Monday, January 29, 2007

I've been called 'Romantic' a lot lately


dangling from his fingertips
the cigarette glows and smokes
red ember lost
in the grey strands

so this is my life
internal syllables his lips
stay silent shut sewn stoic
it is different than words
others had said hands
in hands lips and fingertips
touching softly (a lie)

cold and wet an a stroke
of light reflects as the burning
end of Eliot's smoky days
(wringing his hands)

the fag hangs from his lips
eyes behind a veil of grey
and his breath tainted
with the tar and nicotine

so many (much time) years
and each drag
bring one beat (beating) closer
to ash and dust

'living with characters'

there is a man with unruly black hair
who is dangerous with a bow
and has a limp and scar on his right leg there

a woman with no furniture
solomnly stands by the window
wringing her hands, thoughts obscure

two little girls wander in an old barn
looking for farm cats that dart to and fro
it's cold so they have sweaters on

behind my glasses they all exist
hidden behind the cracks in my brow
appearing in flashes of intrigue that persist
and demand to be written down

Thursday, January 25, 2007

T.S. Eliot is the feckin' man

his 'Preludes'

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge,
whereYou curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

and again.. this time it's mostly bad poetry

'Coffee in Bed'

sea salt tears stream
down the pained plane of
burned sand
lazily blanketed inhale
the fumes of a sleeping
cup of blackness

grey and green beyond
the door frame
I can know and now no
force could make me leave
fleece fortress I've furnished

'Pub in Connemara'
heavy smell of smoke
stains the air
tasting the coal
as the beer stale
drips slowly from
a mohogany bar
cold but the fire
warms radiate
the din of voices
fills the smoky stained air
people enter

'The Writer's Lament'

the blank page is my enemy
mocking me with indifference
anger flares up in me
at my vapid, wasteful indolence

ink spewed on the page
and lacking meaning or connection
I glower at my pen with rage
and grow bitter at my intentions

what good is a writer that can't create?
is there any value in unspent potential?
possibilities are infinite but I berate
myself for the inability to grasp anything substantial.

the elephant forgot
exactly what the stars said
as they striped across the world
but elephants are never supposed to forget
and jack asses aren't any smarter

'St. Nicholas Poems continued'

organ sounds fingers pressing
keys as man walks about
head bowed though
he does not believe


strange, an old building
built of ruins
full of defaced angels
and the floor paved with
the markers of dead
now serves as the place
to plead with God


a crusader's tomb
covered in wax and water
of those who can not even
read its inscription
Brune, lays sleeping
under the forgotten stones
craded in the bosom of black

'Chinese Whisper'

the fat man
scraped the burnt
off his toast with
a knife

by the door a flaxen haired girl
with face florid
sips tea quietly

steam races across her glasses
vanishing mist races
crumbs from his bread
litter his lap hiding in
the recesses of corduroi (?)

oxygen from her lungs
mingles with his and in
invisible currents
maze of neurons fire

'First Day of School'

amongst the tea drinkers
chattering clanking chinda
the fog has settled outside
clearing the world of color

watching the clock
winding so slowly
seconds crawl on slug bellies

through surrounded in
the din of dynamic sanctuary
sitting awkwardly I write

pen to page creating
the conversation I wish
I was having

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

More poetry that's tinted green.

'An Oath'

hesitation before an oath
barred and beaten and bleeding from
heart and hand but buzzing rosy warmth
cheeks flushed from beer and tender both
words exchanged none some tangled tongue
Guinness giving my courage the growth

it shouldn't artificially
need if this trying but true exchange
ifs and buts convoludedly
interfere with the aspirations of ' to be'
a verb with dangerous intent
insidious and captivatingly alternatively

could I sear it open and fertile
fighting the fecundity
of the salt sinews and wiles
warring within me wild
as oblivious drinks tea he smiles

beating through the
tangled recesses of the
floorboards strangled the
music enters my ears the
rhythm and pounding of the
feet and instruments beginning the
dance about words I'd left behind

the hallow ring of a dial tone
a silence after the storm
heart heavy my eyes
leaking framing the
palor of my putrid face

real is unreal
lights don't illuminate
books are full of ink
not stories

I am tainted by your passing
a footprint that grows
as the snows melt
slowly disappearing
fade into dust

hidden in the hallway
I will not go upstairs
opening a door to the reaction
of a new face
chemistry, 'eh?
an explosion.
radiation poisoning.
stick around it too long and you'll die.

St. Nicholas Cathedral Poems

sitting silently on hard stone
I listened to the
water trickling and between
the drops I strained
hoping to glimpse
the eternal feeling or a
whisper that would echo
within the hallows of my breast


a high cross watches me
as I weave between the maze
of stone water movies
trickling and drizzling
beneath dizzying heights
upward the lines go upward
arches (aches) into cold air

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

I'm prolific.. or something.


candles flicker on the floor
a labyrinth of smoke climbs upward
to the dark recesses of the air
footsteps echo off the arches unheard
the faces of the damned and saved

in such an abyss the air is holy
a sacred silence hangs here
father pray sincere austere
his lips mouth the sacred words slowly
savoring his savior

this cave empty and austere
will fill with the his lips
empty and cold

'JP 1'

beneath this skin
are bones and blood
sinews entwined over organs
and tiny cells whose only purpose
is to make you able to
sit between my arms
nestled in the nape
of my long neck
and in the half light
I marvel at your making
and how you will leave me undone


Roaring voices straining to speak
above the saturated air
silently my eyes travel the
solid horizon of your chin
and rest in the cave of your collar
as accidentally my hand
brushes your arm with
Guinness given courage

'For the Fiddler in Tis Coili, Ronan'

Never do your fingers falter
dancing across the lines
carved into flesh and air
diamonds shine on your cheek
furnished in the fire of your fingertips
glistening next to eyes closed
pressed against the wood
your claddagh offers a heart
reaching out as you bow
lost in the space between sounds

'Keiran, the Dancer'

dizzy drunk dancing
twirls around a dark haired man
eyes shine lips smile
Guinness Mistress
we move to rhythm
neon lights reflect off my glasses
showing your face
myself dancing in your pupils
surrounded by an iris of neon

'NYE morning'

globes of illumination dance on the horizon
faeries dotting the
shrouded in
subtle splendor sloping softly
calling you home

'Response to Mr. Rosal'

Mr. Rosal
fingers passing through the dog eared
volume of your days
I rediscovered the ink
you had written on the title page

Forgive me, I thought it absurd
at the time
to tell you what I aspired
and your blessing seemed polite at best

yet two years
six hundred seventy circles
your words comfort my anxious
aspirations (alliteration)
and I feel sincerely
that your quickly scrambled letters
are genuine
and I wonder
did you ever touch that basque nose?
did you ever lose yourself along a divine axis?

I've been calculating and speculating
about the same denominator
but I've never been good with numbers
still, I feel that our paths
will coincide tangentally
and I thank you for your kind words

'The Last Day'

Blue blanket draped coolly against
the white porcelain that is my stomach
I can hear you moving about
muffled footsteps and objects scraping
through the white wall between us

draped elegantly, the line of my spine
is captivating below the curves of my shoulders
behind my sight, yet out of yours
surrounded by steam and streaming
water trickling over your masculine lines
the sound of your collarbone
that my fingertips bring to mind

your mind has raced forward
designing the outline of your schedule
do you savor your shower?
If I was bolder, I would be there
licking the metallic water off the soft
sensual skin at the base of your neck

the door opens and lazily let my eye I
linger on you
throw on a shirt startched stiff
glare at the clock and scoff
at my indolence

my lips swivel upward
curving a secret truth
as your mind raced forward
mechanically preparing
your pursed lips are swollen from mine

'Breakfast Poem'

through the floor voices tumble
timbres tangling through the boards
the sizzzling smell of bacon
dances across my senses

'Consumation breeds Creation'

Half light shows a half face
water tocks as it trickles over glass
somewhere a distant creak
voices muffled through plaster

stolen time, shadow time
silly feeling sullen so
breaths and gasps echo
Give it to her, man.
if I must hear your bodies slam at the vertex
at least make it good.

Yellow floor surrounded by black
my pen extends
its shadow meets it and together they write
connected at a primordial vertex.

'The Last of York'

snow lined branches
hang like a layered gown
the world dressed like a bride
virgin sacred white eternal
I dare not step for fear
of ending the stillness
Yet I can not linger in peace

My breath joins the air
oxygen that filled my lungs
dances with the softly falling
as I mar the blank landscape
with my passing