COMING IN FROM THE COLD


searching
in a second-hand shop
among the bric-a-brac

I found you
in a white Mac
I in a white Mac too

as if
we were both
spies

& had arranged to meet
here to hand over
secret dossiers

I kissed
the top of your head
as I always do

‘cos that’s how
far you
come up to!

“The secret word
is Love! ”
I whisper into your hair.

“Love! ” you echo
as if it actually were
a prearranged signal

although
only chance
had brought us here

us two
secret
agents

in the  sacred
espionage
of Love

COM'ON BABY DO THE LOCOMOTION

mmmmm so
**** erectus
I'll give it go

this walking lark
should be a... hmmm
piece of cake

I guess it's just
a hurtle from
the hips and hope

the legs
catch on
catch up

with the rest
of me ahhhh aghhh
no...not...that...easy

***** sliding
down to the knees
then **** the ankles

sure I would have
got it but
for that

the mother creature
seems amused always sings
"ooops there goes gravity!"

forget perambulation
I think I'll stick
to crawling

a breast full of milk
sleep for four hours
then I'm up for anything

oh how I wish
I could say
the things I think

ok let's
have a go
at talking

sure I can get
my tongue around
a bilabial such as “m”

stick it on to
a low vowel “a”
and hey I'm talking

"Ma..ma...mamama!"
yup seems to be working
picked up...kisses

that's it
think I'll
concentrate on word making

I wise baby
**** sapiens it is
then

CONSTRUCTING THE PERFECT SENTENCE

The sentence looked at me
in despair

as if I'd made it wear
both dependent and independent clauses

and yet another
parenthical in its hair.

It felt foolish as in
very very very.

"All the other sentences
will laugh at me!"

"Go on...!" I said
bullying it.

It looked at me
as if to plead

"Can we stop(ow)now
...please?"

Then tacking on a tacky
"...pretty pretty please!"

But I hadn't(gasp)yet
run out of mental breath.

I hadn't even realised that
the sentence was no longer

following me and indeed
had fallen asleep curled up

on( oh no not )
yet another ****** semi-colon.

When I came to
my senses or

what there was left
of them. . .

I grabbed it by the scruff
of the page in a rage

&: stopped
un-squashed its A4

constructing a crude
paper aeroplane

that flew ( oh how )
it flew

into the blue
plain wastepaper bin.

At last the sentence had found
a home

in the last line
of this ****** %*!! poem.

CORVID COMPANY

crow lost in crowd
just another commuter
trying to get to somewhere

packed train
everyone makes way
for our avian friend

crow gets off
at next stop
hops on escalator

at the top
crow and I
go our separate ways

crow takes to the skies
telling his friends all about
his journey with the humans

“Naw!” they all caw
“Yeah…yeah!” crow crows
they fall about the sky laughing

COUNTING
(  tusent selen siczen in dem himelrich uff einer nadel spicz * )

no don't ask me
how many
let's just say...a lot

angels dancing on
a pin or on a needle's point
doing their angel thing

now swing
now the Charleston
now a Black Bottom

"Oi! Angels! No!
Keep it quiet
for Heaven's sake

but would they
listen  - oh no
*******

making it impossible
for me to try to thread
this &@%/ needle

oh God now
they're dancing
the Can-Can...again

"Dónall son. . ."
me poor auld Mam pleads
"...that needle threaded yet?"

"I'm working on it Mam
I'm working on it!"
the angels snigger at my efforts

"Ok..let's begin then
that's one. . .
. . .a million and one!"

me Man snatches
the needle from me
"Oh give it here son!"

she licks the end
of the bright red
thread

passes it through
the eye of
the needle

a million and two
angels fall from its point
answering this needless question

**

James Franklin has raised the scholarly issue, and mentions that there is a 17th-century reference in William Chillingworth's Religion of Protestants (1637), where he accuses unnamed scholastics of debating "whether a Million of Angels may not fit upon a Needle's point?"This is earlier than a reference in the 1678 The True Intellectual System Of The Universe by Ralph Cudworth.

Helen S. Lang, author of Aristotle's Physics and its Medieval Varieties (1992), says

The question of how many angels can dance on the point of a needle, or the head of a pin, is often attributed to 'late medieval writers'.... In point of fact, the question has never been found in this form….

Peter Harrison (2016) has suggested that the first reference to angels dancing on a needle's point occurs in an expository work by the English divine, William Sclater (1575–1626) in his An exposition with notes upon the first Epistle to the Thessalonians (1619),

Sclater claimed that scholastic philosophers occupied themselves with such pointless questions as whether angels "did occupie a place; and so, whether many might be in one place at one time; and how many might sit on a Needles point; and six hundred such like needlesse points."

Harrison proposes that the reason an English writer first introduced the "needle’s point" into a critique of medieval angelology is that it makes for a pun on "needless point".

A letter written to The Times in 1975 identified a close parallel in a 14th-century mystical text, the Swester Katrei.

However, the reference is to souls sitting on a needle:

tusent selen siczen in dem himelrich uff einer nadel spicz *
— "in heaven a thousand souls can sit on the point of a needle."

COUNTING WITHOUT NUMBERS

a great crowd of hes and shes
slightly more shes than hes
so my tiny daughter tells me

there is apparently more mens
with beards than there is
mens without beards

she's at this stage where
everything has to be
counted...held accountable for itself

her terminology is still
more thans and less thans and
an abstract science

her method is to point and declaim
"There's one....there's another and
another and another and another!"

this annoys the life out of
her mother but
delights me

soon tired of all this
"counting"
she sleeps softly against my shoulder

her breath
tickles
my neck

she my one
and only
a million times over

COVID WALK

old man
out walking
his shadow

young boy
taking his pet log
for a walk

a cloud
hamming it up
as Godzilla

ghost town
the only sound
a pub sign's creaking

she sneezes snot
wipes it on her sleeve
glad I'm wearing a mask

the sky
the colour of
a blackbird's song

ship at sea in fog
lowing like a giant metal
cow

CRASHING IN THE CABBAGE AND KALE

It was a "May Day
May Day!" in 1963

I was crashing
in the cabbage and kale.

The sky as blue
as a picture postcard  

of a summer
that could never end.

I went to ground in
a veritable vegetable forest.

Somewhere a boy was
crying as if

his whole world
was ending.

I a paper aeroplane
long longed for
saved up for

and lost
on its maiden flight.

We never ever were
to see each other again.

For him there would be
other paper planes

coming gaudy out of
a kitschy wrapper.

And in time
making one

for his own little boy
when the time came.

But for me he was
my only little boy.

I lay there in the sun.
I lay there in the rain.

Until a magpie
feathered its nest with me

and once again the sky
was as blue

as the first day
I flew.

"CRAWLING INTO THE SPACE BETWEEN THE NOTES"

He surfed
and suffered

all the channels
forward then backward

choice after choice of
no choice.

All channels appeared
infected with canned laughter

as if the dead
were laughing.

The TV glared at him:
"Don't you dare...turn me off!"

He dared.

Switched if off as if
he were switching himself off.

When he did so
next door...did so!

To test the coincidence
switched on again

and next door also did so
as if in synch and serendipity.

Maybe he was turning on and off
the whole hotel.

Or other people's lives
who could tell?

He, the turner-on-and-off
of worlds.

Felt as if he could
zap the rain

un-rain the rain
then let it loose again.

Or making the hooting owl
un-hoot.

He was afraid to do it once
again to see

it was so
better not to know!

Felt the remote.
Felt remote.

Silence reigned.

As if sound had been stolen
from the world and

been replaced not with silence
but with non-sound.

Even silence would have been
a sound

compared to this
non-sound.

He watched the dance
of the lazy lace curtain

as if the window were
breathing

in and out and in and
out.

Or it were
a ghost

doing a Hawaiian
hula dance

as if his entire self
had been replaced

molecule by molecule
with loneliness

nothing but loneliness
a man made entirely of

loneliness.

Only then could he begin
to cry.

Somewhere in a can
the dead were laughing.

*

“Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.”

― Maya Angelou

"CRAWLING INTO THE SPACE BETWEEN THE NOTES"

He surfed
and suffered

all the channels
forward then backward

choice after choice of
no choice.

All channels appeared
infected with canned laughter

as if the dead
were laughing.

The TV glared at him:
"Don't you dare...turn me off!"

He dared.

Switched if off as if
he were switching himself off.

When he did so
next door...did so!

To test the coincidence
switched on again

and next door also did so
as if in synch and serendipity.

Maybe he was turning on and off
the whole hotel.

Or other people's lives
who could tell?

He, the turner-on-and-off
of worlds.

Felt as if he could
zap the rain

un-rain the rain
then let it loose again.

Or making the hooting owl
un-hoot.

He was afraid to do it once
again to see

it was so
better not to know!

Felt the remote.
Felt remote.

Silence reigned.

As if sound had been stolen
from the world and

been replaced not with silence
but with non-sound.

Even silence would have been
a sound

compared to this
non-sound.

He watched the dance
of the lazy lace curtain

as if the window were
breathing

in and out and in and
out.

Or it were
a ghost

doing a Hawaiian
hula dance

as if his entire self
had been replaced

molecule by molecule
with loneliness

nothing but loneliness
a man made entirely of

loneliness.

Only then could he begin
to cry.

Somewhere in a can
the dead were laughing.


*

“Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.”


― Maya Angelou

"CRAWLING INTO THE SPACE BETWEEN THE NOTES"

He surfed
and suffered

all the channels
forward then backward

choice after choice of
no choice.

All channels appeared
infected with canned laughter

as if the dead
were laughing.

The TV glared at him:
"Don't you dare...turn me off!"

He dared.

Switched if off as if
he were switching himself off.

When he did so
next door...did so!

To test the coincidence
switched on again

and next door also did so
as if in synch and serendipity.

Maybe he was turning on and off
the whole hotel.

Or other people's lives
who could tell?

He, the turner-on-and-off
of worlds.

Felt as if he could
zap the rain

un-rain the rain
then let it loose again.

Or making the hooting owl
un-hoot.

He was afraid to do it once
again to see

it was so
better not to know!

Felt the remote.
Felt remote.

Silence reigned.

As if sound had been stolen
from the world and

been replaced not with silence
but with non-sound.

Even silence would have been
a sound

compared to this
non-sound.

He watched the dance
of the lazy lace curtain

as if the window were
breathing

in and out and in and
out.

Or it were
a ghost

doing a Hawaiian
hula dance

as if his entire self
had been replaced

molecule by molecule
with loneliness

nothing but loneliness
a man made entirely of

loneliness.

Only then could he begin
to cry.

Somewhere in a can
the dead were laughing.

CRAWLING OUT AND FALLING UP

Her first puddle
"There's rain lying dead
in a hole!"

She's only ever
seen rain fall
not trapped in a *** hole.

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

Indeed?
I see it happen
in thought if not in deed.

I have to admit
I'd never thought of it
like...that?

Now she's all
grown up and
doesn't even remember it.

We meet a modern
day puddle and
she's puzzled...when I say:

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

"Oh Da...!" she sighs
"How do you ever
think of such...things?"

CRAWLING OUT AND FALLING UP
( for Linda )

Her first puddle
"There's rain lying dead
in a hole!"

She's only ever
seen rain fall
not trapped in a *** hole.

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

Indeed?
I see it happen
in thought if not in deed.

I have to admit
I'd never thought of it
like...that?

Now she's all
grown up and
doesn't even remember it.

We meet a modern
day puddle and
she's puzzled...when I say:

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

"Oh Da...!" she sighs
"How do you ever
think of such...things?"

CRAWLING OUT AND FALLING UP
( for Linda )

Her first puddle
"There's rain lying dead
in a hole!"

She's only ever
seen rain fall
not trapped in a *** hole.

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

Indeed?
I see it happen
in thought if not in deed.

I have to admit
I'd never thought of it
like...that?

Now she's all
grown up and
doesn't even remember it.

We meet a modern
day puddle and
she's puzzled...when I say:

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

"Oh Da...!" she sighs
"How do you ever
think of such...things?"

CRAWLING OUT AND FALLING UP
( for Linda )

Her first puddle
"There's rain lying dead
in a hole!"

She's only ever
seen rain fall
not trapped in a *** hole.

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

Indeed?
I see it happen
in thought if not in deed.

I have to admit
I'd never thought of it
like...that?

Now she's all
grown up and
doesn't even remember it.

We meet a modern
day puddle and
she's puzzled...when I say:

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

"Oh Da...!" she sighs
"How do you ever
think of such...things?"

*

Henri Nouwen once said:

"Our humanity comes to its fullest bloom in giving.
We become beautiful people when we give whatever we can give: a smile, a handshake, a kiss, an embrace, a word of love, a present, a part of our life...all of our life."

Or a way of seeing her world as only she could and letting you enter into her state of mind so that a mere puddle became a wondrous thing to behold....my child was always teaching me ways to see and to treat the world seriously as the sacred thing it is.

She had love for everyone and everything....I did my best to learn from her....she was my mentor.

CRAWLING OUT AND FALLING UP
( for Linda )

Her first puddle
"There's rain lying dead
in a hole!"

She's only ever
seen rain fall
not trapped in a *** hole.

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

Indeed?
I see it happen
in thought if not in deed.

I have to admit
I'd never thought of it
like...that?

Now she's all
grown up and
doesn't even remember it.

We meet a modern
day puddle and
she's puzzled...when I say:

"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"

"Oh Da...!" she sighs
"How do you ever
think of such...things?"

CRAWLING OUT AND FALLING  UP



her first puddle
"There's rain lying dead
in a hole!"



she's only ever
seen rain fall
not trapped in a *** hole



"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"



indeed
I see it happen
in thought if not in deed



I have to admit
I'd never thought of it
like...that



Now she's all
grown up and
doesn't even remember it



we meet a modern
day puddle and
she's puzzled...when I say



"Why doesn't it
crawl out
and fall up?"




"Oh Da...!" she sighs
"How do you ever
think of such...things?"

CRAZY CANARY YELLOW
(In Memory Of My Mother Ita Dempsey)

Bright skin tight
a crazy canary yellow

jeans
my pride & joy

(my first Versace)  

took a lot
of *****

to wear ‘em
but then

I got
‘em!

My mother hated
(with a vengeance)   them

(hated to pieces)  
them

until one morning early
up with the crow of the ****

I cut them
myself to pieces

“Snick snack! ” sniggered
the scissors

(good for a laugh)  

threw the shreds of the threads
up upon the roof

let an hour or so
pass

and then discovering
my own(the devil’s)   handiwork

accused her
of the dastardly deed.

Who else(I said)  
wanted the jeans dead?

Who hated them
with such a passion

to do such...such
a thing.

Maybe she thought...
“I did it in my(God forgive)   sleep.”

“Although I know
I didn’t do it

it’s what I would have wanted done.”

After hours
struggling like a worm

I let her off the hook
confess it was I

that done them
(the jeans)    in.

She annoyed at the spoof
that took her in

but delighted at the demise
of those **** things.

The hearty laugh of then
the feeble smile of now

as she(here is this hospital)  
tries not to die.

CRAZY CANARY YELLOW
(In Memory Of My Mother Ita Dempsey)

Bright skin tight
a crazy canary yellow

jeans
my pride & joy

(my first Versace)  

took a lot
of *****

to wear ‘em
but then

I got
‘em!

My mother hated
(with a vengeance)   them

(hated to pieces)  
them

until one morning early
up with the crow of the ****

I cut them
myself to pieces

“Snick snack! ” sniggered
the scissors

(good for a laugh)  

threw the shreds of the threads
up upon the roof

let an hour or so
pass

and then discovering
my own(the devil’s)   handiwork

accused her
of the dastardly deed.

Who else(I said)  
wanted the jeans dead?

Who hated them
with such a passion

to do such...such
a thing.

Maybe she thought...
“I did it in my(God forgive)   sleep.”

“Although I know
I didn’t do it

it’s what I would have wanted done.”

After hours
struggling like a worm

I let her off the hook
confess it was I

that done them
(the jeans)    in.

She annoyed at the spoof
that took her in

but delighted at the demise
of those **** things.

The hearty laugh of then
the feeble smile of now

as she(here is this hospital)  
tries not to die.

CRAZY CANARY YELLOW
(In Memory Of My Mother Ita Dempsey)


Bright skin tight
a crazy canary yellow

jeans
my pride & joy

(my first Versace)  

took a lot
of *****

to wear ‘em
but then

I got
‘em!

My mother hated
(with a vengeance)   them

(hated to pieces)  
them

until one morning early
up with the crow of the ****

I cut them
myself to pieces

“Snick snack! ” sniggered
the scissors

(good for a laugh)  

threw the shreds of the threads
up upon the roof

let an hour or so
pass

and then discovering
my own(the devil’s)   handiwork

accused her
of the dastardly deed.

Who else(I said)  
wanted the jeans dead?

Who hated them
with such a passion

to do such...such
a thing.

Maybe she thought...
“I did it in my(God forgive)   sleep.”

“Although I know
I didn’t do it

it’s what I would have wanted done.”

After hours
struggling like a worm

I let her off the hook
confess it was I

that done them
(the jeans)    in.

She annoyed at the spoof
that took her in

but delighted at the demise
of those **** things.

The hearty laugh of then
the feeble smile of now

as she(here is this hospital)  
tries not to die.

CRAZY CANARY YELLOW
(In Memory Of My Mother Ita Dempsey)

Bright skin tight
a crazy canary yellow

jeans
my pride & joy

(my first Versace)  

took a lot
of *****

to wear ‘em
but then

I got
‘em!

My mother hated
(with a vengeance)   them

(hated to pieces)  
them

until one morning early
up with the crow of the ****

I cut them
myself to pieces

“Snick snack! ” sniggered
the scissors

(good for a laugh)  

threw the shreds of the threads
up upon the roof

let an hour or so
pass

and then discovering
my own(the devil’s)   handiwork

accused her
of the dastardly deed.

Who else(I said)  
wanted the jeans dead?

Who hated them
with such a passion

to do such...such
a thing.

Maybe she thought...
“I did it in my(God forgive)   sleep.”

“Although I know
I didn’t do it

it’s what I would have wanted done.”

After hours
struggling like a worm

I let her off the hook
confess it was I

that done them
(the jeans)    in.

She annoyed at the spoof
that took her in

but delighted at the demise
of those **** things.

The hearty laugh of then
the feeble smile of now

as she(here is this hospital)  
tries not to die.

*

It was the last time we laughed through that story. I was on my own with her and was just trying to chat to her like we always did. I also sang her the Nat King Cole version of Autumn Leaves in Japanese that she loved. She told me that I was always " a romantic auld ejeet!" So the poem begins yet again with the telling of this old chestnut and brings it bang up to date and here we find ourselves in her final moments. Usually after the telling and sharing of this tale and a good laugh I would make her a cup of tea and we would be off on some other remembrance....this time it is the last telling of the story.

CRAZY LONELINESS HIJACKS MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL

Last night
I missed you so much

that I made love
to your nightdress

passionately

now your nightdress
hides from me

slinks under covers
and pillows

avoids my eyes.

I can't take
another night

without you.

Your nightie
can't take another night

with me.

I am holding
your dresses

hostage
threatening them with

kisses...caresses

if they make one
false move.

The rest of your clothes
tremble in the wardrobe

...come back to me.

*

Ahhh back in the day when poetry was the new rock'n'roll and we sold poetry in broadsheets from pub to pub and all piled into an auld van and headed down the highway to the southern counties and turn up at a local radio station and proclaim ourselves in poetry so that that night people would be enticed into readings at arts centres and the like...those be de days. A mechanic who" didn't give a toss about poetry" and underneath a car tinkering with its thingymabob heard me reading my "nightdress poem" on the radio and came along to hear me read it...he was very put out when I didn't and then I had to read it then and there on the pavement and he went away satisfied. One of my best performances and one of my best audiences.

This must be '84 or'85 as in '86 I took the boat to Land of the Angles and ensconced me self there for the better or the worst of it.

Last night
I missed you so much

I made love to
your nightdress

... passionately.
        
Now your nightdress
hides from me

slinks under covers and pillows

avoids my eyes.


I can't take another night  without you!

Your nightie can't take another night with me!


I am holding your dresses hostage

threatening them with kisses...caresses

if they make one false move.

Your other clothes
tremble in the wardrobe


...come back to me!

CRAZY LONELINESS HIJACKS MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. . .

Last night
I missed you so much

that I made love
to your nightdress

passionately

now your nightdress
hides from me

slinks under covers
and pillows

avoids my eyes.

I can't take
another night

without you.

Your nightie
can't take another night

with me.

I am holding
your dresses

hostage
threatening them with

kisses...caresses

if they make one
false move.

The rest of your clothes
tremble in the wardrobe

...come back to me.

CREATING CONSTELLATIONS

The star
lies at the bottom

of the stair
balancing itself against

precariously the last
step.

I pick it up
put it into the blue bucket

with the dancing yellow
rim around it.

It rests among
the rest of the stars.

They glow
greenly.

Tomorrow they will be
stuck to her ceiling

where under my
3 year's old instruction

we create her
very own constellations.

CREATING CONSTELLATIONS

The star
lies at the bottom

of the stair
balancing itself against

precariously the last
step.

I pick it up
put it into the blue bucket

with the dancing yellow
rim around it.

It rests among
the rest of the stars.

They glow
greenly.

Tomorrow they will be
stuck to her ceiling

where under my
3 year's old instruction

we create her
very own constellations.

CREATING CONSTELLATIONS

The star
lies at the bottom

of the stair
balancing itself against

precariously the last
step.

I pick it up
put it into the blue bucket

with the dancing yellow
rim around it.

It rests among
the rest of the stars.

They glow
greenly.

Tomorrow they will be
stuck to her ceiling

where under my
3 year's old instruction

we create her
very own constellations.

CREATING CONSTELLATIONS

The star
lies at the bottom

of the stair
balancing itself against

precariously the last
step.

I pick it up
put it into the blue bucket

with the dancing yellow
rim around it.

It rests among
the rest of the stars.

They glow
greenly.

Tomorrow they will be
stuck to her ceiling

where under my
3 year's old instruction

we create her
very own constellations.

CREATING THE WORLD

the sky was walking
around the world
the land trying to keep up

the weather can not
make its up its mind
what to be

"Whatever!"
the weather
thinks to itself

the sky was keeping
its clouds in order
whilst managing a sunset

the land was out of breath
becoming only a shadow
of its former self

the sky and the land
now the same dark
until the moon is turned on

*

Waking with my little one she suddenly came out with the fact that 'the sky was walking around the world' and so the rest of the words made themselves up on the spot. A poet should always carry his three year old for inspiration....she always seeing the world in her own image. Tilly creating the world.

CREATING THE WORLD

the sky was walking
around the world
the land trying to keep up

the weather can not
make its up its mind
what to be

"Whatever!"
the weather
thinks to itself

the sky was keeping
its clouds in order
whilst managing a sunset

the land was out of breath
becoming only a shadow
of its former self

the sky and the land
now the same dark
until the moon is turned on


*

Waking with my little one she suddenly came out with the fact that 'the sky was walking around the world' and so the rest of the words made themselves up on the spot. A poet should always carry his three year old for inspiration....she always seeing the world in her own image. Tilly creating the world.

CREATING YOU

The seconds flock
about me

nibbling at the Who I Am
time devouring my existence.

My dreams walk around
naked.

A sky lies asleep
in a window.

My shadow crawls
up the walls

as if it longed
to escape  me.

The mirror shows a stranger
wearing my face.

In the candle's flicker I
live frame by frame

in a black and white
celluloid  world.

I can only touch you
with language

hold you
with words

create you time
and time again

as you come alive
walk about in my sentences.

As long as I write
you are living.

I dreading the final
full stop.

I see you
walk away

into an ellipsis'
footsteps

you fading into
its dot dot dot

on the snow drift
of a page

CREATING YOU

The seconds
flock
about me

nibbling at the Who I Am
time devouring
my existence

my dreams
walk around
naked

a sky
lies asleep
in a window.

my shadow
crawls
up the walls

as if
it longed
to escape  me

the mirror shows me
a stranger
wearing my face

In the candle's flicker
I
live frame by frame

in a black and white
celluloid  
world

I can only touch you
with language
hold you with words

create you time
and time
again

as you come alive
walk about i
n my sentences.

as long as I
write
you are living

I dreading
the final
full stop

I see you
walk away
into an ellipsis' footsteps

you fading into
its dot dot dot
on the snow drift of a page

CREATING YOU

The seconds flock
about me

nibbling at the Who I Am
time devouring my existence.

My dreams walk around
naked.

A sky lies asleep
in a window.

My shadow crawls
up the walls

as if it longed
to escape  me.

The mirror shows a stranger
wearing my face.

In the candle's flicker I
live frame by frame

in a black and white
celluloid  world.

I can only touch you
with language

hold you
with words

create you time
and time again

as you come alive
walk about in my sentences.

As long as I write
you are living.

I dreading the final
full stop.

I see you
walk away

into an ellipsis'
footsteps

you fading into
its dot dot dot

on the snow drift
of a page

CREATING YOU

The seconds flock
about me

nibbling at the Who I Am
time devouring my existence.

My dreams walk around
naked.

A sky lies asleep
in a window.

My shadow crawls
up the walls

as if it longed
to escape  me.

The mirror shows a stranger
wearing my face.

In the candle's flicker I
live frame by frame

in a black and white
celluloid  world.

I can only touch you
with language

hold you
with words

create you time
and time again

as you come alive
walk about in my sentences.

As long as I write
you are living.

I dreading the final
full stop.

I see you
walk away

into an ellipsis'
footsteps

you fading into
its dot dot dot

on the snow drift
of a page

CREATION

the bird sings
the morning into being
the world gathers around it

CRIES

I write
these words
to exist you

trap you in this mesh
of consonants &
vowels

flesh you
out
into sounds

here you are again
dressed i
n your yellow dress

a marigold
held between
finger and thumb

offered to me
your young son
the old man who now

writes
to keep you
alive

until the pen
falls from his hand
and
he cries
he cries
he cries

**

Watching my mother dying as outside a badger trundles across a path( the badger is a psychopomp bringing souls across to the other side)and watching my self reflected in the dark window. Remember this simple little moment of her in a yellow dress and being impossibly young and offering me a marigold. Just that. Why that? Clear as day. A beautiful day and this one act etched into my mind with a clarity beyond belief. I thought if I kept writing the words that make up this poem I could keep her alive if only in words. But time must have a stop. Also words.

CRIES

I write these words
to exist you

trap you
in this mesh

of consonants &
vowels

flesh you out
into sounds

here you are again
dressed in your yellow dress

a marigold
held between finger and thumb

offered to me
your young son

the old man
who now

writes to keep you
alive

until the pen
falls from his hand

and he cries

he cries

cries.

CROSSING THE BORDER

I smuggle you
despite your death
across Life's borders

here I hide you
between the in-
breath & the out-breath

hidden in
the silence
between note & note

the space
between
word and word

so death will
never find you
ever again

I smuggle you

despite your death

across Life's borders

here I hide you
between the in-

breath &
the out-

breath

hidden in
the silence

between note &
note

the space between
word and word

death will never find you
again.

CROSSING THE RIVER

I, a mere scrap
of a young fella

watching father and mother
argue the toss

about something or other
making me wonder whether

the really love
one another.

He always "Boss" to her.
She to him forever "Mother."

And him always giving in
with an "Alright...yer always right!"


Still see myself
messing about on the river

with the Hammer Hannon
Wiki Warner and the Rue Murray

great pals all
when

the Ma and Da
appear out of nowhere.

I seeing them
them not seeing me.

He, shotgun under an oxter
his arm about her waist.

Four rabbits nonchalantly
thrown over a shoulder.

No longer mother and father
but Jim and Kathleen.

They just themselves
their love and laughter.

Sticks two Woodbines
between his lips

the scratch of a match
as he lights up

places one between her lips
both puffing happily.

Sunlight madly in love
with water.

The Liffey here
lies gently at their feet

tamed with time.

Trousers rolled up to his knees
a breeze flirts with her dress.

Quick as a flash
she jumps on his back

her legs sticking out
between his elbows

all as easy
as you please.

He ferrying himself and herself
along with a load of rabbits

across the hurrying waters of
the moment.

A heron watches
this strange human behaviour.

Shifts from one leg
to the other.

Saying nothing.

My question answered
in a flash of kingfisher blue.

My mind all
water and light.

Water...and..light.

CRÚISCÍN...CÍSTÍN BAISE
(LITTLE JUG...LITTLE PALM CAKE)

Auntie Mary’s
currant cake & blackberry jam

“Mmmmmmmm”

The jewels in the crown
of our forever summer

holiday

precious Corkonian objects
brought back to the lowly lowlands of the Curragh.

All the blackberries
that ever were

bursting with sunshine
& childhood

jumping into the jar for her
as if it were an honour.

They & I
transformed by her

love
& lovely laughter

cake baked
with smiles & chuckles

winks & singings.

Me on her knee...tiny
being kissed to bits.

Me being devoured
by an enormous hug

smothered in bosoms
the many many yellow flowers on her purple pinny.

Her blowing my curls out of the way
so that her smile could kiss me

more & more...er!

Me unable to comprehend anything
of her Cork accent.

Me saying “Yes..? ” & “No..? ”
in all the wrong hilarious places

(to my great embarrassment
& her great amusement)

her breath tickling my cheek
telling me she loved me...loved me...

& that I looked so good

she could “...ate ya! ”

Love as visible
as the flour

in the air
in our hair.

*

( Homely little terms! A little jug of milk and a little cake in the palm of your hand.)

A cístín baise is a little cake made on the side of the griddle especially for the child...eh...“helping” with the baking.

This was written for my Aunt Mary who passed away leaving me with nothing but the memory of her love...her all abiding love...that not even her death can diminish. I simply adored her.

The Cork accent is like fast fluent French cross pollinated with
sing- song Welsh...almost impossible to understand unless you are immersed in it for a couple of months! But of course she would also play with me and make up a whole lot of what they call in Cork...
“glig glag”...silly talk.

She was so easy to love.

CRÚISCÍN...CÍSTÍN BAISE
(LITTLE JUG...LITTLE PALM CAKE*)

Auntie Mary’s
currant cake & blackberry jam

“Mmmmmmmm”

The jewels in the crown
of our forever summer

holiday

precious Corkonian objects
brought back to the lowly lowlands of the Curragh.

All the blackberries
that ever were

bursting with sunshine
& childhood

jumping into the jar for her
as if it were an honour.

They & I
transformed by her

love
& lovely laughter

cake baked
with smiles & chuckles

winks & singings.

Me on her knee...tiny
being kissed to bits.

Me being devoured
by an enormous hug

smothered in bosoms
the many many yellow flowers on her purple pinny.

Her blowing my curls out of the way
so that her smile could kiss me

more & more...er!

Me unable to comprehend anything
of her Cork accent.

Me saying “Yes..? ” & “No..? ”
in all the wrong hilarious places

(to my great embarrassment
& her great amusement)

her breath tickling my cheek
telling me she loved me...loved me...

& that I looked so good

she could “...ate ya! ”

Love as visible
as the flour

in the air
in our hair.

CRÚISCÍN...CÍSTÍN BAISE
(LITTLE JUG...LITTLE PALM CAKE)    

Auntie Mary’s
currant cake & blackberry jam

“Mmmmmmmm”

The jewels in the crown
of our forever summer

holiday

precious Corkonian objects
brought back to the lowly lowlands of the Curragh.

All the blackberries
that ever were

bursting with sunshine
& childhood

Jumping into
the jar for her
as if it were
an honour.

They & I
transformed by her

love
& lovely laughter

cake baked
with smiles & chuckles

winks & singings.

Me on her knee...tiny
being kissed to bits

Me being devoured
by an enormous hug

smothered in bosoms
many many yellow flowers on her purple pinny.

Her blowing my curls
out of the way

so that her smile
could kiss me

more &
more...er!

Me unable to
comprehend anything

of her
Cork accent.

Me saying “Yes..? ”  &  “No..? ”
in all the wrong hilarious places

(to my great embarrassment
& her great amusement)    

her breath
tickling my cheek

telling me
she loved me
...loved me...

& that I looked
so good

she could
“...ate me! ”

*

( Homely little terms! A little jug of milk and a little cake in the palm of your hand.)    

A cístín baise is a little cake made on the side of the griddle especially for the child...eh...“helping” with the baking.

This was written for my Aunt Mary who passed away recently leaving me with nothing but the memory of her love...her all abiding love...that not even her death can diminish. I simply adored her.

The Cork accent is like fast fluent French cross pollinated with sing- song Welsh...almost impossible to understand unless you are immersed in it for a couple of months! But of course she would also play with me and make up a whole lot of what they call in Cork... “glig glag”...silly talk.

She was so easy to love.

A child’s delight!

CRÚISCÍN...CÍSTÍN BAISE
(LITTLE JUG...LITTLE PALM CAKE*)

Auntie Mary’s
currant cake & blackberry jam

“Mmmmmmmm”

The jewels in the crown
of our forever summer

holiday

precious Corkonian objects
brought back to the lowly lowlands of the Curragh.

All the blackberries
that ever were

bursting with sunshine
& childhood

jumping into the jar for her
as if it were an honour.

They & I
transformed by her

love
& lovely laughter

cake baked
with smiles & chuckles

winks & singings.

Me on her knee...tiny
being kissed to bits.

Me being devoured
by an enormous hug

smothered in bosoms
the many many yellow flowers on her purple pinny.

Her blowing my curls out of the way
so that her smile could kiss me

more & more...er!

Me unable to comprehend anything
of her Cork accent.

Me saying “Yes..? ” & “No..? ”
in all the wrong hilarious places

(to my great embarrassment
& her great amusement)

her breath tickling my cheek
telling me she loved me...loved me...

& that I looked so good

she could “...ate ya! ”

Love as visible
as the flour

in the air
in our hair.

CRÚISCÍN...CÍSTÍN BAISE
(LITTLE JUG...LITTLE PALM CAKE)

Auntie Mary’s
currant cake & blackberry jam

“Mmmmmmmm”

The jewels in the crown
of our forever summer

holiday

precious Corkonian objects
brought back to the lowly lowlands of the Curragh.

All the blackberries
that ever were

bursting with sunshine
& childhood

Jumping into
the jar for her
as if it were
an honour.

They & I
transformed by her

love
& lovely laughter

cake baked
with smiles & chuckles

winks & singings.

Me on her knee...tiny
being kissed to bits

Me being devoured
by an enormous hug

smothered in bosoms
many many yellow flowers on her purple pinny.

Her blowing my curls
out of the way

so that her smile
could kiss me

more &
more...er!

Me unable to
comprehend anything

of her
Cork accent.

Me saying “Yes..? ” & “No..? ”
in all the wrong hilarious places

(to my great embarrassment
& her great amusement)

her breath
tickling my cheek

telling me
she loved me
...loved me...

& that I looked
so good

she could
“...ate me! ”

*

( Homely little terms! A little jug of milk and a little cake in the palm of your hand.)

A cístín baise is a little cake made on the side of the griddle especially for the child...eh...“helping” with the baking.

This was written for my Aunt Mary who passed away recently leaving me with nothing but the memory of her love...her all abiding love...that not even her death can diminish. I simply adored her.

The Cork accent is like fast fluent French cross pollinated with sing- song Welsh...almost impossible to understand unless you are immersed in it for a couple of months! But of course she would also play with me and make up a whole lot of what they call in Cork... “glig glag”...silly talk.

She was so easy to love.

A child’s delight!

CUFF LINK

Death steps out
of the mirror.

It has the colour
of your eyes and

your most perfect
smile.

And slowly as you
watch

adjusting a recalcitrant
bow tie

it becomes you
until it all but

resembles you
you the heap on the floor

bow tie still
slightly askew.

And you step into the mirror
and it closes behind you.

"How Cocteau-ish?"
you think.

Death takes your place
pretends its really you.

Your wife's screams
a flock of birds

startling to the skies
the first rain falls.

A cuff link rolls under the bed
that won't be found

until a month later
silver the one that says

father.

CUFF LINK

Death steps out
of the mirror.

It has the colour
of your eyes and

your most perfect
smile.

And slowly as you
watch

adjusting a recalcitrant
bow tie

it becomes you
until it all but

resembles you
you the heap on the floor

bow tie still
slightly askew.

And you step into the mirror
and it closes behind you.

"How Cocteau-ish?"
you think.

Death takes your place
pretends its really you.

Your wife's screams
a flock of birds

startling to the skies
the first rain falls.

A cuff link rolls under the bed
that won't be found

until a month later
silver the one that says

father.

CUFF LINK

Death steps out
of the mirror.

It has the colour
of your eyes and

your most perfect
smile.

And slowly as you
watch

adjusting a recalcitrant
bow tie

it becomes you
until it all but

resembles you
you the heap on the floor

bow tie still
slightly askew.

And you step into the mirror
and it closes behind you.

"How Cocteau-ish?"
you think.

Death takes your place
pretends its really you.

Your wife's screams
a flock of birds

startling to the skies
the first rain falls.

A cuff link rolls under the bed
that won't be found

until a month later
silver the one that says

father.

CUTE PIXIE EARS

she slipped out of her
fuchsia *******

a quick twist turning
them into a scrunchie

"I hate it when my hair
gets into my eyes!"

I kept looking at her
cute pixie ears.