BAREFOOT

I follow the road
of my father’s voice

journey with him
along white roads...over green fields

barefoot
to school & back

(shoes if at all...worn only to church)    

picking up the cuts & scabs
stubbed toes

his going to school
would entail

in the early years of the 1920’s
only so much history to me

real
to him

his toes
knowing the wind
in the grass

for what it is

his toes
clasping a rock
fording a stream

Irish & poems
bubbling through his head

babbling along
the tongue

words thrown to
those lost summer skies

startling a blackbird
spouting his poetry

with poetry
of his own

(3 miles to school...3 miles back)    

his mind a skimmed stone
dancing along a river

over unforgiven
stones

thorns attacking his feet
with undisguised relish

the vehemence of glass
glinting greedily

for the next footstep

the menace
of the twisted rusty nail

& its treachery
betraying the next footfall

as he walks over
the unremitting years

into my eyes
wide with wonder

listening to him
tell of himself

as a little boy

to his little boy
the me of then

my eyes now

following the road
of my father’s voice

as it wanders
barefoot

through my tears
& memory.

BAREFOOT

I follow
the road
of my father’s voice

journey with him
along white road
over green fields

barefoot
to school
& back

(shoes if at all
worn only
to church)    

picking up
the cuts & scabs
stubbed toes

his going to
school
would entail

in the early years
of the 1920’s
only so much

history to me
real
to him

his toes
knowing the wind
in the grass

for what it is
his toes
clasping a rock

fording a stream
Irish & poems
bubbling through his head

babbling along the tongue
words thrown to
those lost summer skies

startling a blackbird
spouting his poetry
with poetry of his own

(3 miles to school
and
3 miles back)    

his mind a skimmed stone
dancing along a river
over unforgiven stones

thorns attacking his feet
with undisguised relish

the vehemence of glass
glinting greedily
for the next footstep

the menace
of the twisted rusty nail
& its treachery

betraying the next footfall
as he walks over
the unremitting

years
into my eyes
wide with wonder

listening to him
tell of himself
as a little boy

to his little boy
the me of then
my eyes now

following
the road
of my father’s voice

as it wanders barefoot
through my tears
& memory

BAREFOOT

I follow the path
of my father’s voice

journey with him
along white roads...over green fields

barefoot
to school & back

(shoes if at all...worn only to church)    

picking up the cuts & scabs
stubbed toes

his going to school
would entail

in the early years of the 1920’s
only so much history to me

real
to him

his toes
knowing the wind
in the grass

for what it is

his toes
clasping a rock
fording a stream

Irish & poems
bubbling through his head

babbling along
the tongue

words thrown to
those lost summer skies

startling a blackbird
spouting his poetry

with poetry
of his own

(3 miles to school...3 miles back)    

his mind a skimmed stone
dancing along a river

over unforgiving
stones

thorns attacking his feet
with undisguised relish

the vehemence of glass
glinting greedily

for the next footstep

the menace
of the twisted rusty nail

& its treachery
betraying the next footfall

as he walks over
the unremitting years

into my eyes
wide with wonder

listening to him
tell of himself

as a little boy

to his little boy
the me of then

my eyes now

following the road
of my father’s voice

as it wanders
barefoot

through my tears
& memory.

BAREFOOT

I follow the road
of my father’s voice

journey with him
along white roads...over green fields

barefoot
to school & back

(shoes if at all...worn only to church)

picking up the cuts & scabs
stubbed toes

his going to school
would entail

in the early years of the 1920’s
only so much history to me

real
to him

his toes
knowing the wind
in the grass

for what it is

his toes
clasping a rock
fording a stream

Irish & poems
bubbling through his head

babbling along
the tongue

words thrown to
those lost summer skies

startling a blackbird
spouting his poetry

with poetry
of his own

(3 miles to school...3 miles back)

his mind a skimmed stone
dancing along a river

over unforgiving
stones

thorns attacking his feet
with undisguised relish

the vehemence of glass
glinting greedily

for the next footstep

the menace
of the twisted rusty nail

& its treachery
betraying the next footfall

as he walks over
the unremitting years

into my eyes
wide with wonder

listening to him
tell of himself

as a little boy

to his little boy
the me of then

my eyes now

following the road
of my father’s voice

as it wanders
barefoot

BAREFOOT

I follow the path
of my father’s voice

journey with him
along white roads...over green fields

barefoot
to school & back

(shoes if at all...worn only to church)    

picking up the cuts & scabs
stubbed toes

his going to school
would entail

in the early years of the 1920’s
only so much history to me

real
to him

his toes
knowing the wind
in the grass

for what it is

his toes
clasping a rock
fording a stream

Irish & poems
bubbling through his head

babbling along
the tongue

words thrown to
those lost summer skies

startling a blackbird
spouting his poetry

with poetry
of his own

(3 miles to school...3 miles back)    

his mind a skimmed stone
dancing along a river

over unforgiving
stones

thorns attacking his feet
with undisguised relish

the vehemence of glass
glinting greedily

for the next footstep

the menace
of the twisted rusty nail

& its treachery
betraying the next footfall

as he walks over
the unremitting years

into my eyes
wide with wonder

listening to him
tell of himself

as a little boy

to his little boy
the me of then

my eyes now

following the road
of my father’s voice

as it wanders
barefoot

through my tears
& memory.

BEATING FLANAGAN

I'm no runner me
weak kneed and knobbly
but God almighty here I be

on the starting line
between two tough guys
Flanagan and Reed

know I don't
stand a chance only
here because I have to be

an Army 800m
and me a raw recruit
and poet-to-be

a gun barks and
we're off and already
I am paddy last

**** Reed pride of our platoon
and a smile that would win a prize
Flanagan his bitter rival

always there to
buoy me up
raise my spirits

"Sing me Peggy Gordon ****!"
and he beams and beams
and sings his heart out

but now Reed and Flanagan
are two tiny dots in the distance
neck and neck both in the lead

but as we come around
the final bend they
trip over each other

I now am third
and race towards
the tangle of arms and legs

I hurdle the cursing pair
and hurtle towards and
break the tape with a gasp

I win a long lost plaque
and a photo survives
the ravages of the ages

I laugh to hold it now
I the infamous non-runner
the winner

**** almost dances
with glee
hugs me

"Good man Dempsey
ya beat Flanagan for me
ya deserve a medal!"

"Sing me Peggy Gordon
that will be my medal!"
and he beams and beams and sings

his gorgeous voice
pinned to the summer
of an Irish sky

and I still listen
as his voice echoes
through the years

"O Peggy Gordon, You are my darling
Come sit you down upon my knee
And tell to me the very reason
Why I am slighted so by thee"

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

I remember you being
the beautiful stranger

I just had to get to
know

the one I knew I
couldn't let go

held hostage
by a smile

entangled in
your laughter

turning my head
with a mere turn of your head

you the beautiful
stranger who

became
my beautiful wife.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

I remember you being
the beautiful stranger

I just had to get to
know

the one I knew I
couldn't let go

held hostage
by a smile

entangled in
your laughter

turning my head
with a mere turn of your head

you the beautiful
stranger who

became
my beautiful wife.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

I remember you
being
the beautiful stranger

I just had to
get to
know

the one I
knew I
couldn't let go

held hostage
by a smile
entangled in your laughter

turning my head
with a mere
turn of your head

you the beautiful
stranger who
became my beautiful wife.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

I remember you being
the beautiful stranger

I just had to get to
know

the one I knew I
couldn't let go

held hostage
by a smile

entangled in
your laughter

turning my head
with a mere turn of your head

you the beautiful
stranger who

became
my beautiful wife.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

I remember you being
the beautiful stranger

I just had to get to
know

the one I knew I
couldn't let go

held hostage
by a smile

entangled in
your laughter

turning my head
with a mere turn of your head

you the beautiful
stranger who

became
my beautiful wife.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

I remember you being
the beautiful stranger

I just had to get to
know

the one I knew I
couldn't let go

held hostage
by a smile

entangled in
your laughter

turning my head
with a mere turn of your head

you the beautiful
stranger who

became
my beautiful wife.

BEAUTY O'ERSNOW'D AND BARENESS EVERY WHERE

A Christmas
with the Thames

almost freezing, then
thawing & then again

the London of 1598
asleep

under a quietness
of snow

that hides the world
from itself

as some Elizabetheans
go to steal

a theatre
silent now for a brace of years

frozen by bitter
dispute.

The playhouse dismantled
bit by bit

so that when it rises
it will become in time

The Globe
this wooden O.

Will turns his face
up to the stars

laughs
at this theatre theft

snowflakes settling
upon his eyelids

remembering when
he was all of 7

and the Christian tales
told in stained glass

are shattered
for their sins

now only white light
is to be

let in

picking up a shard
of the ****** Mary

here a fragment of
St. George.

He sticks out his tongue
tastes the snow

knows that
all things change to

begin again.

He laughs.

The ****** Mary's smile
still clasped in his hand.

BEAUTY O'ERSNOW'D AND BARENESS EVERY WHERE

A Christmas
with the Thames

almost freezing, then
thawing & then again

the London of 1598
asleep

under a quietness
of snow

that hides the world
from itself

as some Elizabetheans
go to steal

a theatre
silent now for a brace of years

frozen by bitter
dispute.

The playhouse dismantled
bit by bit

so that when it rises
it will become in time

The Globe
this wooden O.

Will turns his face
up to the stars

laughs
at this theatre theft

snowflakes settling
upon his eyelids

remembering when
he was all of 7

and the Christian tales
told in stained glass

are shattered
for their sins

now only white light
is to be

let in

picking up a shard
of the ****** Mary

here a fragment of
St. George.

He sticks out his tongue
tastes the snow

knows that
all things change to

begin again.

He laughs.

The ****** Mary's smile
still clasped in his hand.

*

Inspired by JAMES SHAPIRO'S COMPELLING 1599 - A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The 'theft" of their former theatre,The Theatre, which dismantled would become the famous wooden O. And Will watching( possibly ) when all of seven. . .the stained glass windows of his 'right goodly chapel" been smashed by a glazier who was paid 23 shillings and 8 pence for his smashing. These two images are what burned on in my mind.

I have often stood in that chapel and seen what remains of the whitewashed paintings now brought back to life. His dad had to order this whitewashing months before Will was born but by 7 Will could have been witness to the death of the coloured glass and all that was to be beheld there.

So this Midsummer's Day madness of 1571 really stated with me and forced the poem upon me.

"Popery may creep in at a glass window as well as at a door" as one William Prynne put it. The English Reformation going about its daily task to the dismay of the common folk who had to put up with the religion changing hands and changing hands yet again all in the little time of just over a quarter of a century.

Being a great lover of stained glass and its beauty this was what got me the most!

The title is from Will's Sonnet no. 5:

Those Hours that with gentle work did frame

"Beauty o'er --snowed, and bareness everywhere.
Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, "

BEAUTY O'ERSNOW'D AND BARENESS EVERY WHERE

A Christmas
with the Thames

almost freezing, then
thawing & then again

the London of 1598
asleep

under a quietness
of snow

that hides the world
from itself

as some Elizabetheans
go to steal

a theatre
silent now for a brace of years

frozen by bitter
dispute.

The playhouse dismantled
bit by bit

so that when it rises
it will become in time

The Globe
this wooden O.

Will turns his face
up to the stars

laughs
at this theatre theft

snowflakes settling
upon his eyelids

remembering when
he was all of 7

and the Christian tales
told in stained glass

are shattered
for their sins

now only white light
is to be

let in

picking up a shard
of the ****** Mary

here a fragment of
St. George.

He sticks out his tongue
tastes the snow

knows that
all things change to

begin again.

He laughs.

The ****** Mary's smile
still clasped in his hand.

*

Inspired by JAMES SHAPIRO'S COMPELLING 1599 - A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The 'theft" of their former theatre,The Theatre, which dismantled would become the famous wooden O. And Will watching( possibly ) when all of seven. . .the stained glass windows of his 'right goodly chapel" been smashed by a glazier who was paid 23 shillings and 8 pence for his smashing. These two images are what burned on in my mind.

I have often stood in that chapel and seen what remains of the whitewashed paintings now brought back to life. His dad had to order this whitewashing months before Will was born but by 7 Will could have been witness to the death of the coloured glass and all that was to be beheld there.

So this Midsummer's Day madness of 1571 really stated with me and forced the poem upon me.

"Popery may creep in at a glass window as well as at a door" as one William Prynne put it. The English Reformation going about its daily task to the dismay of the common folk who had to put up with the religion changing hands and changing hands yet again all in the little time of just over a quarter of a century.

Being a great lover of stained glass and its beauty this was what got me the most!

The title is from Will's Sonnet no. 5:

Those Hours that with gentle work did frame

"Beauty o'er --snowed, and bareness everywhere.
Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, "

BEAUTY O'ERSNOW'D AND BARENESS EVERY WHERE

A Christmas
with the Thames

almost freezing, then
thawing & then again

the London of 1598
asleep

under a quietness
of snow

that hides the world
from itself

as some Elizabetheans
go to steal

a theatre
silent now for a brace of years

frozen by bitter
dispute.

The playhouse dismantled
bit by bit

so that when it rises
it will become in time

The Globe
this wooden O.

Will turns his face
up to the stars

laughs
at this theatre theft

snowflakes settling
upon his eyelids

remembering when
he was all of 7

and the Christian tales
told in stained glass

are shattered
for their sins

now only white light
is to be

let in

picking up a shard
of the ****** Mary

here a fragment of
St. George.

He sticks out his tongue
tastes the snow

knows that
all things change to

begin again.

He laughs.

The ****** Mary's smile
still clasped in his hand.

BECOME A SKY

the pathway meanders
a river in stone

the sun escapes
the branches' grasp

the mountain throws its shadow
at my feet

here I embrace
the threshold of who

I could
possibly be

become a sky

the horizon's
tight lipped smile

the pathway meanders
a river in stone

the sun escapes
the branches' grasp

the mountain throws its shadow
at my feet

here I embrace
the threshold of who

I could
possibly be

become a sky

the horizon's
tight lipped smile

BECOME A SKY

the pathway meanders
a river in stone

the sun escapes
the branches' grasp

the mountain throws its shadow
at my feet

here I embrace
the threshold of who

I could
possibly be

become a sky

the horizon's
tight lipped smile

BECOME A SKY

the pathway meanders
a river in stone

the sun escapes
the branches' grasp

the mountain throws its shadow
at my feet

here I embrace
the threshold of who

I could
possibly be

become a sky

the horizon's
tight lipped smile

BECOMING DADDY
( in loving memory of Danny  )

Here I am
big as big can be

taller than
my daddy's knee.

Now I'm further grown
stretching past

yep
my father's hip.

His hand
holding my hand.

Then just as soon
we stand

shoulder to shoulder
level at last

maybe an inch
or two taller.

I still feeling
smaller.

I hold his hand
in my hand.

The black and white world
seeping into colour.

Now I stand
all alone.

Become the man
my father  was.

Da...dada...daddy...dad.
Danny.

BECOMING FLUENT

she translates me
with a kiss into the then
unknown language of love

BECOMING HIS DAUGHTER

She grasps the air
with her new born

fist
as if

she were stuffing
it down

her own throat
before letting it

circulate within her
until it became her

and then using
her new found voice

let out a great shout.

This cry
is me.

And so, was born
a father at that very

moment
holding her

in his palms
as if she were water

her wail
altering the very

molecules
of the air & how

he could now
never be

the same again ever

since she had decided to be
his daughter.

BECOMING HIS DAUGHTER

She grasps the air
with her new born

fist
as if

she were stuffing
it down

her own throat
before letting it

circulate within her
until it became her

and then using
her new found voice

let out a great shout.

This cry
is me.

And so, was born
a father at that very

moment
holding her

in his palms
as if she were water

her wail
altering the very

molecules
of the air & how

he could now
never be

the same again ever

since she had decided to be
his daughter.

BECOMING HIS DAUGHTER

She grasps the air
with her new born

fist
as if

she were stuffing
it down

her own throat
before letting it

circulate within her
until it became her

and then using
her new found voice

let out a great shout.

This cry
is me.

And so, was born
a father at that very

moment
holding her

in his palms
as if she were water

her wail
altering the very

molecules
of the air & how

he could now
never be

the same again ever

since she had decided to be
his daughter.

BECOMING LADY MACBETH.
( "Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?" - Act 5, scene 1 MACBETH )


dawn chorus
switch on kettle
for first cup of coffee

but what's this
white kettle
streaked with blood

I have stepped into
a gory horror
real life movie

an hallucination
but how can
a kettle bleed

and now I see
my hands
bathed in blood

glistening...shining
more readily red
than can be imagined

I have become
Lady Macbeth
the play come alive

I can still smell
my own blood
"Oh, oh, oh!"

****** my ****** hands
under the running tap
discover the deep cut

my right hand thumb
it would appear
the culprit

"All the perfumes
of Arabia will not
sweeten this little..."

how come
I cannot yet tell
and yell

now that
the pain
decides to turn up

I act the part
to the hilt
discover that

pushing plastic
into an overflowing bin
cuts to the bone

who would have thought
indeed that this old poet
had so much blood in him


*
A plastic container that once contained olives and feta until devoured  squashed down into the bin not realising that its rim was super sharp and I didn't even feel the cut. Then turning back to the coffee making and lo and behold the horror unrolled the 'how can this be so' moments. And *******...so much...so much blood. As if the whole 12 pints in the human body had chosen to take up residence( squatters rights)in the thumb and to to a runner when the fisrst cut was the deepest.

BECOMING MY WORDS...

I've been so many
Donall Dempseys

it's hard to remember
which one is which.

Every time I arrive
at a different me.

All this making and
unmaking me

to greet the next
moment I am to be.

Death, I guess
will be a holiday

from myself
the new me I'll never see.

Ahhhh, as Walt once said:

"If you want me again look for me
under your boot-soles."

Hopefully one day
I shall become

my words only
only my words.

BECOMING MY WORDS...

I've been so many
Donall Dempseys

it's hard to remember
which one is which.

Every time I arrive
at a different me.

All this making and
unmaking me

to greet the next
moment I am to be.

Death, I guess
will be a holiday

from myself
the new me I'll never see.

Ahhhh, as Walt once said:

"If you want me again look for me
under your boot-soles."

Hopefully one day
I shall become

my words only
only my words.

BECOMING THE GHOST

Your death has made
a ghost of me.

I wander through a world
no longer mine.

I have lost the me
I used to be.

Reality flickers
in the candlelight

and goes out.

A someone I
don't know

left in my place
a changeling  who

claims my self.

The stranger in the mirror
gazing out at me

with my own eyes

that look and do not
...see.

Your death has made
a ghost of me.

BECOMING THE GHOST

Your death has made
a ghost of me.

I wander through a world
no longer mine.

I have lost the me
I used to be.

Reality flickers
in the candlelight

and goes out.

A someone I
don't know

left in my place
a changeling  who

claims my self.

The stranger in the mirror
gazing out at me

with my own eyes

that look and do not
...see.

Your death has made
a ghost of me.

BECOMING THE GHOST

Your death has made
a ghost of me.

I wander through a world
no longer mine.

I have lost the me
I used to be.

Reality flickers
in the candlelight

and goes out.

A someone I
don't know

left in my place
a changeling who

claims my self.

The stranger in the mirror
gazing out at me

with my own eyes

that look and do not
...see.

Your death has made
a ghost of me.

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.  

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)    

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian )

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love."
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian )

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love."
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
i am

because of you.

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian )

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love."
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian )

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love."
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
i am

because of you.

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS( for Brian )


Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love."
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian D)

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.  

She'd always smile:
"Thank you Danny! "

"That's alright love"
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

"That's it, son!"

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)  

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian D)

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.  

She'd always smile:
"Thank you Danny! "

"That's alright love"
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

"That's it, son!"

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)  

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian D)  

each night
I would follow you
through the rituals

of what you had to do
being Daddy
I wanted to be Daddy too

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact
copy of you

trailing along
in your footsteps
like a lone seagull

following in the wake
of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn
'til it was all bubbles

then letting it calm down
before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it
to her side
like a lover's gift

I was
your little
shadow

she'd always
smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love
was always
the answer

these the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle
ceremony

then he'd teach the clock
to ****
adjusting it with his hands

and wind up Time
so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys draw bolts
'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you
and now I am

my own man
winding up Time
bringing my missus

the gift of a hot water bottle
(the gift of me)    
both equally heart warming

'Thank you Dónall! '
she always
smiles

'That's all right love! '
I always
answer

me the man
I am
because of you

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
( For brother Brian

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.  

She'd always smile:
"Thank you Danny! "

"That's alright love"
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

"That's it, son!"

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)  

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.

BECOMING THE RAIN'S LANGUAGE
( for Shyam )

the rain
writing upon the lake
in its own strange script

I dive
hide under its waters
watching the rain writing

gasp now for breath
I emerge back into this world
rain writing upon my face

the rain writes
in Urdu
I its living page

BEDCLOTHES

my favourite
faded shirt
my tired old
torn denim jeans

that
have aged
along with me


my second skins
as much me
as me


now sit crazily
mixed up stitched up
into a patchwork quilt


that you present to me:
“I went through your wardrobe
& used anything I thought you’d throw out!


.these pieces fitted perfectly!
“Do you like it?
...are you pleased with me? ”


I smile & lie
I am delighted
“It’s such... a lovely...surprise! ”

BEDCLOTHES

my favourite
faded shirt
my tired old
torn denim jeans

that
have aged
along with me

my second skins
as much me
as me

now sit crazily
mixed up stitched up
into a patchwork quilt

that you present to me:
“I went through your wardrobe
& used anything I thought you’d throw out!

.these pieces fitted perfectly!
“Do you like it?
...are you pleased with me? ”

I smile & lie
I am delighted
“It’s such... a lovely...surprise! ”

"BE DE HOKEY!"

uncle's old hat
inhabited now
by a black feral cat

I remember the laugh
always fixed
beneath that hat

forever tilted back
ready with the quick quip
tongue in cheek

his green corduroy trousers
nothing but rags
to shine shoes

first colour photo
we'd ever seen
those green corduroys

were really green
as if the photo was
necessary to prove it

attacking with a pin
the dirt caught
in the green ridges

"See that tree?" he'd tell me
that used to be me but
I grew out of it!"

words loved him
and would do anything
he said

I the small boy
wearing the fabled hat
in the act of being him

wearing the much too big
green corduroys
rolled up...held up by braces

"Be de hokey!"
I'd exclaim
quoting him

"Be de Holy Dublin!"
his catch phrases on my lips
creasing him up

"Hey ya little *****!"
( pretending to be mad )
"Yer better than that Charlie Chaplin!"

me bathing his feet
in a basin after
he put the cows to bed

a black cat
inhabits the now
curled up in Mikey's old hat

*

Dry, droll, laconic and ironic...he taught me just by the example of himself how to create a world from just a bunch of works and shape them until they fitted your thought. Everything could be so surreal and real with him at the one and the same time.The man who made me the poet I am today. One of the three Corkmen who were the treasure of my childhood.

I once went for an interview to get into some college up in Dublin and failed miserably. To merely put me at my ease the interviewer said who are your heroes and I at once said: "My Da, my uncles Seanie and Mikey!" And the interviewer said:" No...I mean real heroes!" And I said:"My Da, my uncles Seanie and Michael." i knew even then that these were the men who were everything to me and shaped who I would be!" Their teachings were tender and gentle and I soaked them up by some emotional osmosis. I still claim that the best part of me today is...THEM.

"BE DE HOKEY!"

uncle's old hat
inhabited now
by a black feral cat

I remember the laugh
always fixed
beneath that hat

forever tilted back
ready with the quick quip
tongue in cheek

his green corduroy trousers
nothing but rags
to shine shoes

first colour photo
we'd ever seen
those green corduroys

were really green
as if the photo was
necessary to prove it

attacking with a pin
the dirt caught
in the green ridges

"See that tree?" he'd tell me
that used to be me but
I grew out of it!"

words loved him
and would do anything
he said

I the small boy
wearing the fabled hat
in the act of being him

wearing the much too big
green corduroys
rolled up...held up by braces

"Be de hokey!"
I'd exclaim
quoting him

"Be de Holy Dublin!"
his catch phrases on my lips
creasing him up

"Hey ya little *****!"
( pretending to be mad )
"Yer better than that Charlie Chaplin!"

me bathing his feet
in a basin after
he put the cows to bed

a black cat
inhabits the now
curled up in Mikey's old hat

"BE DE HOKEY!"


uncle taps me
on the head
"How are you in there?"

the only one who
could walk into my mind
to see how I was

he'd take my grief
tear it into pieces
scatter it to the wind

then he'd take me
by my hand
"Let's see where the happiness is!"

and always he'd find
where the happiness
was hiding

whether it be
in a wildflower
or a nest of blue eggs

or how he
showed me how
to see the world in words


and wonder always
flew to him
perched upon his shoulder


and oh his lovely laughter
and his catch phrase
"Be the hokey!



*


This was the man who kept me alive when my sister died....he reached inside me and filled me with his wonder of words and his love of the world. Always the same old question: "How are you in there?"  He is the reason that I try to put the world in words. I owe him everything. And so it was wonderful to bring him and his words to the Shakespeare Institute in Stratford and say "See what ya made me?"


And of course he said as he always said or still says in my mind. . ."BE DE HOKEY!"

"BE DE HOKEY!"

uncle's old hat
inhabited now
by a black feral cat

I remember the laugh
always fixed
beneath that hat

forever tilted back
ready with the quick quip
tongue in cheek

his green corduroy trousers
nothing but rags
to shine shoes

first colour photo
we'd ever seen
those green corduroys

were really green
as if the photo was
necessary to prove it

attacking with a pin
the dirt caught
in the green ridges

"See that tree?" he'd tell me
that used to be me but
I grew out of it!"

words loved him
and would do anything
he said

I the small boy
wearing the fabled hat
in the act of being him

wearing the much too big
green corduroys
rolled up...held up by braces

"Be de hokey!"
I'd exclaim
quoting him

"Be de Holy Dublin!"
his catch phrases on my lips
creasing him up

"Hey ya little *****!"
( pretending to be mad )
"Yer better than that Charlie Chaplin!"

me bathing his feet
in a basin after
he put the cows to bed

a black cat
inhabits the now
curled up in Mikey's old hat

*

Dry, droll, laconic and ironic...he taught me just by the example of himself how to create a world from just a bunch of works and shape them until they fitted your thought. Everything could be so surreal and real with him at the one and the same time.The man who made me the poet I am today. One of the three Corkmen who were the treasure of my childhood.
I once went for an interview to get into some college up in Dublin and failed miserably. To merely put me at my ease the interviewer said who are your heroes and I at once said: "My Da, my uncles Seanie and Mikey!" And the interviewer said:" No...I mean real hereoes!" And I said:"My Da, my uncles Seanie and Michael." i knew even then that these were the men who were everything to me and shaped who I would be!" Their teachings were tender and gentle and I soaked them up by some emotional osmosis. I still claim that the best part of me today is...THEM.

"BE DE HOKEY!"

uncle taps me
on the head
"How are you in there?"

the only one who
could walk into my mind
to see how I was

he'd take my grief
tear it into pieces
scatter it to the wind

then he'd take me
by my hand
"Let's see where the happiness is!"

and always he'd find
where the happiness
was hiding

whether it be
in a wildflower
or a nest of blue eggs

or how he
showed me how
to see the world in words

and wonder always
flew to him
perched upon his shoulder

and oh his lovely laughter
and his catch phrase
"Be the hokey!

*

This was the man who kept me alive when my sister died....he reached inside me and filled me with his wonder of words and his love of the world. Always the same old question: "How are you in there?"  He is the reason that I try to put the world in words. I owe him everything. And so it was wonderful to bring him and his words to the Shakespeare Institute in Stratford and say "See what ya made me?"

And of course he said as he always said or still says in my mind. . ."BE DE HOKEY!"

"BE DE HOLY DUBLIN!"

uncle's old hat
inhabited now
by a black feral cat

I remember the laugh
always fixed
beneath that hat

forever tilted back
ready with the quick quip
tongue in cheek

his green corduroy trousers
nothing but rags
to shine shoes

first colour photo
we'd ever seen
those green corduroys

were really green
as if the photo was
necessary to prove it

attacking with a pin
the dirt caught
in the green ridges

"See that tree?" he'd tell me
that used to be me but
I grew out of it!"

words loved him
and would do anything
he said

I the small boy
wearing the fabled hat
in the act of being him

wearing the much too big
green corduroys
rolled up...held up by braces

"Be de hokey!"
I'd exclaim
quoting him

"Be de Holy Dublin!"
his catch phrases on my lips
creasing him up

"Hey ya little *****!"
( pretending to be mad )
"Yer better than that Charlie Chaplin!"

me bathing his feet
in a basin after
he put the cows to bed

a black cat
inhabits the now
curled up in Mikey's old hat