick?

Is forgetting and not wanting
To remember one and the same,
Is life a matter of inconvenience?
Like boiling eggs in a barrel
Or merely a pointless foolish game.

 

 

 

 

Daisy on Fiddler’s Green.

Making for different horizons today

My head and feet
Steps and questions in tandem
Yet ‘never the twain shall meet’
Until I lie on my shadow
When I enter the narrow house
Steered by collared myrmidons
Of outstretched paw and tenant mouse.
 
I pondered the passions of life
Enacted in rhyme and song
As the music of Munster
Lilting from O’Gara’s tongue.
How to stall the cry of conscience;
Realization cannot be outrun,
Death is a maker of widows
As true as the dial to the sun.
 
The false pride of principle struck me
Regularity and virtue not my lot
I live in a house of calm calamity
Forget me but forgive me not.
Whispers of fancy, phantoms of hope
Walked with me through perilous gap
The work of buried hands, buried faces,
Hope survives on a crumb and a scrap.
 
Consider mercy side-lined by justice
Justice ignored by law,
Priests who preach but never suffer
Do branches know the bite of the saw?
Love is a limited substance
The slow burning out of a dying fire
Disappointment married to expectation
The dropping of ripe fruit, the end of desire.

If we exist, then not exist,

What’s the point of it all?
If death means extinction it is nothing!
Nothing but echoing rise and fall.
To achieve long life is to ignore its passing
But for the mirror; time never seen,
Passing as the mist on the mountain
Or the daisy on Fiddlers Green.