Fatal Impact

A word of thanks to Thomas McRae for sending his recent collection of poems 'Fatal Impact' (iUniverse). For information : https://www.iuniverse.com/Bookstore/BookSearchResults.aspx?Search=thomas%20McRae

I give you

This tree's dripping fruit

to place in your mouth

to ripen your tongue.

The water guttering down

these green leaves

to be a trellis of fingers

about you.

This soft drizzle of sunlight

to fall gentle as the petals

of meadowsweet on your cheeks.

This bindweed and all tendrils

to hook and bind

                   our desires together.

Statement

My demons know no boundaries;

I am a propeller

blinded by my own agitation.

When I come to

I’ll be devastated,

and stamp out fires that never burned.

Passing

An old man with pipe and stick

is sitting on a kitchen chair

beside a rick of turf

in the field before his house;

there is a mountain in the background.

One Summer’s day, passing,

I watched a curlicue of smoke rise

from the man’s pipe,

gyrate in front of his eyes,

then disappear

to become part of the nothing,

the blue sky not far from Achill Sound.
A moment,
one of the fleeting series,
the passing that is a lifetime.

After The Bucketing Rain

After the rain's

  bucketing,

    plaiting fingers                    

     flowed,                            

      long limbs                     

        lisped                            

         and fat drops                           

         

          tock tocked                          

           enchanted rhythm

            on brimful

             barrels.

              Beneath blue clouds'                                                    

             electric light,

            dumb drops                         

           exclaimed                         

           

          tipsy seconds

         to every

        listening ear:                

      after shower             

    magic

   tock ticking            

           suspended time.              

Iceland's Banned Ad

Banned by the UK's broadcast code for advertising practice (BCAP) for carrying a political message. But, just a few weeks on from the WWF's  chilling  Living Planet Report  in which it was  stated that there has been a 60% decline in the size of populations of mammals, birds, fish, reptiles, and amphibians in the last 40 years (a staggering 89% in South and Central America since 1970), wouldn't it be brilliant if some more supermarket chains delivered the same message? 

If we have any thought for the wellbeing of our children, grandchildren and their children to come   this along with climate change must be addressed now. The Report can be downloaded at https://www.worldwildlife.org/pages/living-planet-report-2018?link=txt2

Take a look at the ad, and post it on.

Social Work

  

Do you remember our hospital visit;

he asked for his present?

Present !

And dying the only life

left in him.

There we were, the two of us,

at the end of his deathbed

and our hands,

great big empty sunbursts.

Certainly, we were young;

but I thanked God when he died.

and then he was dead;

(remembering my father's death)

and then he was dead;

breathing stopped;

eyes closed;

still warm.

I stared at his face,

for the first time

without life inside it.

I stared and knew:

that body

was never him at all.

The Man-Owl

A man imagines himself an owl and perches in a tree.

All summer unseen, in winter completely exposed;

sitting; eyes closed, open, closed; otherwise still.

A group of children have collected beneath him;

they are throwing taunts, then sticks then stones;

he makes himself smaller, like a hedgehog in a tree.

The townspeople have now gathered beneath him.

A dim view was taken of the stone-throwing,

they have called fire brigade, ambulance and police.

Two ladders extended, one each side of the man-owl,

and two firemen straightening, one by one, his fingers,

talons he has hooked around the branch over his head.

It was considered wise not to have a view of the garden;

the window of his room faces the opposite wing;

a television, left on 24/7, masks the sounds of the wind.

Storm

The storm is keeping me awake;

the dogs, discordant tuning forks,

and

the whine of lost souls

in the electricity wires.

Tossing, a mobile in the gusts,

waiting for the light to clank

back

but knowing it’s beyond the gap

where the wind is crowding in.

Your unhappy face turning away

to hide the tears,

and

the storm banging on that nail

all night, the whole night long.

Encounter

When she gave me her hand, I was instantly struck

by the elegance and grace of her movement.

Her hand was slender and magnificently gloved

in white blossoms that had tinges of pink

near the edges of its petals, and they were falling,

falling so thickly that a doily of snowflakes

had formed around her feet.

She held me enchanted in the centre of her smile;

I took her hand, never noticing the thorns,

and my blood dripped crimson bright berries down.

Sometimes it takes a long time to see the real person

In sickness there was only you 

  

light as a feather;

relieved of the weight

of position and pride;

neither bluff nor brashness

nor the strength

to be more than your dying self. 

She came to test me.*

Did her hair flow bright as honey down her back? 

Was the wild rose the blossoming of her cheeks? 

Or, was her face was a web of soil-filled furrows?  

Were her eyes flinty with the cunning of age?  

  

I passed the test of kingship, I did not falter; 

She came old into my eyes, but was young in my arms, 

With fingers flowing gently over my temples,  

Breath sweet in the full bloom of her mouth, 

Voice rich as the blackbird’s on the highest branch of an oak.  

For a king must be one with the spirit of the land 

whether it be dressed in the bare, haggard bones of January,  

or the lush green coat bejewelled in May. 

*The high kings of Ireland had to lie with (or marry) the Hag to show that they were beyond being seduced 

by the easy things in life.

Blue-veined old hands :

I never saw them coming

till they were spread bleak

as the limbs of Winter trees

across vacant heavens.

When I said I loved you

I whacked at the wall

with a stick of oar weed

picked off the strand.

Cantankerous old fool :

never saw him coming

till words I spat out

fell like lightning turned

to twigs of rotten wood.

New Poem

I have set myself up to write a poem

and am sitting set before the screen

and