I Can Only Pray

 
I re-member that wet, West Irish beach
Piping seagulls onward to Roan Inish, Innishmurray
Prickling forehead
It all unravels now
As I sit complete in my angst
Deeply here, long from there
In this place of musk and matter
I can only pray
For the wild and ancient ones
To come from the aspen groves
Parading down into town
Under the harvest moon
 
Returning to me, letting me return

Encounter

Coming home late off the bike I stepped
Falling into a dream world not dreamed but dreamt long before
I saw a woman in through the alley way and beyond
Walking with smoke rising from her head
She saw me too
Asking if I can see the fire in her eyes
 
Only the smoke- I said
 
So be it- said she
 
So at morning I took to the road to hitch a ride
Thinking highly of my encounter to be kept
So secret and sacred
for she does not speak to every man that way
And this I know too well for
The forests are thinning and someone
Must die
 

A Summer’s Night

 
Heat sucking on your brow
Palpable night
Lazy upon distant lights and empty streets
Poised
We sit on the benches
We whistle and wonder
Foot on the sidewalk
Frail and fragile stitches of cement
That will lead us labyrinthian
To a sacred burrow 
For the wayfaring one

Spanish Manners

Bare skinned rough shadows cast flowing streets askew in the mid-day air. The streets, ah, the streets, they are old and worn, worn by many a man, sitting below white pink blue green and many a colored buildings perfectly painted with shining well-kept flower boxes set upon their aged stone. In the square your Spanish manners emulated your black gentle curls, your lips like wine your kiss glazed with tenderness, a tenderness ado to the world that is without. We were here once under moonlit skies we danced and hummed hymns of your gypsy grandmother which you spoke with ease and solemn happiness. My love seeped tender into my heart that I knew would always wait for you. I stroked your skin soft yet wise with age, I felt your lips tingle and sigh your black eyes deep with emptiness. My remembrances are so immaculately bound as I long for your Spanish lips your poetic touch your sin so sweet your romantic punch and your love, ah your love, who could know it and loose it?
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Flight 

Moving through the driving mists fright is capitalized by light flashing and dancing colors of deception across the humid night 
Not knowing where you’re going the sky is your mother the hallows of city flicker on and off within valleys of darkness 
Heavy eyed and wild mind writing swift drooping mists upon starlight skies open to teaching depth within sight
 
Scrambling for words amongst lonesome people struggling for contemplation on this rambled summer’s eve 
Light is lost to all-knowing mystics of seasoned scriptures  
It is given to those who wander for solely the gift of more to ponder as they wander, wander vagabonded to the wind and never to be broken apart
 
Where to now?
Said she ragged topped silhouetted beauty moon light dropping mongrel giver
Where are you?
  With me now in infinite possibility in divine creativity of the dreamy hosts of time
Where to now?
   Into this moment, within this moment, of infinite wisdom and possibility
All is well
 
I see myself breathing images strolling on runic roads celebrating in forgotten places 
Wild eyed women of heart beaten raindrops 
Dragon wings sailing with sailors about them 
Seeing life as a heart surrenders 
Being love with a slow gazing wanderer 
Seeing myself breathing my soul 
Onto streamy sands of white peaceful houses 
To grass covered sees and watery mountains
What will I be within my being?

Before a Travel

for -----

We are apart
but not parting
the shield of now
our cross and salvation.

My darling, my love
taste the mystery
fresh on the breath
 
reveal yourself to the world
but do not forget me
from where I am
longing for you
to come home.

Along Mullaghmore

And then there were the poems
about the barnacles and the way
they fit together with the beach.
 
How the wings and pale white
moon were both on field of pink
and blue and how the sound of
waves talked with their bird sound.
 
There on the sand we were a
delicate fog forming we spoke
of civilization, of a king who refused
to be a king and so then
peace hastened.
 
We need only the beach, yes, but
the king, he draws the maps,
the king makes the rules,
we cannot follow the tide
forever, we will meet a boy
selling candy, we will find a quid
in our inside pocket,
we will pay the boy, bless
his enterprise.
 
This kind of talk continued
for sometime, until it was almost dark
and we arrived back at the car,
which maybe wouldn’t start,
but did, a relief, and a disappointment
with god, not the one Columbkille brought,
but the one who was here before.
who we left in the light on the surf smelling of seawood,
soaking in sun on the long black
slanted stone at low tide
along Mullaghmore,
slithering upon the sand
according to old magic,
Ben Bulben behind
aching for his ocean breath.
 
And so we ferried our sense of things
into the car, into the house,
and set them on the dinner table
beside the candle
and the shell.
We threw something together
and ate there
beside the shore.

Returning to Poetry

We are forever in alterations
and still with our prayers
like the birdsong swirling
in spring snowtracks.
So too that requiem
paces out the hollow
feeling between the folds
of unfolding, asking
 
how do you describe a gambler’s luck?
 
Like a doe with a faun, a small unscarred locket,
the discovery of a sanctuary
in an unmarked field,
a leather mask grown wet with moss,
two hands holding child, tasting dirt in the wine
saturated earth at sunset, grass tips red.