Sunday, April 27, 2008


I thought it a summer twilight,
this green pool of light,

flowers brightly swimming
and all alight, a snail kiss

the skin caught dipping,
some day-curved tripper

worn muddy, who made nudists
frolic in a frog-dipped oasis

bees dizzy in a hum spinning
a broken twig for a drum

noised drone in trusty tune
and perfumed herbs

from potted moons.

No charge for bird-bath covered
gatecrashing parties of sparrows

mid-flight, and fighting mynahs
incredible cackle

an incredible waffle.


It may not have been Goa
nor the garden gate

where birdling caterers

- with tasty insect crates
here in the arabian oasis,

where a shy hedgehog hides
as sly as i spy and pry -


A Certain Garden Spoke

"Strange it is how a fountain
of images, like the rush of a comet.

rocket from the bottom of our
imagination, as if never it lay

burrowed; but were having us on
       as a lark."


And then like children
into a garden, we ran

forgotten in its lost
golden sand and search

for toy, book, or friend
where once we missed

the straggly end
of a tired meadow below:

this show suddenly still.
pretty and hoping

for darkness to shroud
its talons around us

like a curtain of mist
and graciously surrender

that which we shoulder
in tearaway affection.


Blissful our garden
as you follow its echo

"Come in, come in",

     our garden says

"Back to your honeyed
days and all raisin-ed

       for a party.."

..where already, our
hands wait to catch

the rusted knob once
more: will remember how

to bow light-sorrow, dust
from the hollow of a vast

sea of many books looking
safe as yummy tea and

pluck a sad flower-stalk
rooting beneath the bower



Susan Abraham

Tuesday, April 08, 2008


                               O Amergin swirl:
                               Tír na nÓg: all
                knowing power: otherworldly force:
Segias: grind hazel nuts to knowledge: swill       
pour in the cauldron straight sound: verse Noaks: switch
    wit: light up the cast of love as night falls -
  Albard, Dawn and John – they who all
              comedy tossers yearning to score
          bulls-eye every arrow throw straight for. Light
of craic, twinkle; glitter in the well: find
what joke will laugh Blue Peter real, arrive
                 weave art
                     and cut this daft dream
          in a cloth of one liner: stitch the breeze
quip; nail John’s breath on paper to breathe
consciously at titter, jape or guffaw
gushing with free flow in the debacle.

Froth an episode, brim over and fall
the way wind blows when a turtle dove
cooing flies from the mind of a bard,
shifts shape to a circus clown tamer and bawls

"Hey you
     funny farm gob slops
                     light-heart bores
              free druid-pawns and playthings of love: wish
           only for permanent triples on boards
        your sticks hit giggling bulls and thud in
      double top all day long to tickle love
from the stream of gags flowing between you".

Come lah
bull minstrel clown, mimic speech through
scrumping fruit beyond the comedic eye
where flow master of ceremonies - Noaks

fellow and one time action man show

"When it was Blue Peter,
not like it is now
with kids
who don’t know what they're doing".

Circus slop swishing spray tame sea
motion smooth a stir of whirling liquid
through splatter massed splodges of telly:

tilt the lingo; flutter dovely music
flap, ruffle, spread your wings and limbs
crawl, soar free and jangle from his dome

              "...with real papier mache; not like it
is now, the microwave stuff you scramble to life through

  Whack out licks
    that lived then
      and live now:

     "...I was jumping out of a plane one week
    sticking empty bog rolls together the next
  dashing round the studio after elephant waste
and mucking in. Star of the whole hoo ha..."

before kids replaced you
and juiced up the models

" can’t put a price on..."

from buckaroo centres where tiddley-winks
still hold, reckoning their toggable taggle
and balancing laughter you and your colleagues
had when at giggle

peck this needle from the shiny gutter
commune with our entourage of party fawns
living le joi de vie.

become a pigeon
hint of a scuffle at heaven’s gate.

Monday, April 07, 2008


The constant rolling dice that never fall
stack up the chips of our existence
and some days we’re so lucky

- the search seeming easy with reward
with blessings in abundance -

we forget the golden rule
that everything’s decided in between
the heartbeat of the moment.

That reality is one long gamble
with final odds fixed by divine order
of old gods;

and seizing for knowledge one will
never fully grasp, yields understanding

like those clocks ticking in the heavens
yield an understanding
of when the time is right to wake us
for a brief spell by their measured call

before dissolving as if by magic
in the blinking of an eye
the constant rolling dice that never fall