An oppressive sun beats
down on panting dogs,
beneath golden willow.

Sprinklers hiss at dragon flies.
Noisy children splash
in plastic pools.

Bare shouldered mothers
sprawl on large towels,
baking bodies brown.

Finding the Right Words

Words fail me when I try Finding the right ones to Describe how I feel about You now that you are leaving. Emotions strip way my resolve To hide my true feelings from you. Chocking back the tears mutes The quisling voice from finding The right words to describe The sorrow that I know will Engulf me for years to come. I fear that I will never find Right words to sustain true love.

The Black Dog

The black dog is waiting,
Waiting outside my door
To lead me down dark
Corridors of my mind
Past stations in the wall;
Rope, razor, pill and gun.

Black velvet shrouds drape
Pressing walls, enclosing; lulling
Me like a Nick Drake song.
Glass obsidian floors cover
Unfathomable twisting rivers of
Dark thoughts, glimmering through
The faint defenses I have cobbled.

He takes me down un-cheerful.
Leaden purpose darks out the
Light. Pulls the covers over,
Willing me to sleep and dream
Foreboding ways to end the pain.
To stop at stations in the wall and
Choose respite from it all.

I used to fear the visits; tried
Everything to bar the door.
All the frenzy, all the fear,
Empowered him to enter and
Lead me down dark corridors,
Past stations in the wall;
Rope, razor, pill and gun.

Alas, I no longer fear him.
He cannot tie the knot or
Slice the vein, drug me to oblivion,
Put gun to head, without my hand.
He will get bored and disappear,
Knowing this and not to fear the
Bite, has tamed his power over me.

He will be waiting, always waiting
For me to let him in and like an old
Familiar friend, he will walk me
Down dark corridors again, still
Stopping at the stations, knowing
I no longer consider these choices as
Salvation. He will leave me to the light.

Padraig's Wake

Put down the urn and open the bar,
all that are here should raise up a jar,
cry Faugh A Ballagh, cry clear the way
and toast sweet piper, Padraig Macgill,
with the frothy black magic that Guiness distills.

Drink to sweet Padraig and pause between sips
tell the tales of his daring, bring praise to our lips.
The dangers he faced consumed his whole life.
This friend and this neighbour told his stories in turn
while he sat on this stool at the bar, in front of this urn.

Crimsom Rivers

Crimson rivers flow from
Young black bodies down,
Staining concrete sidewalks
Iron brown.

Crimson poppies growing in
Foreign fields... betoken
Young Warriors bones
Cut down.

What crimson flower
Represent discarded youths;
Who fight and die for
Absurd truths?

If you really want to hear about it
I'll tell you, but then again
You wouldn't listen, no one ever does.
Even you already have an answer
before I finish, but then again, who cares
I'm done listening to you.
If you really want to know about it
I'm done talking, there's no more to say
on the matter, any matter for that matter.
It no longer matters but if you really want
to hear about it, I'll tell you. Then again
maybe not, if you really want to know.

Everybody's perfect

Well, nobody's perfect.
sighed in resignation,
spoken in rationalization,
shouted in indignation,
epitah to a fucked up nation

Truth be told, who said we were?
Look in the mirror, what's there
a perfect image of imperfect me,
a flawed reflection of perfect experience,
predjudiced by choices, culture and family.

How can there be perfection in a Universe that
changes with the beat of a Humming birds wing.
I created myself and I am what I am. That's as perfect,
as it will ever be.