Still waiting for Enlightenment

Cruise Missiles          

Jesus, the padre prayed,

direct these missiles onto the heads

of our enemies.

Except that’s not what he said. He said

we pray that these missiles will be efficient

in their function.

Then. Up Jesus,

ride them clean down their throats.

Except, of course, he didn’t say that either;

but blessed them with holy water.

After that, the missiles were dispatched,

American missionaries to Europe.

(I saw this religious ceremony on the main evening news when the first cruise missiles were being deployed in Europe.)

One of the Most Beautiful Places in Ireland

This poem, The Green Road, refers to one of the most beautiful and very walkable walks in Ireland; the green road skirts around the north-western corner of the Burren in county Clare. A karst limestone landscape with unique fauna, herds of wild goats, and the most stunning views of Galway Bay, the mountains of Connemara and the Aran Islands. A lot of people will drive on to the Cliffs of Moher, but if you've got 2 working legs beneath you and a couple of free hours this is an unbeatable pleasure.

The poem was included in the anthology, Fermata: Writings inspired by Music (Artisan House, 2016) which was edited by Eva Bourke and Vincent Woods. It's a magnificent collection, featuring writers such as Thomas Kinsella,Vona Groarke, James Joyce, Seamus Heaney, Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, Paul Durcan, Derek Mahon, Pearse Hutchinson, Paula Meehan among a host of others and a foreword by composer/musician Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin. These writings sing to the music that inspired them; be good to yourself and buy it.

The Green Road.© Copyright David Purchase and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

The Green Road

The blackthorns above Fenore
are flight rooted;
they are folklore’s skeletons,
beggars of the green road.

Scoured to the knuckle,
stunted on burren karst,
they are the hags on the mountain
hunched from Atlantic gales.

Yet even this stone-weary day,
with hunger perched on their throats,
a robin is singing in each
notes that singe the February air.

Beneath the huddling sky,
into the ear of the green road
it pours, clear as water,
the music of tin whistlers’ dreams.

The Donald’s Personality Traits

Anger: has he got anger issues! When  riled, he’ll fight with anyone or anything at the drop of a hat, without thinking it through. Doesn't matter how absurd, sense departs and it doesn't help that he’s temperamental and stubborn too. He’s selfish, often rude and is obsessed with money, gold. Not exactly humble either, he craves fame and popularity, he brags and shows off. To say he doesn't see himself clearly would be an understatement.

It’s quite hard to know what the Donald’s saying a lot of the time, that’s to say his meaning can be hard to get at.
Donald is white with a great splash of orange around his gob, and he’s great box office. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.”

Don't we all know one?

Angry

Among the blocks of the establishment;

a flawless rise bolted your trust;

 

success was cement,

all loose notions were pebble-dashed.

Now you revise:

the establishment, its self-righteous system:

how many bodies like you

have fallen from the sides to point the pyramid ?

And how many times did you skate over principles,

that I remember, you once held dearly?  

Let's Face It, There are Times.........................

Slips on ice.

Prim, haughty Christine

takes to the air.

What a moment:

Christine,

the unabridged version.

What a manoeuvre:

haughtiness to bashfulness

in the widening of an eye.

Memories

No matter how far, memories are crystal glasses.

Don’t you remember that clink of joy?  Us together.

Didn’t  we have celebration emblazoned on our faces?

Our faces filled with joy: champagne faces. Champagne!

Isn’t that life, a time of champagne, and times not?

Slag

         MINERS TOWN.

"Carry slack" she says

to the spires of smoke

stealing away from Miners Town

where every child is born

to carry a bucket.

In the evening the little men

will gather below the street

where the pit-head eyebrows meet

so when their fathers come,

they'll parade nearby;

smaller jackets just.

A jet shape of geese

passes through the smoke columns;

for a moment she travels too

but then they leave her,

disappearing each year

over the same roof-top.

"Carry slack," she repeats

into the dog's ear of a kitchen door,                 

and in the shortened evening

she too unfurls a stalk of smoke

that'll mark her place

in the forest above Miners Town.

Series of Haiku about Love

A leaf turned golden

Floats downward

You sink into my lap

The dream of us

Furled in each others’ arms

Sinking in a fireside’s allure 

Your words

My eyelids falling

Soft as feathers on feathers

Sleep steals over us

Our atoms enticed into each other

With love

Pub tutorial

‘Factorial naught and factorial one both equal one.’

‘Isn’t that a good one?’ said Peter.

‘Jays! Gas alright.’ Ned sipped another layer off the head of his pint of Guinness.

‘Tis for sure’ said Matt, nodding his head diagonally upward.

‘And you’ll know (in your line of work) factorial ten seconds is exactly six weeks.’

‘Aye, it would be.’ said Ned.

‘Tis of course’ said Matt.

I was hating myself for having mentioned teaching.

‘And’ said Peter, ‘ye know, of course, that 10 = 9.9999’

 ‘I do. I do.’  I said much too quickly.

Peter extracted a biro and paper from an inner pocket

with surprising promptness.

Let x  = 0.9999, ⇒ 10x = 9.999

⇒10x – x = 9, ⇒ 9x = 9

X =1, ⇒ 10x = 10

⇒ 10 = 9.9999

‘Aye.’ said Ned with another sip from his pint of Guinness. ‘That’s it.’

‘Another pint, Peter?” Matt asked.

‘Sure, why not!’

And turning back to me: ‘I’ve been doing a bit of work on  Abel’s Impossibility Theorem.’ 

Gravel

i.

Nights spent  brooding,

trickling down life’s gravel,

finally confronting self.

Now appraising

the faded colours of my dreams,

peeling flakes of ambition  ̶

 

all carriages, shunted

into a siding,

came to a juddering halt.

ii.

Prodding each other onward,

a procession  passes.

They glance my way,

̶  old friends, acquaintances   ̶ 

holding up their palms’

blank stars  to me;

I gaze gormlessly.

iii.

Would you smile?

Would you invest that much of yourself

even in passing?