2012.

Old friends, older faces

Recurring disgraces.

Kick the grey mare

But never the traces.

Twenty and twelve

Start over again,

Distraction, the distance

Between now and then.

Hope springs eternal

So does the shame

Banker and bailiff

The rules are the same.

The signposts and links

Of todays and tomorrows

Rue and ruination

Milestones of old sorrows.

Welcome the handshake

Of debt and despair

Like the wan white horizon

Of the old woman’s hair.

No clerics in Dublin

Bishops gone west

Berlusconi’s disgrace

Relegated, at best.

What’s round the corner?

Fortitude, fear,

Farewell to eleven

Bring on the New Year!

Christmas Alone

Barefaced, bare-footed, staring
into an empty grate.
Empty, except for those grey-green
lifeless ashes
who had their bright moments too.
A sculpted mug of black tea
my only solace.
Sorry I'd be for myself
if I were capable of care.
Alone, I've spent this pagan Christmas,
alone but not my own man.
New Years resolutions pointless, impossible,
Successful reminders of last years failures.
Where can a man turn,
Faced with the farce of his own futility?
Hoping for an ember cinder
I prod with the poker.

My Reward

Wise eyes pry, for clues and news in vain,
Old men measure nature, seeking stain,
Defied by pupil twins of steely grain
in angel face.
Wild straw thatch, a fitting faery crown,
Simple black, a full and favoured gown,
Smile that made an exile of a frown,
An ageless grace.

Glance to melt a heart of frosted lead,
Blush unique; a newer hue of red,
Living riddle, rose in lilac bed,
A fleeting fawn.
Venus vested, filling space with light,
Dull defying, introducing bright,
Living vibrant vendor of delight
like golden dawn.

Enigmatic, charismatic, fair,
Old as oak, new as stubble hair,
Impish grin, potent as a prayer
to lofty Lord.
Million women melted into one,
Loving life and love and foolish fun,
Soul mate of all men yet slave to none,
She's my reward.

Christmas Morning 1961

Pig fry, brylcreem and Mass,

Communion for mother,

Chat of junior football,

Cows, calves and fodder.

Ties, tosspit and tanners,

Market –house meet,

Wafer wedged ice-cream,

Nugget finished feet.

Mary Kelly home again,

Photos of her London house,

Daddy said she couldn’t buy

leggins for a mouse.

Father Peter hinting at

a drop in Christmas dues,

The one man in the parish

with a pair of leather shoes.

Red berries and a hint of snow,

a robin on the vestry wall,

Goodwill and cheer for everyman,

I wonder if they care at all?

Still, we’ll enjoy the golden goose

and roasted spuds and all of that

and pull the paper cracker

and wear its silly paper hat.

Two oranges in a woolly sock

tinwhistle made by Clarke,

Plum pudding with its holly peak,

Bing Crosby ‘live’ from Central Park.

Santa Claus and innocence melted

with the crunchy snow,

Bitter farewell, after sweet hello.

Stephen’s Day special once

now just another dawn

noting nights passing,

Christmas is gone.

Shadows

Sometimes, through curtains in shadows we spy
an acre of earth, a sliver of sky.
Massless reflections of solids in space,
Bonded by light, facet and face.
A sort of a soul, attached yet apart,
Like Rick and his bar, a head and a heart.
And in purple shadows we often find truth,
Not readily seen in daylights bright booth.
For shadows are segments of limbo and love
tied to below, fashioned above.
Man miles of gray, sons of the moon,
Their mother a sun, vampire at noon.
And we dwell together like echo and sound,
Are bonded together when we meet underground.