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Donall Dempsey Oct 2023
"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
Donall Dempsey Oct 2022
"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
Donall Dempsey Jul 2021
BEHIND IN TIME

you were 5 hours
behind in time
when the car hit you

we shared the same planet
but you were always elsewhere
'us' held together only by long distance

you were 5 hours
behind in time
and over 3,000 miles away

your watch face crackeD
stopped at the exact time
like a close up in a movie

an obese woman yelling
"***! ***! ***!"
like a siren

you were 5 hours
behind in time
when I had unknowingly lost you

a doctor who was  passing
muttering to himself
"She's gone...nothing I can do!"

time bled out of you
like a red stain
that seemed unreal

cheap false blood
in a low cost film
going straight to video


you were 5 hours
behind in time
and late for an appointment

the squeal of brakes
the last thing you
ever heard

thinking "God these shoes
are killing me but
they looked so good!"

you were 5 hours
behind in time
many many miles away
Donall Dempsey Jun 2017
BEING DRAGGED ACROSS THE CARPET BY THE CAT

You fall on the floor.

Carefully I brush you up.

Returned to your urn
you sit upon the mantlepiece

gazing at the setting sun.
Donall Dempsey Jan 2024
BEING IN THE WORLD

"I'm scared...!" she sobs
"Of what love?" I cuddle her
"Of being in the world!"

**

This was when she was only a tiny little thing in the world of long ago but her words ring truer now in this rogue world of ours.

Her granny had just died and this all too too solid world of forever didn't seem as forever as it had before.  She no longer trusted it if a granny could vanish...would she vanish too?

She cried and "wanted to go where ever Granny had goed!"

She was looking at a globe and asked me if she were in the world. And is Granny not in the world any more?  And when Granny finishes being dead then will she come back? And what good is the world if Granny isn't in it. She sat on my lap and listened to auld Jemmy the Joist reading from Finnegans Wake with his own voice. I asked her what did she think the man was saying and she asked "Did he lose his granny too?"
Donall Dempsey Jan 2021
BEING IN THE WORLD


"I'm scared...!" she sobs
"Of what love?" I cuddle her
"Of being in the world!"
This was when she was only a tiny little thing in the world of long ago but her words ring truer now in this rogue world of ours.


Her granny had just died and this all too too solid world of forever didn't seem as forever as it had before.  She no longer trusted it if a granny could vanish...would she vanish too?

She cried and "wanted to go where ever Granny had goed!"

She was looking at a globe and asked me if she were in the world. And is Granny not in the world any more?  And when Granny finishes being dead then will she come back? And what good is the world if Granny isn't in it. She sat on my lap and listened to auld Jemmy the Joist reading from Finnegans Wake with his own voice. I asked her what did she think the man was saying and she asked "Did he lose his granny too?"
Donall Dempsey Apr 2020
BEING LARRY BLACKMON

I was pretending
to be human.

I tried on one face
after another

trying to find the face
that was me.

Finally a face
clicked into place.

"Yessssssssss!"

Not bad for a creature
from outer space.

I checked the dictionary
at the back of "HUMAN

...FOR BEGINNERS."
"Wasssuppp y'all!" I drawled.

How cool can one
alien get...yep...I is de man.

Human....and
loving it!

I had got
the intonation just right.

Oh I could see I would
have to lose a tentacle or two.

And get more with it
busting a move.

Being a mammalian bipedal
life form not as easy as it looks.

"Computer run earth signal
from three light years ago!"

This the only transmission
from the little blue planet.

Cameo's WORD UP
starts to play.

We can determine
that Earth folk wore

black skin and
were very very funky.

Large red codpiece worn
over outer nether garment.

Check.

High top fade
haircut.

Check.

Trademark vocal
"Owww!"

Check.

Oh yeah oh yeah I can be
...Larry Blackmon.

I dare to strut and sing
like a true earthling.

"Word up it's the code word
No matter where you say it you know that you'll be heard!"

Blue Planet watch out
here I come.

You ain't seen
nothing yet.

"W-O-R-D UP!
W-O-R-D UP!
W-O-R-D UP!"
When I came to London in '86 the man famous for having an infamous red cod piece was all the rage. There was no one quite like Larry Blackmon. He was some dude and Word Up was on all our lips. Cameo as it happened was the only transmission that made it to the other side of the universe so....

Lucky it wasn't SHAKE YER PANTS!
Donall Dempsey Apr 2021
BEING TOLD

leaves are the tree's feathers
birds are the sky's fishes
so my three year old informs me

*

She my mentor teaching me her world.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2023
BELIEVE IN ME

You bang your head
on the moon

( stifle our giggles )

my scarf snags on a tree

(  suppress our  hee hee hees )

we tip toe through a sea
trying not to. . .

( laugh ha ha ha.....shhhhhhh! )

But hey....it was only
a paper moon

and you know...a muslin tree

and yeah yeah sure sure
a cardboard sea.

The moon tumbles and falls
rolls at our feet.

The tree has attached itself
to me.

I tread on a wave
and the sea snaps.

Here back stage

nothing is real
unless thinking makes it so.

But the kiss
the kiss is

a Barnum and Bailey kiss
the whole ******* circus.

This kiss( stage managed as it  is )is:
the only real reality we know.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2016
BELIEVE IN ME

You bang your head
on the moon

( stifle our giggles )

my scarf snags on a tree

(  suppress our  hee hee hees )

we tip toe through a sea
trying not to. . .

( laugh ha ha ha.....shhhhhhh! )

But hey....it was only
a paper moon

and you know...a muslin tree

and yeah yeah sure sure
a cardboard sea.

The moon tumbles and falls
rolls at our feet.

The tree has attached itself
to me.

I tread on a wave
and the sea snaps.

Here back stage

nothing is real
unless thinking makes it so.

But the kiss
the kiss is

a Barnum and Bailey kiss
the whole ******* circus.

This kiss( stage managed as it  is )is:
the only real reality we know.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2018
BELIEVE IN ME

You bang your head
on the moon

( stifle our giggles )

my scarf snags on a tree

(  suppress our  hee hee hees )

we tip toe through a sea
trying not to. . .

( laugh ha ha ha.....shhhhhhh! )

But hey....it was only
a paper moon

and you know...a muslin tree

and yeah yeah sure sure
a cardboard sea.

The moon tumbles and falls
rolls at our feet.

The tree has attached itself
to me.

I tread on a wave
and the sea snaps.

Here back stage

nothing is real
unless thinking makes it so.

But the kiss
the kiss is

a Barnum and Bailey kiss
the whole ******* circus.

This kiss( stage managed as it  is )is:
the only real reality we know.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2021
BE NOT AFRAID

She fled the forest
but the forest followed her.

It crept up
behind her then

loomed up ahead
like a Grimm's tale

that nobody and everybody
had heard.

Don't step off the path
but the path had forgotten

itself ages ago
the directions too had

gotten lost somehow
it would appear.

To go back now as scary
as to keep going on.

She was lost
to herself

"Be not afraid!" she quoted
scripture to herself that

she hadn't thought
she had known.

The howl of a wolf somewhere
around the next bend.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
"BE NOT AFRAID OF THEM THAT **** THE BODY."
( for Wendy Falla  )

Perotine Massey
is giving birth

amidst the flames
of 1556.

Her belly bursts open
with the fire's ire

and her fair-haired man child
is born in Death's embrace

"to be consumed
to ashes."

A man named House
snatches the new born from the flames.

But the child is ordered to be
thrown back!

Birth and Death
the same to him.

A born martyr.

An horrendous Herodian act
by this "...graceless generation

of Popish tormentors..."
this the era of Mary ****** Tudor.

Now over 400 years away
I stare into the Past

the heat of this summer's day
making my skin blsiter

a yellow butterfly alights upon
the Commemorative bronzed words

held in place
by a spider's web

it trembles every
now and then

in both past
and present

flying between
both times

"...faithful unto
death..."
Guillemine Gilbert and Perotine Massey were sisters, who lived with their mother, Catherine Cauchés (sometimes given as "Katherine Cawches"). Perotine was the wife of a Norman Calvinist minister, who was in London, possibly to avoid persecution. The three women were brought to court on a charge of receiving a stolen goblet. Although they were found to be not guilty of that charge, it emerged that their religious views were contrary to those required by the church authorities. They were returned to prison in Castle Cornet and later found guilty of heresy by an Ecclesiastical court held in the Town Church and handed over to the Royal Court for sentencing where they were condemned to death.

The execution was carried out on or around 18 July 1556.[2]:39 All three were burnt on the same fire; they ought to have been strangled beforehand, but the rope broke before they died and they were thrown into the fire alive. John Foxe recorded that Perotine was "great with child" and that "the belly of the woman burst asunder by the vehemence of the flame, the infant, being a fair man-child, fell into the fire".

The baby was rescued by a W. House and laid on the grass] taken by the Provost to the Bailiff, Hellier Gosselin who ordered that "it should be carried back again, and cast into the fire."

On the death of Queen Mary (1558), the Bailiff and the Roman Catholic élite of the island were subjected to a series of commissions and investigations encompassing not only the circumstances of the execution of the women, but also embezzlement; James Amy, the Dean, was committed to prison in Castle Cornet and dispossessed of his living. Gosselin was dismissed from his post in 1562 but along with the Jurats managed to obtain a pardon from Elizabeth I.

Reactions to the executions played a role in the rise of Calvinism in the Channel Islands.

In 1567 Thomas Harding criticized Foxe's account, not for his description of the event, for which Foxe quotes eye-witnesses and official documents, but on the grounds that Perotine Massey was responsible for the death of her own child; had she revealed in court that she was pregnant, the execution would have had to have been postponed until after the birth.

A memorial plaque to the martyrs can be found on the Tower Hill steps in Saint Peter Port, near the site of the execution. It was unveiled at a commemorative service on 24 April 1999.

"Be not afraid of them that **** the body.."
(MATTHEW 10:28)

Faithful unto death........Rev 2:16
Donall Dempsey Feb 2020
BE NOT PROUD

Bandol( where I )almost
drowned
my fingertip caresses the map

Port Yerrock
where I alas...was saved
suicide can be so difficult these days

some do-gooder being brave
I cursed him
for the rest of my days

that was in 1938 or '39
funny now
I lie dying in 1999

who would have thought
I would have made it all the way to today
now a me un-eager to go away

Death comes to visit
brings the usual grapes & flowers
"Now. . ?" "Not yet.." says Death

Death
not at all who or how I
imagined it to be

Death
smiles
takes my hand &. . .

the clock ticks on

past her demise
the barometer registers a change in pressure
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
BE NOT PROUD

Bandol( where I )almost
drowned
my fingertip caresses the map

Port Yerrock
where I alas...was saved
suicide can be so difficult these days

some dogooder being brave
I cursed him
for the rest of my days

that was in 1938 or '39
funny now
I lie dying in 1999

who would have thought
I would have made it all the way to today
now a me un-eager to go away

Death comes to visit
brings the usual grapes & flowers
"Now. . ?" "Not yet.." says Death

Death
not at all who or how I
imagined it to be

Death
smiles
takes my hand &. . .

the clock ticks on

past her death
the barometer registers a change in pressure
Donall Dempsey May 2017
'BESPANGLING EVERY BOUGH WITH STARS."

Was as if
time had become

visible.

He could see seconds
hanging in the air there

the architecture of a moment
the shape of an hour

laid bare.

Was as if
he could see atoms dancing

into being

becoming one thing
or an other.

Guess he would have been
three or a little more

and the mystery of the world
stood naked before him.

A sort of angels over
Peckham Rye moment

the world lived
in slow motion.

Was as if
he could see

the whole process
an intense focus

one moment the red ball
hurtling towards the sun

and then and then
as if years years later

dropping into his hand again
not the red plastic ball

but the sun.

That is how memory
remembers it.

But at the time
it seemed the universe

had come apart
at the seams

and he could be
part of the great wonder.

Here was Mr. Blake's tree
moving me "...to tears of joy

...rather than only a green thing
that stands in the way."

A universe within me
expanding continuously

the big bang
of being

3.
In 1765 at the age of 8, William Blake saw his first vision while walking on Peckham Rye. 'A tree filled with angels, bright angelic wings bespangling every bough like stars.'


"The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see nature all ridicule and deformity... and some scarce see nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself."
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
BE THOU MY VISION

He drinks in
my vision

of a world
contained in a matter

of minutes
all that can be seen

in this here
& now.

An ordinary world
of the mundane moment

joggers and *******
running side by side

somewhere the distant barking
of an invisible dog.

Litter being taken
for a walk

by a skittish wind
changing direction on a whim.

A swan
sitting on its own

on a park bench
gazing at the water.

My Da gulps down
each happenstance

each moment
of unimportance

knowing he will never
see such things again.

The ordinary made precious
in the dying light.

Each meagre moment
bereft of beauty.

Soon he will have
the Last Rites

and even this story
will be lost.

But now he listens
almost greedily

as I tell of a shadow
scattered upon the grass

as if it existed in
a dimension of its own.

He can almost taste
the sunlight.

See the wind
hustle the leaves.

How beautiful
is mud?

What a thing
is rain?

How wondrous
a footfall

opening up the silence
flowering into

the ragged breathing
of an obese jogger

her earphones
leaking Christmas music.

A Christmas long gone
that will not come for him again.

Father become child
wanting the again and again

of this fading
“Now.”

Spring in all its glory
shyly approaching

the dying
of his day.

*

“Be thou my vision
Oh Lord of my heart
Naught be all else to me
Save what thou art.”
There is a photo of me and my Da heading off to Sunday mass in our Sunday best. I am holding his hand and so proud that this man is my Da and totally in love with the moment. In mass we will sing Be Thou My Vision and it will be an epiphany. This is the moment I will be remembering when the doc throws us out for a while and I go out to the nearby park. Everything I saw and there was nothing much to see...******* and shadows....joggers and swans and a dog that could not be seen. The dog was in a housing estate a good bit away but his bark was right beside you. A swan was sitting on a park bench and wouldn't let anyone else sit on it. The music leaking from the jogger's headphones and she trundled by me in pink spandex was...The Little Drummer Boy. This in March? When the doc let me back in Da wanted to know everything I had seen down to the littlest detail. He was able to tell me that when a swan goes loco with you...it is called busking. He was always able to tell me such tiny bits of knowledge. Even the shadow on the ***** grass got gulped down by his mind. Only after did I realise that all these details of things he knew he would never see again. They had become precious...even the mud...even the rain. In my mind when he was dying I would sing to him all the songs and hymns I sang with him in all the different Da's he was.

The old Irish version of the hymn says it all for me>

Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.

Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.

Such intense love....an immensity held in these scrappy details of a nothing day.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2020
BE THOU MY VISION

"Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art."

On a bitter winter morning we stand and sing
an old Irish hymn.

I in my wellies giving it
as much welly as a little boy can.

I hold my father's hand.
He squeezes mine.

But it is not to Him I sing
but to my own Da.

My father is my heaven
here on the earth I have

known for
all my seven years.

I close my eyes and sing
with everything I got.

"Thou my great Father, I Thy true son!"

I understand the words
from the inside out.

"Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
my Treasure Thou art."

The winter of '63
lost in the blizzard of time.

Now I hold my father's hand
as he lies dying.

He squeezes mine.
I sing to him in my mind.

"Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light."

He lets go
of my hand.

His little boy still sings for him.
"Heart of my own heart, whatever befall."
"Be Thou My Vision" (Old Irish: Rop tú mo baile or Rob tú mo bhoile) is a traditional Christian hymn of Irish origin. The words are based on a Middle Irish poem often attributed to the sixth-century Irish Christian poet St. Dallán Forgaill, although it is probably later than that. The best-known English version, with some minor variations, was translated by Eleanor Hull and published in 1912. Since 1919 it has been commonly sung to an Irish folk tune, noted as “Slane” in church hymnals and is one of the most popular hymns in the United Kingdom

English version by Eleanor Hull (1912)




Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

Be Thou my battle Shield, Sword for the fight;
Be Thou my Dignity, Thou my Delight;
Thou my soul's Shelter, Thou my high Tow’r:
Raise Thou me heav’nward, O Pow’r of my pow’r.

Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise,
Thou mine Inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my Treasure Thou art.

High King of Heaven, my victory won,
May I reach Heaven's joys, O bright Heav’n's Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2021
BE THOU MY VISION

He drinks in
my vision

of a world
contained in a matter

of minutes
all that can be seen

in this here
& now.

An ordinary world
of the mundane moment

joggers and *******
running side by side

somewhere the distant barking
of an invisible dog.

Litter being taken
for a walk

by a skittish wind
changing direction on a whim.

A swan
sitting on its own

on a park bench
gazing at the water.

My Da gulps down
each happenstance

each moment
of unimportance

knowing he will never
see such things again.

The ordinary made precious
in the dying light.

Each meagre moment
bereft of beauty.

Soon he will have
the Last Rites

and even this story
will be lost.

But now he listens
almost greedily

as I tell of a shadow
scattered upon the grass

as if it existed in
a dimension of its own.

He can almost taste
the sunlight.

See the wind
hustle the leaves.

How beautiful
is mud?

What a thing
is rain?

How wondrous
a footfall

opening up the silence
flowering into

the ragged breathing
of an obese jogger

her earphones
leaking Christmas music.

A Christmas long gone
that will not come for him again.

Father become child
wanting the again and again

of this fading
“Now.”

Spring in all its glory
shyly approaching

the dying
of his day.



“Be thou my vision
Oh Lord of my heart
Naught be all else to me
Save what thou art.”



There is a photo of me and my Da heading off to Sunday mass in our Sunday best. I am holding his hand and so proud that this man is my Da and totally in love with the moment. In mass  we will sing Be Thou My Vision and it will be an epiphany. This is the moment I will be remembering when the doc throws us out for a while and  I go out to the nearby park. Everything I saw and there was nothing much to see...******* and shadows....joggers and swans and a dog that could not be seen. The dog was in a housing estate a good bit away but his bark was right beside you. A swan was sitting on a park bench and wouldn't let anyone else sit on it. The music leaking from the jogger's headphones and she trundled by me in pink spandex was...The Little Drummer Boy. This in March? When the doc let me back in Da wanted to know everything I had seen down to the littlest detail. He was able to tell me that when a swan goes loco with you...it is called busking. He was always able to tell me such tiny bits of knowledge. Even the shadow on the ***** grass got gulped down by his mind. Only after did I realise that all these details of things he knew he would never see again. They had become precious...even the mud...even the rain. In my mind when he was dying I would sing to him all the songs and hymns I sang with him in all the different Da's he was.

The old Irish version of the hymn says it all for me>

Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.

Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.

Such intense love....an immensity held in these scrappy details of a nothing day.

Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.

Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2023
BE THOU MY VISION

"Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art."

On a bitter winter morning we stand and sing
an old Irish hymn

I in my wellies giving it
as much welly as a little boy can.

I hold my father's hand.
He squeezes mine.

But it is not to Him I sign
but to my own Da.

My father is my heaven
here on the earth I have

known for
all my seven years.

I close my eyes and sing
with everything I got.

"Thou my great Father, I Thy true son!"

I understand the words
from the inside out.

"Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
my Treasure Thou art."

The winter of '63
lost in the blizzard of time.

Now I hold my father's hand
as he lies dying.

He squeezes mine.
I sing to him in my mind.

"Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light."

He lets go
of my hand.

His little boy still sings for him.
"Heart of my own heart, whatever befall."
Donall Dempsey Feb 2023
end of life's road
the soul lands
on its own shadow

*

My Da was dying in Nass hospital and I was told to go away for a while so I walked to the little wildlife park nearby which had lots and lots of swans who sat on the benches and wouldn't let humans sit on them. You can just about see on the left hand side of the photo a few about to 'busk' as they believed I was usurping their territory .Then suddenly this gull swept down and followed the line of the road to come full stop in front of me as if confronting me with matters of life and death. I managed to get a photo of it just before it landed on its own shadow.

"Hi!" it said as if talking to humans was neither here not there....I'm the neighbour psychopomp.. I've come to guide your father's soul!" In my great grief a talking gull was neither here nor there as my father's life met its end. "Does it have to be this way?" I asked in my anguish. "It does...." whispered the seagull "...it does."

There is a photo of me and my Da heading off to Sunday mass in our Sunday best. I am holding his hand and so proud that this man is my Da and totally in love with the moment. In mass we will sing Be Thou My Vision and it will be an epiphany. This is the moment I will be remembering when the doc throws us out for a while and I go out to the nearby park. Everything I saw and there was nothing much to see...******* and shadows....joggers and swans and a dog that could not be seen. The dog was in a housing estate a good bit away but his bark was right beside you. A swan was sitting on a park bench and wouldn't let anyone else sit on it. The music leaking from the jogger's headphones and she trundled by me in pink spandex was...The Little Drummer Boy. This in March? When the doc let me back in Da wanted to know everything I had seen down to the littlest detail. He was able to tell me that when a swan goes loco with you...it is called busking. He was always able to tell me such tiny bits of knowledge. Even the shadow on the ***** grass got gulped down by his mind. Only after did I realise that all these details of things he knew he would never see again. They had become precious...even the mud...even the rain. In my mind when he was dying I would sing to him all the songs and hymns I sang with him in all the different Da's he was.

The old Irish version of the hymn says it all for me...

Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.
Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.
Such intense love....an immensity held in these scrappy details of a nothing day.
Be thou my father, be I thy son.
Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.
Rop tussu m'athair, rob mé do mac-su;
rop tussu lem-sa, rob misse lat-su.

BE THOU MY VISION

He drinks in
my vision

of a world
contained in a matter

of minutes
all that can be seen

in this here
& now.

An ordinary world
of the mundane moment

joggers and *******
running side by side

somewhere the distant barking
of an invisible dog.

Litter being taken
for a walk

by a skittish wind
changing direction on a whim.

A swan
sitting on its own

on a park bench
gazing at the water.

My Da gulps down
each happenstance

each moment
of unimportance

knowing he will never
see such things again.

The ordinary made precious
in the dying light.

Each meagre moment
bereft of beauty.

Soon he will have
the Last Rites

and even this story
will be lost.

But now he listens
almost greedily

as I tell of a shadow
scattered upon the grass

as if it existed in
a dimension of its own.

He can almost taste
the sunlight.

See the wind
hustle the leaves.

How beautiful
is mud?

What a thing
is rain?

How wondrous
a footfall

opening up the silence
flowering into

the ragged breathing
of an obese jogger

her earphones
leaking Christmas music.

A Christmas long gone
that will not come for him again.

Father become child
wanting the again and again

of this fading
“Now.”

Spring in all its glory
shyly approaching

the dying
of his day.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2019
"BE THY OWN PALACE..."

Seated beside her
in the pew

her doll listens intently
to the Saviour who

emerges from
the old priest's mouth

an ectoplasm of words
as He manifests before her.

"Is there a doll heaven?"
she wonders.

Her little mistress however is
bored very bored indeed

much more interested in
a sunbeam genuflecting

before the altar
extinguishing the priest's voice.

Or the ladybird
landing on a lady's fox fur

it more jewel
than the jewel worn.

Picking her nose
as the host is

held aloft

a bird perched upon
the left shoulder of

the crucifix
the Christ a mere cypher

how the artist
fancied HIm.

The crucified man smiling at her
despite how boring the sermon is.

Sunlight becoming colour
travelling through stained glass.

Her doll nods off
falling at her feet

"Shhhhhh!" father scolds
both doll and daughter.

Doll's head broken in four
nothing inside but an emptiness

all her thoughts
evaporated.

The smile still fixed
on her porcelain face.

Incense like death
walking upon the air.

The tiny ******
of a bell.

*

“Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.”

John Donne.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2020
"BE THY OWN PALACE..."

Seated beside her
in the pew

her doll listened intently
to the Saviour who

emerges from
the old priest's mouth

an ectoplasm of words
as He manifests before her.

"Is there a doll heaven?"
she wonders.

Her little mistress however is
bored very bored indeed

much more interested  in
a sunbeam genuflecting

before the altar
extinguishing the priest's voice.

Or the ladybird
landing on a lady's fox fur

it more jewel
than the jewel worn.

Picking her nose
as the host is

held aloft

a bird perched upon
the left shoulder of

the crucifix
the Christ a mere cypher

how the artist
fancied HIm.

The crucified man smiling at her
despite how boring the sermon is.

Sunlight becoming colour
travelling through stained glass.

Her doll nods off
falling at her feet

"Shhhhhh!" father scolds
both doll and daughter.

Doll's head broken in four
nothing inside but an emptiness

all her thoughts
evaporated.

The smile still fixed
on her porcelain face.

Incense like death
walking upon the air.

The tiny ******
of a bell.

*

“Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.”

John Donne
Donall Dempsey Nov 2023
"BE THY OWN PALACE..."

Seated beside her
in the pew

her doll listened intently
to the Saviour who

emerges from
the old priest's mouth

an ectoplasm of words
as He manifests before her.

"Is there a doll heaven?"
she wonders.

Her little mistress however is
bored very bored indeed

much more interested  in
a sunbeam genuflecting

before the altar
extinguishing the priest's voice.

Or the ladybird
landing on a lady's fox fur

it more jewel
than the jewel worn.

Picking her nose
as the host is

held aloft

a bird perched upon
the left shoulder of

the crucifix
the Christ a mere cypher

how the artist
fancied HIm.

The crucified man smiling at her
despite how boring the sermon is.

Sunlight becoming colour
travelling through stained glass.

Her doll nods off
falling at her feet

"Shhhhhh!" father scolds
both doll and daughter.

Doll's head broken in four
nothing inside but an emptiness

all her thoughts
evaporated.

The smile still fixed
on her porcelain face.

Incense like death
walking upon the air.

The tiny ******
of a bell.

*

“Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.”

John Donne
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
BE THY OWN PALACE

Seated beside her
in the pew

her doll listened intently
to the Saviour who

emerges from
the old priest's mouth

an ectoplasm of words
as He manifests before her.

"Is there a doll heaven?"
she wonders.

Her little mistress however is
bored very bored indeed

much more interested  in
a sunbeam genuflecting

before the altar
extinguishing the priest's voice.

Or the ladybird
landing on a lady's foxfur

it more jewel
than the jewel worn.

Picking her nose
as the host is

held aloft

a bird perched upon
the left shoulder of

the crucifix
the Christ a mere cypher

how the artist
fancied HIm.

The crucified man smiling at her
despite how boring the sermon is.

Sunlight becoming colour
travelling through stained glass.

Her doll nods off
falling at her feet

"Shhhhhh!" father scolds
both doll and daughter.

Doll's head broken in four
nothing inside but an emptiness

all her thoughts
evaporated.

The smile still fixed
on her porcelain face.

Incense like death
walking upon the air.

The tiny ******
of a bell.
“Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.”

John Donne
Donall Dempsey Jul 2024
BETWEEN 3 & 9

I was 3
by the time
I realised I was alive

became aware
I lived
in a world

wondered where
I'd been before
realisation set in

now I existed
with the knowledge
of who I was

I had become
me
my mind opening to time

I was 9
when I knew
I would have to die

no longer
be me
no longer be

part of all this
whole wide world
time going on without me

between 3 and 9
living and dying
making this world

all the more
precious
because it is so
Donall Dempsey Jul 2022
BETWEEN 3 & 9

I was 3
by the time
I realised I was alive

became aware
I lived
in a world

wondered where
I'd been before
realisation set in

now I existed
with the knowledge
of who I was

I had become
me
my mind opening to time

I was 9
when I knew
I would have to die

no longer
be me
no longer be

part of all this
whole wide world
time going on without me

between 3 and 9
living and dying
making this world

all the more
precious
because it is so
Donall Dempsey Mar 2018
BETWEEN THE WORDS

The leg that had fallen
asleep: suddenly awoke
attacked him with pins...with needles.

"Ow!"  "oW!" & "OW!"
he shouted at himself
shaking a leg

He felt like a bad
Xerox copy of
his self.

The typewriter glowered at him.
He glared right back.
"Do your worst!" it smirked.

"...the men who moil for gold..."
the old Service line resurfaced
"Moil...ha ha...how true!"

His measly one-finger-typing
trying to keep up with
his mind...fall...ing..be...hind.

The typewriter trying to
find his train of thought
the clickety clack of words.

Man morphing into machine.
Both one & the same.
Only the next word...counts.

Thinking & not thinking.
The mind in free fall.
The words pumped up.

Loving the return of carriage
the next line springing into
being.

"Coraggio!. . .coraggio!"
His mind admonishes him.
"Andiamo!" he exhorts his words.

On a roll now.
One part of him( writing ).
The other singing THE RUNAWAY TRAIN.

"And she blew!
And she blew...blew...blew....blew...blew!
Ooooohhhh....oooooohhh!"

Uh hu!
The ribbon of his mind
wearing thin.

Words now in red.
& now.
In nothing.

The words appearing
like their own ghosts.
A mere impression.

"Don't leave me this way!"
his mind sings to them.
" I don't understand how I'm at your command..."

The "e" key
raising its angry  littl     fist.

Stu...stu...UCK A gain.

Typewriter: quiet now.
Weeds of silence
growing up

between the words.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2017
BETWEEN THE WORDS

The leg that had fallen
asleep: suddenly awoke
attacked him with pins...with needles.

"Ow!"  "oW!" & "OW!"
he shouted at himself
shaking a leg

He felt like a bad
Xerox copy of
his self.

The typewriter glowered at him.
He glared right back.
"Do your worst!" it smirked.

"...the men who moil for gold..."
the old Service line resurfaced
"Moil...ha ha...how true!"

His measly one-finger-typing
trying to keep up with
his mind...fall...ing..be...hind.

The typewriter trying to
find his train of thought
the clickety clack of words.

Man morphing into machine.
Both one & the same.
Only the next word...counts.

Thinking & not thinking.
The mind in free fall.
The words pumped up.

Loving the return of carriage
the next line springing into
being.

"Coraggio!. . .coraggio!"
His mind admonishes him.
"Andiamo!" he exhorts his words.

On a roll now.
One part of him( writing ).
The other singing THE RUNAWAY TRAIN.

"And she blew!
And she blew...blew...blew....blew...blew!
Ooooohhhh....oooooohhh!"

Uh hu!
The ribbon of his mind
wearing thin.

Words now in red.
& now.
In nothing.

The words appearing
like their own ghosts.
A mere impression.

"Don't leave me this way!"
his mind sings to them.
" I don't understand how I'm at your command..."

The "e" key
raising its angry  littl     fist.

Stu...stu...UCK A gain.

Typewriter: quiet now.
Weeds of silence
growing up

between the words.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2021
BETWEEN THE WORDS

The leg that had fallen
asleep: suddenly awoke
attacked him with pins...with needles.

"Ow!"  "oW!" & "OW!"
he shouted at himself
shaking a leg

He felt like a bad
Xerox copy of
his self.

The typewriter glowered at him.
He glared right back.
"Do your worst!" it smirked.

"...the men who moil for gold..."
the old Service line resurfaced
"Moil...ha ha...how true!"

His measly one-finger-typing
trying to keep up with
his mind...fall...ing..be...hind.

The typewriter trying to
find his train of thought
the clickety clack of words.

Man morphing into machine.
Both one & the same.
Only the next word...counts.

Thinking & not thinking.
The mind in free fall.
The words pumped up.

Loving the return of carriage
the next line springing into
being.

"Coraggio!. . .coraggio!"
His mind admonishes him.
"Andiamo!" he exhorts his words.

On a roll now.
One part of him( writing ).
The other singing THE RUNAWAY TRAIN.

"And she blew!
And she blew...blew...blew....blew...blew!
Ooooohhhh....oooooohhh!"

Uh hu!
The ribbon of his mind
wearing thin.

Words now in red.
& now.
In nothing.

The words appearing
like their own ghosts.
A mere impression.

"Don't leave me this way!"
his mind sings to them.
" I don't understand how I'm at your command..."

The "e" key
raising its angry  littl     fist.

Stu...stu...UCK A gain.

Typewriter: quiet now.
Weeds of silence
growing up

between the words.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
!BEWARE BIGAMIST BEWARE!

In China
cheating Chang Yin

a Beijing businessman
(& bigamist)

suffered a severe
Facebook shock

when 'wife' Tsing
added'wife' Tseung

to her friend's
list

& found
they uncommonly

had quite a lot
in common.

Cheating Chang
now faces fininacial ruin.

'They each want
half of what

I got! '
he sobs.

Poor slob
didn't realise

it's oh so hard to be
a Beijing bigamist

in these oh so
technical times.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2020
BEWARE OF GEEKS BEARING GIFTS

his love a wound
that scabbed over but
never entirely healed

she would year after year
pick at it pick at it
watching it bleed

his love that thing that
"hurts"
so much...a festering...****

his love a great big
Wooden Horse that
she always allowed inside her pity

her love a Troy
destroyed
hope that eternal useless myth
Donall Dempsey Jul 2019
BEWARE OF GEEKS BEARING GIFTS

his love a wound
that scabbed over but
never entirely healed

she would year after year
pick at it pick at it
watching it bleed

his love that thing that
"hurts"
so much...a festering...****

his love a great big
Wooden Horse that
she always allowed inside her pity

her love a Troy
destroyed
hope that eternal useless myth
Donall Dempsey Jul 2016
BEWARE OF GEEKS BEARING GIFTS

his love a wound
that scabbed over but
never entirely healed

she would year after year
pick at it pick at it
watching it bleed

his love that thing that
"hurts"
so much...a festering...****

his love a great big
Wooden Horse that
she always allowed inside her pity

her love a Troy
destroyed
hope that eternal useless myth
This got a "Yuck and not very good" from  a certain someone ...so I'm very grateful. It wasn't meant to be a "nice" poem though I did want it to be good! My lovely friend fell in love with an absolutely terrible person who we all implored her to leave but all he had to do was to give her a bunch of flowers or a box of chocs and aghhhhh he was back. We were looking at a documentary on the finding of the actual city of Troy back in the day so I guess that imagery entered into what she was telling me and so the poem came into being!
Donall Dempsey Jul 2017
BEWARE OF GEEKS BEARING GIFTS




his love a wound

that scabbed over but

never entirely healed




she would year after year

pick at it pick at it

watching it bleed




his love that thing that

"hurts"

so much...a festering...****




his love a great big

Wooden Horse that

she always allowed inside her pity




her love a Troy

destroyed

hope that eternal useless myth
Donall Dempsey May 2024
"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

the frog slid
slowly down
my throat

its legs sticking out of
my mouth...
still kicking

the world
was running away
into the final darkness

my eyes were robbed
of trees and sun
the day being stolen from me

"Death by frog!"
how unlikely
a dying

the bullies all
short-trousered
lads like me

the moment sculpted
from the sunlight
of 1963

then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick
or I silently yelled

and expelled
friend frog who
having escaped death

by swallowing
hopped it
lost itself in the long grass

perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet
is told still

to its descendants
far removed from
that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver
making her little tiddlers tremble

with trepidation
"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"

*

I was having a bad day....nothing going my way....but still Kim Moore  managed to wring this out of me in her wonderful writing workshop. She applied a Chinese burn to my mind and out popped this in a seven and a half minute sprint of the mind. I was halfway through reliving the trauma of a frog being shoved down my throat to gales of laughter when I suddenly thought "What about the poor frog? How did he cope?"

What did he tell the other frogs and how in the world of frogs it became the tallest of tall tales and my name entered the lexicon of frog horror stories that have been passed down through generations of frog families despite being the innocent victim! All the frog heard in its terrification was my name chanted over and over again in great grievous glee "Ha ha ha...Donall Dempsey!"

Me and friend frog were in this tormenting together. But despite all this my name has gone down in frog history as if I were a Grendel or a Grendel's mother or a Jabberwocky. Just say Donall Dempsey and see what the reaction is...faster than a Basho plop and splash.

Still have nightmares about it! Another time they took off my pants and I had to run all the way home bottomless. In memory no one can hear you scream.

But no one thought of the poor frog...except me. I hope he didn't think bad of me...it wasn't my fault.

Frog saved both our lives by kicking free....his own and mine as I was being held down and could struggle. He saved me from choking on him and I probably gave one last choking cough to expel him from inside of me.

When in France I couldn't even look at a frog's leg without choking.

Ahhh but a bullied frog in the throat is worth a poem in the mind. Both friend frog and myself surviving to tell the tale.
Donall Dempsey May 2020
"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

The frog slid slowly down
my throat.

It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.

The world was running away
into the final darkness.

My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.

The day being stolen
from me.

"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.

The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me

sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.

Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick

or I silently yelled
and expelled

friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing

hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.

Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet

is told still to its descendents
far removed from that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver

making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation

"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"
***

I was having a bad day....nothing going my way....but still Kim Moore  managed to wring this out of me in her wonderful writing workshop. She applied a Chinese burn to my mind and out popped this in a seven and a half minute sprint of the mind. I was halfways through reliving the trauma of a frog being shoved down my throat to gales of laughter when I suddenly thought "What about the poor frog? How did he cope?"

What did he tell the other frogs and how in the world of frogs it became the tallest of tall tales and my name entered the lexicon of frog horror stories that have been passed down through generations of frog families despite being the innocent victim! All the frog heard in its terrification was my name
chanted over and over again in great grievous glee "Ha ha ha...Donall Dempsey!"  Me and friend frog were in this tormenting together. But despite all this my name has gone down in frog history as if I were a Grendel or a Grendel's mother or a Jabberwocky. Just say Donall Dempsey and see what the reaction is...faster than a Basho plop and splash.
Donall Dempsey May 2019
"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

The frog slid slowly down
my throat.

It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.

The world was running away
into the final darkness.

My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.

The day being stolen
from me.

"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.

The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me

sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.

Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick

or I silently yelled
and expelled

friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing

hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.

Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet

is told still to its descendents
far removed from that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver

making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation

"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"
Donall Dempsey May 2021
"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

The frog slid slowly down
my throat.

It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.

The world was running away
into the final darkness.

My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.

The day being stolen
from me.

"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.

The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me

sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.

Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick

or I silently yelled
and expelled

friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing

hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.

Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet

is told still to its descendants
far removed from that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver

making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation

"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"

*

I was having a bad day....nothing going my way....but still Kim Moore  managed to wring this out of me in her wonderful writing workshop. She applied a Chinese burn to my mind and out popped this in a seven and a half minute sprint of the mind. I was halfways through reliving the trauma of a frog being shoved down my throat to gales of laughter when I suddenly thought "What about the poor frog? How did he cope?"

What did he tell the other frogs and how in the world of frogs it became the tallest of tall tales and my name entered the lexicon of frog horror stories that have been passed down through generations of frog families despite being the innocent victim! All the frog heard in its terrification was my name
chanted over and over again in great grievous glee "Ha ha ha...Donall Dempsey!"  Me and friend frog were in this tormenting together. But despite all this my name has gone down in frog history as if I were a Grendel or a Grendel's mother or a Jabberwocky. Just say Donall Dempsey and see what the reaction is...faster than a Basho plop and splash
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
BEYOND THE CLOUDS

He runs
for the sheer joy

of being
a little boy.

"Brian...Brian!"
I try to rein him in

with my voice but
he escapes even that.

"Watch out...watch out!"
I throw the words at him

"Or you'll hit
that cloud!"

Two clouds glower at him
and he stops in his tracks

suddenly uncertain if
that is possible.

And so perspective
cowers my little brother

and he runs back
holds my hand.

We tiptoe past
the threatening clouds

leaving them behind
he laughing nervously.

Now far far from that time
beyond even death

I call his name
and he runs and

takes my hand.

The clouds can only
look on.
It was only in death that Brian became my little brother again. He was able to make his way in the world easier than I and became the solid, dependable honest fellow so that he was able to deal with anything the world could throw at him so that in fact he became the "big brother." I on the other hand became a PIP( a poor Irish poet )stumbling from one thing to another trying to keep up with the world that was fast outpacing me. He was going to go for early retirement and move back home to look after our Da when he suddenly died. This planned retirement made him more open to the leisures and pleasures of poetry and he began to want to know how a poem happens and where it can come from. I told him ya know in frosty air ya can see your breath writing your words upon the air as if your soul was leaving your body and dancing with the stars upon a midnight...well it's a bit like that...an organic becoming rather than any planned thing. Like a human spiderweb spun from your self. I said do you remember running away from me when you were a little boy and I called you back by putting the idea into your head that you might hit your head on a cloud? I  recited Ivor Gurney's IF I WERE TO WALK STRAIGHT SLAP and he so how it was so that you could grow the most ordinary little moment in a life into a bunch of words that hung together to capture in sound a time that was gone and would never come again in exactly the same way or that a poem was the best time machine a chap could have.

After a while he could recite Gurney back to me and so started to keep poems in his head like a little room he could go into and treasure a moment again.

IF I WERE TO WALK STRAIGHT SLAP

If I were to walk straight slap
Headlong down the road
Toward the two-wood gap
Should I - hit that cloud.

He also came to love Raymond Carver's LATE FRAGMENT. It always made him cry. This was the one and only thing he said he wanted. One night we waited in the dark for a fox that would invariably come to the glass door and stare if at us as if the other foxes dared him to...to see what humans do in their little boxes. And Brian asked it....

"And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth."

I wasn't to know that friend fox was a psychopomp come to carry his soul away.


Later much later he became a card carrying member of some Cloud Association! Once when he was only his tiny self he asked me if "You die will there be weather?" I didn't know how to answer him and asked "How do you mean?" "Like...will there be clouds." Knowing no better I assured him that there would be! I still know nothing and he possibly knows everything.
I only hitting my head upon the clouds...talking to the skies.



I hope my little brother knew that he was beloved on this earth.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2020
BEYOND THE CLOUDS

He runs
for the sheer joy

of being
a little boy.

"Brian...Brian!"
I try to rein him in

with my voice but
he escapes even that.

"Watch out...watch out!"
I throw the words at him

"Or you'll hit
that cloud!"

Two clouds glower at him
and he stops in his tracks

suddenly uncertain if
that is possible.

And so perspective
cowers my little brother

and he runs back
holds my hand.

We tiptoe past
the threatening clouds

leaving them behind
he laughing nervously.

Now far far from that time
beyond even death

I call his name
and he runs and

takes my hand.

The clouds can only
look on.
***

It was only in death that Brian became my little brother again. He was able to make his way in the world easier than I and became the solid  dependable honest fellow he was able to deal with anything the world could throw at him so that in fact he became the "big brother." I on the other hand became a PIP( a poor Irish poet )stumbling from one thing to another trying to keep up with the world that was fast outpacing me. He was going to go for early retirement and move back home to look after our Da when he suddenly died. This planned retirement made him more open to the leisures and pleasures of poetry and he began to want to know how a poem happens and where it can come from. I told him ya know in frosty air ya can see your breath writing your words upon the air as if your soul was leaving your body and dancing with the stars upon a midnight...well it's a bit like that...an organic becoming rather than any planned thing. Like a human spiderweb spun from your self. I said do you remember running away from me when you were a little boy and I called you back by putting the idea into your head that you might hit your head on a cloud? I  recited Ivor Gurney's IF I WERE TO WALK STRAIGHT SLAP and he saw how it was so that you could grow the most ordinary little moment in a life into a bunch of words that hung together to capture in sound a time that was gone and would never come again in exactly the same way or that a poem was the best time machine a chap could have.

After a while he could recite Gurney back to me and so started to keep poems in his head like a little room he could go into and treasure a moment again.

IF I WERE TO WALK STRAIGHT SLAP

If I were to walk straight slap
Headlong down the road
Toward the two-wood gap
Should I - hit that cloud.

He also came to love Raymond Carver's LATE FRAGMENT. It always made him cry. This was the one and only thing he said he wanted. One night we waited in the dark for a fox that would invariably come to the glass door and stare if at us as if the other foxes dared him to...to see what humans do in their little boxes. And Brian asked it....

"And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth."

I wasn't to know that friend fox was a psychopomp come to carry his soul away.

Later much later he became a card carrying member of some Cloud Association! Once when he was only his tiny self he asked me if "You die will there be weather?" I didn't know how to answer him and asked "How do you mean?" "Like...will there be clouds." Knowing no better I assured him that there would be! I still know nothing and he possibly knows everything.

I only hitting my head upon the clouds...talking to the skies.

I hope my little brother knew that he was beloved on this earth.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2024
BEYOND THE CLOUDS

He runs
for the sheer joy

of being
a little boy.

"Brian...Brian!"
I try to rein him in

with my voice but
he escapes even that.

"Watch out...watch out!"
I throw the words at him

"Or you'll hit
that cloud!"

Two clouds glower at him
and he stops in his tracks

suddenly uncertain if
that is possible.

And so perspective
cowers my little brother

and he runs back
holds my hand.

We tiptoe past
the threatening clouds

leaving them behind
he laughing nervously.

Now far far from that time
beyond even death

I call his name
and he turns

runs and
takes my hand.

The clouds can only
look on.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2021
BEYOND THE CLOUDS

He runs
for the sheer joy

of being
a little boy.

"Brian...Brian!"
I try to rein him in

with my voice but
he escapes even that.

"Watch out...watch out!"
I throw the words at him

"Or you'll hit
that cloud!"

Two clouds glower at him
and he stops in his tracks

suddenly uncertain if
that is possible.

And so perspective
cowers my little brother

and he runs back
holds my hand.

We tiptoe past
the threatening clouds

leaving them behind
he laughing nervously.

Now far far from that time
beyond even death

I call his name
and he turns

runs and
takes my hand.

The clouds can only
look on.b
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
...bifröst...


the rainbow grows
out of the wood field

and in a sudden blaze
of colour throws itself

up into the sky
piercing a cloud in its ecstasy

before leaping over
the Own-na-buidhe river

and landing in the field beyond
then tying itself to the ground

before dissolving in some piano
notes running about in my head

the sky hardly able
to catch its breath

the leaves and I trembling
at what we had seen
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
BIG HAPPY

“You make me
so happy! ”
she says

“Oh, I
say! ”
I say

“It’s such a big happy
but it’s made up
of all small happies! ”

“The small happy
I can hold
in my hand

but the big happy
is like
the sky! ”

she clutches me
hugs my knee
kisses my kneecap

then goes
out again
shouting to the dolly

she left sitting
in the sand pit.
“It’s ok...I’m back! ”
Donall Dempsey Oct 2015
BIG HAPPY

“You make me
so happy! ”

She says.

“Oh, I say! ”
I say.

“It’s such
a big happy

but it’s made up
of all small happies! ”

“The small happy
I can hold
in my hand

but the big happy
is like the sky! ”

She clutches me
hugs my knee
kisses my kneecap

then goes
out again

shouting to the dolly
she left sitting in the sand pit.

“It’s ok...I’m back! ”
BIG HAPPY

“You make me
so happy! ”

She says.

“Oh, I say! ”
I say.

“It’s such
a big happy

but it’s made up
of all small happies! ”

“The small happy
I can hold
in my hand

but the big happy
is like the sky! ”

She clutches me
hugs my knee
kisses my kneecap

then goes
out again

shouting to the dolly
she left sitting in the sand pit.

“It’s ok...I’m back! ”
Donall Dempsey May 2015
You were older than me
now I am older than you

can ever be

(forever 18 &
forever dead) .

I felt so guilty
when I passed that age

wishing I could exchange
some of the life I had

so that you could experience
the life you never knew.

I used to talk to
your grave

as if it were you...

Always beginning: “Hiya, kid...”

Now I find you
everywhere instead

the sunlight on the garden

smiles like you did

the ladybird stumbling
over the furrows of my fingerprint

has the same graceful
awkwardness

your body lent to every movement.

You are younger
than me

& will always be.

And I
am older

than you


...will ever know.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2015
You were older than me
now I am older than you

can ever be

(forever 18 &
forever dead) .

I felt so guilty
when I passed that age

wishing I could exchange
some of the life I had

so that you could experience
the life you never knew.

I used to talk to
your grave

as if it were you...

Always beginning: “Hiya, kid...”

Now I find you
everywhere instead

the sunlight on the garden

smiles like you did

the ladybird stumbling
over the furrows of my fingerprint

has the same graceful
awkwardness

your body lent to every movement.

You are younger
than me
& will always be.

And I
am older

than you

...will ever know.
* * * * * * *

The sound of my sister's voice.  We lived in a house not made of books.  The only  texts existed in the texture of the telling...my sister finecombing my hair and soothing the pain with...shussh...stories.

'The little toy soldier is covered with dust...'

...exists only in my mind and the vague trellised traces of Junie's voice.  It is here breath against my skin as I fall asleep. It has never entered my mind through print yet it is printed irredeemably...indelibly in my mind.

'What is it again? '

I am following my father...gogging my Dad doggedly for the words of a song.  I scrawl the words across the page of my mind as exasperated his patience explodes:

'As down the ****** glen one ****** Easter morn...how many times do I have to tell you! '

My sister Moira is slightly tipsy.  I glow with pleasure as the pattern unfolds.  When she is more that slightly tipsy she will softly and sadly sing.

'I know my love by his way of walking and I know my love by his way of talking and I know my love by his eyes so blue and if my love left me what would I do...? '

I am drunk with her words.  There is a slight smell of loneliness off her breath.  I hang   on   her   every    breath.

I have had four teeth pulled and my world fevers and frets. The smell of sausages sidles up the stairs and seduces me to the top of the stairs.  When I am safely ion danger the smelly magic no longer supports me.  I fall and float down the stairs.  Junie comforts  and croons.  I am lying in her arms in her bed.  Again she sings.  'Again! ' I plead.  She sings again.

'Black is the colour of my true love's hair...her lips are like...'

Her body vibrates with sound and the words echo through me and echo through the memory of me.  For a long long time
the only way these words were written down ws in the breath entering and leaving her body.

When I remember to write...

I write to remember I write to forget.

I write to recover what has never left me but exists in a someplace of my mind.  I write to find out who I am and if I ever was. I write to discover where I went when the wordl went away.

As the bus crashes the book is torn and burning.  The world dies.  A child cries.  I WRITE TO REMEMBER I WRITE TO FORGET.  The book leies strewn across the motorway.  It's spine is broken and its leaves flutter away in dismay.  The book is burning.  It is unreadable as it reads itself to the night's wind. It is an image torn from a dream that is really real.  Its spine is broken and pages turn themselves over and over in the night.

I write...to remember...I write...to forget.

Sunlight streams through the bedroom window...sculpts a sister.  Creates Junie.  She is telling me the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.  Every time I cry.  She says she will not tell me again because it always me makes me cry.  I promise not to cry if she promises to tell me again.  She tells me again.  I cry  every time.  She is not dead.  She is telling me the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.  She is created of sunlight.  Dust motes dance in attendance.  It can not be...more real than this. I write to remember...I write...to forget.  I write to recover the times of her not dying...when she is sunlight and breath.  When she was my book.  When the sound of her was all...around me.  Writing to remember...I forget so much.  I write because I am - lost.  I write to find an exit door in my mind.  The book is broken.  The book is burning.  Pages...fiery pages flutter like lost souls escaping into the darkness.  I write to reach the light.  I write to enter the darkness.  I write to escape the sound of the book burning. I write to forget...I...write to...not forget.                             Remember.

* * * * * *
Donall Dempsey Apr 2024
BIG SISTER

you were older than me
now I am older
than you

can ever be
(forever 18 &
forever dead) .

I felt so guilty
when I passed
that age

wishing
I could exchange
some of the life I had

so that you could
experience
the life you never knew

I used to talk to
your grave
as if it were you...

always
beginning:
“Hiya, kid...”

now I find you
everywhere
instead

the sunlight
on the garden
smiles like you did

the ladybird
stumbling
over the furrows of my fingerprint

has the same graceful
awkwardness
your body lent to every movement

you are younger
than me
& will always be

and I am older
than you
...will ever know


* * * * * *


The sound of my sister's voice.  We lived in a house not made of books.  The only  texts existed in the texture of the telling...my sister finecombing my hair and soothing the pain with...shussh...stories.

'The little toy soldier is covered with dust...'

...exists only in my mind and the vague trellised traces of Junie's voice.  It is here breath against my skin as I fall asleep. It has never entered my mind through print yet it is printed irredeemably...indelibly in my mind.

'What is it again? '

I am following my father...gogging my Dad doggedly for the words of a song.  I scrawl the words across the page of my mind as exasperated his patience explodes:

'As down the ****** glen one ****** Easter morn...how many times do I have to tell you! '

My sister Moira is slightly tipsy.  I glow with pleasure as the pattern unfolds.  When she is more that slightly tipsy she will softly and sadly sing.

'I know my love by his way of walking and I know my love by his way of talking and I know my love by his eyes so blue and if my love left me what would I do...? '

I am drunk with her words.  There is a slight smell of loneliness off her breath.  I hang   on   her   every    breath.

I have had four teeth pulled and my world fevers and frets. The smell of sausages sidles up the stairs and seduces me to the top of the stairs.  When I am safely ion danger the smelly magic no longer supports me.  I fall and float down the stairs.  Junie comforts  and croons.  I am lying in her arms in her bed.  Again she sings.  'Again! ' I plead.  She sings again.

'Black is the colour of my true love's hair...her lips are like...'

Her body vibrates with sound and the words echo through me and echo through the memory of me.  For a long long time
the only way these words were written down ws in the breath entering and leaving her body.

When I remember to write...

I write to remember I write to forget.

I write to recover what has never left me but exists in a someplace of my mind.  I write to find out who I am and if I ever was. I write to discover where I went when the wordl went away.

As the bus crashes the book is torn and burning.  The world dies.  A child cries.  I WRITE TO REMEMBER I WRITE TO FORGET.  The book leies strewn across the motorway.  It's spine is broken and its leaves flutter away in dismay.  The book is burning.  It is unreadable as it reads itself to the night's wind. It is an image torn from a dream that is really real.  Its spine is broken and pages turn themselves over and over in the night.

I write...to remember...I write...to forget.

Sunlight streams through the bedroom window...sculpts a sister.  Creates Junie.  She is telling me the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.  Every time I cry.  She says she will not tell me again because it always me makes me cry.  I promise not to cry if she promises to tell me again.  She tells me again.  I cry  every time.  She is not dead.  She is telling me the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.  She is created of sunlight.  Dust motes dance in attendance.  It can not be...more real than this. I write to remember...I write...to forget.  I write to recover the times of her not dying...when she is sunlight and breath.  When she was my book.  When the sound of her was all...around me.  Writing to remember...I forget so much.  I write because I am - lost.  I write to find an exit door in my mind.  The book is broken.  The book is burning.  Pages...fiery pages flutter like lost souls escaping into the darkness.  I write to reach the light.  I write to enter the darkness.  I write to escape the sound of the book burning. I write to forget...I...write to...not forget.                             Remember.

* * * * *

FALLING ASLEEP WITH MY BIG SISTER - TANKA
  
  5 half-moons rising
on the hand that strokes my hair
bracelets like music
whispering softly in my ear
“Shhhshhh...therethere...shush... shush...there! ”
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