untitled

sitting befuddled at her telephone,
uncertain who she means to call
her dial tone is a tiny car,
its driver asleep at the wheel.
on these broken nights
rest comes late or not at all,
her thoughts gets lower, rougher,
one more day, she tells herself.
it comes, the mercyof empty places
her mind gives out like headlights
over darkened water, and
she holds the receiver closer
the phone a belly full of numbers
sparked and glowing, a far alarm
pulsing in her hand.

When the sun burns out,
and the moon has to hang
in the sky forever,
and the colorful threads of life
seem to fade,
when the winds refuse to blow,
their whispers deafened,
and flowers lose their zeal
and wilt beneath dead trees,
when my tears slide silently
down my face,
from blank, staring eyes,
that is when
I won't need you anymore.

The Dog Barks Back

finally the meaning of the 'past’
reveals itself in a sudden downpour
of warmth running down her spine.
she can see how it happened.
stupid empathy exploited, disarmed,
savaged to account for things it
didn’t cause or consider.
wrong-footed, stupid-headed.
empathy for the underdog with a fist,
a slap across her face that left her jaw clicking.
that silenced her ambitions.
sentenced for his thefts from her,
who she was, when she was,
those lost years, her personal toxic
shock syndrome.
without cowering, forgetting to eat or
wishing to forget
she remembers it all.

dirty little secret

hidden in your non-thought
a shadow on your wall,
i dwell in the recess
of your head.
lurking behind your reason,
i wait for sleep to come,
and rise from the depths
of your dreams.
I am the name you cannot say
the face you cant reveal
the one you need the most
and see the least.
you wake in morning's half-light
and wash your sins away,
leaving your dirty little secret
to sleep.

for mattie

Cois na Teineadh (Beside the Fire)

By T. W. Rolleston

Where glows the Irish hearth with peat

There lives a subtle spell—

The faint blue smoke, the gentle heat,

The moorland odours tell.

Of white roads winding by the edge

Of bare, untamèd land,

Where dry stone wall or ragged hedge

Runs wide on either hand.

To cottage lights that lure you in

From rainy Western skies;

And by the friendly glow within

Of simple talk, and wise,

And tales of magic, love or arms

From days when princes met

To listen to the lay that charms

The Connacht peasant yet,

There Honour shines through passions dire,

There beauty blends with mirth—

Wild hearts, ye never did aspire

Wholly for things of earth!

Cold, cold this thousand years—yet still

On many a time-stained page

Your pride, your truth, your dauntless will,

Burn on from age to age.

And still around the fires of peat

Live on the ancient days;

There still do living lips repeat

The old and deathless lays.

And when the wavering wreaths ascend

Blue in the evening air,

The soul of Ireland seems to bend

Above her children there.

seven years bad luck

I can see a rogue spring
captured in mirror images,
falling glass broken
when no one was looking.
hands stretched forward
catching prisms of light,
sharp shards of sun rays
slice the grey clouds,
and winter ends early.
the flag of freedom flies
in the clear blue skies
of my early summer.

valhalla

even the bold Viking
must shore his long boat
and discard his war helmet

the last cut, cruel but clean
the final word is the trophy...
the war is over.