No People

The hunch-doubled thorns,

ingrown pantries

dung-puddled;

the moss-stone walls

tumble-gapped.

The nettle-cracked doorway,

lintel-fallen

byre-footed;

the cloud curtained windows

elder-berried.

The stone-sheltered air

bumbled still,

ruin-reverent;

the submerged garden ridges

dumb-founded.

A Canal Vision

In the dim light of a December evening

swans, bright as struck matches,

are gliding over the oarweed of traffic lights

on their way to Harold’s Cross Bridge.

Ghosts on winter’s dark glass,

blind to the world’s commotion,

they pass without trace,

blind even to their own beauty.

Market, Emily Square, 60's

                            Gulls
pecking in the litter of clothes,
scarved heads bobbing
on the spume


for there were more coins than notes.

      

    Shoes,

their uppers and stitch-work

bent this way and that,

fingers inserted to the toe

for they had more copper than silver.

                                       Spoils,

back and back and back,

that incessant wrangling

over threadbare rewards

for their’s was then far less than plenty.

Crucifixion Scene

I’m struck by the basketry of bones containing the thorax;

that unexpected view of internal anatomy,

a map of pain.

I think of Frida Kahlo, the broken ionic column that supported her,

the deer struck with so many arrows,

all contained within her defiance.

And then I see that the bones are not containment,

they are radiant;

they radiate strength.

Passing

Desert,

clouds of shifting

sands,

landscapes

forever passing by.

Moon,

blank-faced

forlorn,

always assumed

you were going somewhere.

Love Song

Here I am, grey haired and lonely,

singing out to sea in a voice that cannot compete

with the thunder of the tide;

yet still I persist, for nature has shaped me to it.

And if, by some unlikely chance, my song drew a mate,

she would almost certainly take umbrage,

be indignant at first sight;

but, as I’ve already pointed out, this is my only way of being.

So here I am, cursed to an activity

that degrading me, promises only further degradation;

churning out a song

that the waves themselves contrive to suppress.

Sleepless

Spent the night driving

my wheel-less car, light-less

to dawn’s road-less gravel.

Day, eventually projecting

itself in the round,

revealed the signposts,

all written in an unknown script.

Impressionist Poem

Ingots of light melt,

raft my bottle green worries

like water weed,

fill my eyes

with dizzying effervescence.

Break the seal of water,

unravel its fantasies;

the world is exhilaration;

see it

as water does.

Beyond Lace

She has just the dress, it’s short and floats

around her thighs but is tight at the waist.

She sees mens’ eyes on her when she wears it,
never acknowledges, but knows she has captivated  

them for a minute, maybe more: an electric shock

from brain to crotch after she has passed. 

She’ll put on the clear stockings with lace borders 

holding them snug around her upper thighs, that hand-like 

grip on her skin. She will leave her cunt unclothed 

under her dress, like breathing, a gag removed, sexy, 

herself, the way she knows she can be, is.

She will sit with her thighs crossed, the lace 

showing just beneath the hem of her dress,

her bare sex six inches above. How they would

strain to see beyond that lace, how their minds

would race with the faintest glimpse of her bare

flesh exposed for a moment with the re-crossing 

of her legs, the smallest shift of her body.

A drop lingers before falling from a leaf. Collecting

water from the blade, it quivers but holds, holds and 

holds till one molecule arrives that is too much to hold.

She knows about anticipation, how the infinitesimally 

small movement can turn a man’s mind, she has 

watched the drops and she has watched the men.

She will sit and talk and hold her drink between thumb

and forefinger as though it was a trinket.

She will allow her dress to rise to the place where

the sliver of her skin will tighten the mens’ penises; 

she will be chatty and smiling, occasionally shifting her 

thighs, looking into the men’s faces with charming 

nonchalance. Her eroticism brushing lightly against all

the exchanges of the evening, she will be utterly seduced
by her own sexiness.

The Discovery

Many years after he had died,

I found the smell of my father’s office in his briefcase.

Pipe-smoke, cigarettes, pencil-parings, paper;

not just his office but part of himself
still in existence after all this time.

When I was small I would ask to sit there, beside him,

in the heat, the smoke, that mixture of smells. 

He would say if you’re quiet; I would promise

until, minutes later, I talked too much or stirred too much

and, well, I was ejected.

I opened the case to an assemblage of atoms 

unique to my childhood,to the sixties even, 
put there by my father and now dissipating 
like an art treasure in the sunlight,

the last of my father turning to nothing.

The Great I

  Eye-pebbled

      tooth-pebbled

               carrot-nosed;

             snowman

                           melting.

Next week these will be on the lawn. Package them and send to the greatest president ever. Write him that his position is great, but he is snow; same as snow everywhere.

My Advice This November Day

Don’t be too fond of owning,  my little love,
As you fly;
Your mother’s concertina has had many owners
And there’ll be many more.

Let your head be full of the magic of flying
And happiness will be yours;
Be light as a leaf  among the millions,
Such exhilaration.

This flight is your life, darling,
Unique, incredible, finite.

A Hat on a Man.

A man donned a hat that shaded his eyes;

in consequence he was never the same man again.

Through whatever shadows he walked, light or dark,

he was hidden within his own shade, and knew it.

From then on people remarked on the man that nobody knew;

and he was forced to comply.

St Feichín Takes His Followers To Omey

Continuing adventures of St Feichín of Omey:

St Feichín Takes His Followers To Omey

Feichín in the wooded Glen of Fore

declared that men must shun trees,

‘for’, said he, ‘sinners thrive where rain

does not flay the hides of men.’

 ‘Let us go to Omey where trees have shrivelled to stone,

where thorns are the sea driven ahead of wild winds

and skies of  gorse will lash our backs.

Let us go far from trees who throw their shade on our repentance.’

So they built their monastery on the island

where the winds rode in on the dragons of the ocean,

where the rains fell incessantly, nails, even out of  a clear winter’s night

and their ears rang with the booming of souls drowning in eternity.

Whale Song

When I was young

night cleared away the countryside;

there was nothing till morning.

Sometimes a dog barked;

barked into the void;

that bark carried forever.

When I hear whale song,

I hear the void;

I hear childhood terror.