But the trust and understanding developed.
And sheepishly say,
I tried to be a good father.
You
That you were a pearl upon a tree
That sank to the ocean depths
And I found you.
That you were a bee sting
In barren deserts
And I received you.
That you were an ocean whale
Aloft on Alpen peaks
And I saw you.
The news would spread afar
And exultant with joy
I’d cry
I love you.
And all I’d see anew
Would be compared –
With you.
Pussy Footin’ About
Pussy footin’ about,
Gaping at views
Of seas and mountains,
Tripping on countryside
And drinking pints.
Terrible the thought
Of such a deed
When compared with these.
Oh bitter fruit
To upset all.
Mature into the wine of reason.
The sad aspect of a fencepost,
Lost on the sand, tossed up by the sea,
Barbed wire clinging,
Tearing at sea bed,
Now exhausted on the beach.
How I dream of cherries.
Conflict
Something inside wants to escape
Take to the road and run.
Sweat drops on eyelids
And muscle aches.
This is the time to begin.
To end all that upsets.
The thought of you upsets.
Extra urgency and quickening of pace.
Breathing now so hard.
Pain strikes through the body
And brain dulls.
This is near the end.
To begin to think anew.
Fresh thoughts on others.
Slowing down realization comes.
Hope and hopelessness return in conflict.
Mind once more meanders
And yearns for
That is not to be had.
To loose all that love
Would be sad.
Memory of a Moment in Childhood 1
So much for a bottle of rum
And casting your spirits away.
It deadens the mind
But not the soul.
There dwells the glistening diamond,
Prized personally more than all,
all being what is desired.
Set out in splendour is
The ultimate prize and goal
Which is forever indefinable.
Yo ho and a bottle of rum
And the wind shakes the leaves
And the trees are in motion
And birds fly hither
And around the house.
All is quiet.
Hear the silence and dream.
Memories of a moment in childhood 2
Crows nests as black spots
In autumnal trees
Where the small stream passes by.
Over the stile there is a well
Where we sipped of cool clear water
And thought it did us good.
In the nearby fields grew potatoes
And yonder in rocky fields grazed sheep.
Down by the main river land was water logged,
Yet joyous and good.
Clearly flowed the water
But cold
To paddle within and hurt
Our feet on the stones.
What days were spent there
Dreaming of being like rabbits
That scuttled about from
Burrow to burrow.
This was a small burrow in our life.
The sheep cropped the grass thin
And few daisies survived
And the tired workhorse
Trampled on them amid sheep droppings
And the corncrake sang
And all wondered where she was.
Days I spent chasing the corncrake
The mysterious sound from the meadow
Haunted me and delighted.
The hawthorns along the boreen,
The rusty iron gate,
The wild daisies by the cart track,
All are as a vision
Once beautiful, now gone.
Memory of a Moment in Childhood 3
Searching under cropped hedges
The discovery of rusted tins
Of outdated peas – brand unknown.
The precise way the hedge is cut,
The narrow lawn,
The gate leading to nowhere.
Onto the meadow,
Two pillars at the entrance.
Days of rapture not work
Where the sun seems to shine
And the day is golden
And bees reveal their honey
Under the blade of the scythe.
Sweat rewarded by sweetness
Sweetness repaid for by pain
Of the occasional sting of a dying bee.
Summer in its prime.
The haycocks at random
And starlings in their midst
Search for their food.
In the orchard the apples, the hard pears
And the delicacy, the plums.
Whilst the small stream still flows
Its clear water pure.
And nettles overgrown
And thatch cottage decay.
New house with hedges and lawn,
Dampens with overburden of trees
Backyard covers with pine needles
And crows caw.
The eternal lonely sound of crows,
Their nests to abandon.
Out on the main road the sound
Of passing traffic
To destroy
What once was beautiful.
To Think
To think sometimes is to stand on the grassy bank and survey the valley
To look into the deep greying clouds embalming the lone seagull
To microscopically examine the raindrops clinging to the grass
To look inside and pull up the heart on its strings
The dead weight of the clouds is as a feather
While I toil to ratchet up the burden in my breast
Powered by the turmoil in my mind
Strain on my neck.
Breathless.