Stranger Danger - A Marker

Here apart,
Dwells one whose hands have wrought,
Strange edolias that chill the world with fear,
Whose graven ruin in tomes of dread hath taught,
What things beyond the star gulfs lurk and leer...
Dark Lord of Averoigne,
Whose windows stare on pits of dream no other gaze could bare...
Between the Pedestals of Night and Morning
Between red death and radiant desire
With not one sound of triumph or of warning
Stands a great sentry on the Bridge of Fire.
O transient soul, thy thought with dreams adorning,
Cast down the laurel, and unstring the lyre:
the wheels of Time are turning, turning, turning,
The slow stream channel’s deep and doth not tire.
Gods on their bridge above
Whispering lies and love
Shall mock your passage down the sunless river
Which, rolling all it streams,
shall take you, king of dreams,
-Unthroned and unapproachable for ever-
To were the kings who dreamed of old
Whiten in habitations monumental cold.

thedeadpoetman

"...thus, from year to year, the plundering and killing went on, until there was nothing left to plunder, and very few to kill...Munster was utterly depopulated. Hecatombs of helpless creatures, the aged, the sick, and the blind, the young mother, and the babe at the breast, had fallen under the English sword. And though the authentic details of the struggle have been forgotten, the memory of a vague horror remains imprinted in the national..." literature

Froude

~

Love hustlers follying lost in a daydream give me your yo-yo – 13’s the price of a forty poem book from my Fitzgerald bard, speaking for all who find this reciter knowing the price of his verse at a post-warble wallet splurge; where talk is cheap and time less so let's share as we queue our way forward, learning the tune of Gofraidh O Dalaigh - one of the most eloquent ever to live, laugh and lose a son of someone he seeded, at Bothar-an-Iarla - where Gerald Fitzgerald's headless corpse was tossed under an old tree trunk by Daniel O'Kelly.

He's kin with the one whose mind drew my blueprint from the Cauldron of Posey – and swirls Amergin's ars-poetica in my business of bardic personae - done without warm words or kind glances but cuts - slicing the dilemma of "acceptance" or "rejection" to an irrelevance in one who won't fail to succeed with this profitable "I" or be blinded, collapse or go under and fold - for this print is internet and commerce a vanity whose coffers his eye mine refuses to draw to on the principle of preferring my vanity published low-key and writing of life freely. Oohm.

The shelf-centric scribbler shifting 3 - 400 per annum through shops is an average and it’s easier to sell this number himself - at a net profit of 8 yo-yo's a book – sold after readings in places where the competent open-micer's "I" can move these units gobby, in an appropriately live market ambience a mob shell out in as one, for this rightful Lord of 800,000 Munster acres and heir to the 15th Earl of Desmond, who was spotted at dusk and slain at dawn in Galnagenty, the 11'th November 1583 by Daniel O’Kelly - a kern for the Clan Moriarty – who rushed a cabin where the forebear Earl's party lay. All escaped but an old man, a woman, and boy.

O'Kelly aimed a sword blow and half severed an arm on the old man, who cried: "I am the Earl of Desmond: spare my life". O'Kelly cut off his head and sent a skull of my Fitzgerald blood to London where it got spiked on the bridge.

His "I" demands a return of my lands and title with immediate effect or I’ll keep him a bondsman in poverty till next years holiday in Scarborough at Summer time - with critical death the distinct possibility, should he jump from a cliff where I unlock.
an intricate song of the seagull whose wings ring in simple melody a true, kind and continually lilting lullaby lifting the dream of love.

Desmond Swords