Thursday, April 06, 2017

Belfast Lough Blackbird

Little bird
Whistled loud
Yellow billed
Blackbird note,

Across Lagan
Loch, on gold
Whin branch.

Sunday, March 05, 2017

That Is No Country For Quiet Men Sean nós Goddess.

Make them humble on hi yohl Hell in one another's trees and birds
that plow above high lofty planes into a lowly hill — those

hate-filled generations doing wrong. Land homely just legislate
rejection of the frozen intellect. For none shall rest until all have

heard in every spring of every step Hi yohl it is the people

of the goddess Art - Eolas knowledge of experience - Fios existential
historical experience; focmart wisdom from exploration questioning

salmon landed in lines gravely speaking fish mackerel Finn
trumpeting McCool falling on a crowded page co-mending all that is

broken busted and fucked over in a governmental Facebrick prism

begotten of flesh the dying generations' filliocht in a forgotten poem
spoke unheard by a focloch cast, sapling class, confused folk, mammal

cohort fowl and plant, all that is born and dies. Humanity, that is but
a paltry thing - skin bones dna and dán/poems from the people

of the goddess Art that battered and balanced on a stick in a crane
bag a coat of home in a father's grouse of mild despair that clap its

hands at a child speaking English airs and sing unearned and louder
sing above its station every ignoble tatter of our trembling mortal

dress, at singing school crooning as a dove's breast, graceful grá love
winged prayer of monuments in wonderment at our own literary

heart's return &, significant therefore; have we sailed on England's
cobbled streets, bartered & sold the old familial charm, we've heard

a sage and seers speak who come from the holy city of Liverpool

sing from the river wholly Goddess in a golden voice of Her all
mosaic will that has come solely from fire within, a speckled flame

all & one life's gyre music masters spiral singing reality source our
water painted souls faithful fearful hearts away beyond what shadow

fastens above in ever silent song gathering us into the artifice
of dying a simulacrum of the poem's quivering faces in brothers ours

theirs at each battle witnessed babes ripped from paternal Munster's
breast its living noble fearlessness we all know that is eternity their

voice perishing and blooming torn out from a maternal Mayo nest

English Fadgin McNulty Masterson Prendergast and Swords
uprooted onto the side of a road, doom at the Bohola cottage Hell

Connacht's terrifying portion barbarity incarnate slaughter starvation
of a spirit out from bodily form nature the animal of death

that always took a form from any Grecian thing. FitzGerald once
in the silencing of bardic order, being that most make hammered

coign golden and spoken livery enamelling, what keeps a captive
Emperor's drowsy head hearing voices set upon the golden branch

to sing again, a wake of ladies and the lords in Liverpool, passing
past the heads to come that no more pleading birth, bound afresh

to another realm above the human chain in spiritual love that is
endless and everlasting, the saw of eternal youth, teeth in a head

blade of cutting mouth that barbed its cheek, a tongue grew red
with rage, and spoken not dear friends in silence, but where might

and it Will be heard, spoken giving none its thought to copy or write
and wrong, that shall rest and will be calm, as below is it above,

the few that call this brother cousin aunty father mother sister uncle
intellectual, other; no graven monument to a lover, low ignoble

inhumane, shall publicly cognise what maze in skriking song caught
screeching from the mouths of gulls are swooping over Engine Alley

by a craven song, no yearning mouth shall bury us, siblings;
shackled in a fool's life eternally chosen in paradise brought by

Him freely speaking now in silent prayer & joyous wit welcoming
what wisdom well will written come all verbally from loving Her.

Saturday, March 04, 2017

That Is No County For Aarghl Demmuns

Doctor Ed Watson, too much time counting
Sheep and always laughing on his feet

when they come now look alive Her
joyous loving prayerful light don't need no

gunnas or wannabes all our needs wear She
in a string of mouth words truth aim arched

arrow and briefly drawn lines strung
in the heart and a living head cut off sent

to Elizabeth I, spiked on London Bridge,
the body dumped beneath an oak, the final

FitzGerald killed by a kern O'Kelly
mercenary for coign from a Clan Moriarty

Castledrum. No churchyard here FitzGerald
sings, buried where our  forebears are, no

single cross nor standing stone all we who
living die in love & Glenagenty somewhere

near, not with the horseman that pass us by,
but from  a loving arc all cheer bejewled

the spirit speaking us in no lapidary phrase
no marble script
we can't be sure of the exact spot,

only twice a year the grass is cut.