Poetry

Heed the Warning

Come many, Come one, come all!
Listen to the Shanachie, listen to the Bard!
For they will not let you fall.
They are here to Guard
Against the one’s at night who crawl.
For the Wee folks have come,
To cut your eyes, ears, and tongue
And you my friend may them be among!
Ah! They will make you blind!
And, Oh! They will make you dumb!
Heed the warning, “Beware, Beware!”
They want your cattle, they want your young
For their’s is a nasty brutal flare!

No, do not take this on the light-
If you dare drink the drink- you cannot fight-

For this world is their dancing ground
To snatch us away to be their large soldiers.
And once gotten- you’ll never be found
Beneath the earth’s thick soil, coil, and boulders.
You’ll live your days as you’ll live your nights,
In a womb of uncertainty, perversity, and counterinsurgency
Holding little hands, to fight for other’s plight.

You’ll nere’ sing, smile, nor swing-
You’ll nere’ love, laugh, nor sting-

Unless told to do so by the mischievous wee folk
Who find it to be quite an amusing thing
To see a man grow and crumble, whilst lighting a smoke.
So my dear, dear friends, gather round!
To listen the Shanachie and bard!
Pay no mind to the tumult underground
Or haunting music in the wind- stand on guard!

For the vicious Wee Folk have come,
And If you don’t heed our warning
They’ll take your eyes, ears, and tongue
And take you to the world of eternal mourning.

A Window’s Rant; An Irish Man’s Reflection.

When will you stop the incessant movement?
Open, close, open, close- Open
Do I not crave to be still too?
You’ve come to receive peace
You’ve come to acquire quiet
Well, may I ask-where is mine?
Where is mine?
Sure, the ocean, the sky, and sun are at my
Disposal
But how am I to enjoy them while being rattled?
Not just by the wind, this I understand
But you- capricious constant moving man.
I am old-I have seen decades.
You have seen decades through me.
However, you’ll leave to go back home and rattle others-
They, who have had a long break-
Like you, like you.
Yet I will remain here for someone else’s viewing sake
But, may I ask, where is mine?
Where is mine?

Aye, it’s chilly– I should close you.
But when I do, I feel it will be too warm.
This blanket, this fire, this breeze, this ease
Never suits me except momentarily.
Ha! That’s what Maeve use to say:
“Nothing’s ever good enough for you, no.
Not the ocean, nor sky, nor sun;
Your burden always outweighs you by a ton”
Aye, you were a wild one- like rose tendrils
That cascaded-once faded- but never tamed.
And how was I to know it was many-a-time a facade?
A fraud? You cared too kindly about this old sod,
Like a window you opened and closed, open and closed-Opened
For me.
Rattling your pains-but never free!
How could it be, that one so wild, was one so easily mild?
Aye child, you care too much. And I cared too much for me too.
I never grew.
I– in my rocking chair-you in your grave
I– the master, You– the slave
I-never satisfied, You– never craved
Or did you? Did you?
Do you rock now in your tomb, like me in my chair?
Your ever full womb–not enough for me to care.
Aye, you would say: “Is it the girl, or the drink?
How silly of me to think, it was but a twirl,
When you held her close and stunk of stink!”
Aye, Maeve, it was both- neither were enough!
You threw your hands-I my fist, my demands,
Before you faded away, to my dismay, to chores–
And me-my whores. “Do as you will husband,
But know I’ll never remain still.”
And you didn’t, poor girl, you didn’t.
But what of my skill? Aye, mine was to kill
So I have, I have.
I saw decades through ye- children, grandchildren to be.
Yet, I saw them solely through you- and reflected too,
But only by the amber light of my glass,
Or a broad-hipped promiscuous lass.
Aye, Maeve! You were once so alive, so bonnie!
The Isle of Erin filled your breast- breathing your ancestry in,
Your individuality out–lest it be taken!
Eyes as green as the fields of clover– now over–
But never forgotten.
I rock back, forth, back and forth, on my stool–
You open, close, open, close, open for this old fool.
Maeve, me ole’ lass, my life too shall pass– thinking of you
Seeing through this window, this widow–
Accepting neither ocean, nor sky, nor sun
Can ever let me forget all I have done. All I’ve done.

And you capricious, constant moving man,
One who so “deserves” rest, food, views-the best-
But what am I to you?
What am I to you?
I am merely an object– this you knew
But am I not shiny, my dear?
Am I not clear?
Can you not see through me?
Past thee?
Are not the ocean, the sky, the sun enough?
Must you see beauty solely through me?
Rattling my panes- my frame in chains!
My glass reflection always of you,
But may I ask, what of me?
What of me?

Insignificant Poem Written on the Cliffs of Moher

This means nothing.
This Pen. This Paper.
These artifacts-made by hands
Made by rape of nature
They mean nothing.
This, this before me-everything.
Touched by grace,
Held by Divine.
Constant flow of beauty
Yet never trying to be anything-
But Be.
Soaring Heights.
Elegant Sea.
Mighty Mountains.
Failed Imagery.
Our sandals mean nothing,
Our sock too,
It is our feet that cry for completion,
These words mean nothing,
When faced with you!
I long for mutual solitude
The many dialects disgrace you.
You need only waves,
Only the birds cry.
If only I could jump!
If only I could die!
If only I could breathe!
If only I could be the moss
To blanket you from the salt-
The debris!
Or a flower on your side
Eternally bowing to your beauty.
How am I to go back
To streets, to buildings, to cars, to carelessness?
When I know you are here- standing. Being.
Are we weeds to you- Rhododendron littering your sides?
Cloaked by money, in money, made of lies?
Your worth is divine- ours- a crime- in your wake.
Forgive us for our follies, and my eternal devotion to take!

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