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Best Poems Written by Ailill Ailill

Below are the all-time best Ailill Ailill poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Ailill Ailill Poem

Waiting To Fly

From his perch in the aspen tree 
A young goldfinch sings 
an ancient melody, 
‘searching for wings 
to help me fly 
through the afternoon sky. 
Eyes contemplate wisps of cloud 
floating by.’ 

Mind clings and grasps. 
Rainy Mountain 
blocks my path. 

Heart has her own task, 
food comes first. 
Then thoughts of future 
or past. 

I seek guidance, 
but wait with impatience 
For the bluebell to blossom. 
What is this flower’s wisdom? 

Says Master Hsu, 
‘Waiting has it’s virtue.’ 

Set loose from its cage, 
The wind blows open a new page.

Details | Ailill Ailill Poem

A Mournful Tune

Spring, do you not see your cross, 
in autumns leaves, winters frost? 

In youth we play with life, 
forgetful that it is rife 
with misery. The tragedy 
is seeing it take hold. 
Body young, spirit old. 
Skin wearing off bones. 

Hands wrinkled, hair grey, 
betrayed by signs of decay. 
Family, friends, taken away 

by that vixen – time. 
Her tricks chaining our minds. 
Where is the comfort in this, 
the seduction of her kiss? 

Being has no boundaries; 
but in each story 
there is beginning and end, 
Which chapter do You 
find yourself in? 

Transformation: 
becoming attuned 
to the mournful tune 
the reed plays upon 
separation from 
the mother womb.

Details | Ailill Ailill Poem

Losing Man's Blues

Like a leaf blowing in the wind, 
been up and down this dusty trail 
here to there, back here again, 
my reckless laid plans on the rail. 

I used to act like a crown jewel, 
not knowing this was high stakes poker,
but life’s cruel, caught being a fool,
my deck stacked full of jokers. 

Head still sizzling from the trial, 
was the fault yours, maybe mine, 
I was the one who got nailed,
doing time in cell number 9. 

My heart can’t accept the truth,
my life, a living sacrifice,
with nothing left to lose,
except for these losing man’s blues…

When I get out of this jail, 
I will stay on the right side of the line, 
walk the straight and narrow,
buff up these ‘ol’ shoes ‘til’ they shine.

Stop my rambling, gambling ways, 
get a good hearted woman, sette down, 
hunt me up a little cabin, 
in some forgotten lonesome town.. 

Once I untie these chains that bind;
been tried and found wanting
by the courtroom of life,
this past won’t stop its haunting,
my mind at the end of the line.

My heart can’t accept the truth,
my life, a living sacrifice,
with nothing left to lose,
excepting these losing man’s blues…

Accepting these lonesome blues

Details | Ailill Ailill Poem

Vision

Lost on a misty mountaintop
chasing Hyakoju's fox
distant vistas unclear
draws presence to what's near


an alpine flower
breathes through
the early morning dew

Details | Ailill Ailill Poem

A Tribute To King Ailill

Ailill, Avalon’s cattle king, 
did I know it would be your name 
of which I would sing? 
When with your alias I made 
my claim for fame. 

Immortalized by Druid poets
of the Ulster cycle, your spirit
lives on like King Arthur’s sword,
Excalibur in the folklore 
and culture of the Celtic people. 

Owner of the white horned magical
bull Fen, a cause of war, Fen
was once a member of the race
of men, losing his way, through betrayal. 

A king to your last days, then treated
like prey, haunted, chased over
hill and dale, and killed by Cern
Conall, due to the treachery
of taking another lover, 
invoking the ire of Queen Medb, her
jealousy, ruler of heart and head. 

How have you transfigured my soul 
with the poetry that you wrote, 
when my pen was at your behest 
instilling your wishes upon my chest?

Upon the stage of life, 
how many acts can we acquire?
comedy, tragedy, Ironic satire.

Are the roles we play really our own? 
or are we as the aborigines say, 
our ancestors, skin and bones?

Details | Ailill Ailill Poem

A Mournful Tune

Spring, do you not see your cross, 
in autumns leaves, winters frost? 

In youth we play with life, 
forgetful that it is rife 
with misery. The tragedy 
is seeing it take hold. 
Body young, spirit old. 
Skin wearing off bones. 

Hands wrinkled, hair grey, 
betrayed by signs of decay. 
Family, friends, taken away 

by that vixen – time. 
Her tricks chaining our minds. 
Where is the comfort in this, 
the seduction of her kiss? 

Being has no boundaries; 
but in each story 
there is beginning and end, 
Which chapter do You 
find yourself in? 

Transformation: 
becoming attuned 
to the mournful tune 
the reed plays upon 
separation from 
the mother womb.

Details | Ailill Ailill Poem

You and I

You and i, 
caged in our separate lives. Eyes meet 
across the street. Strangers to each other. 
Mirrors reflecting these words. Yours and mine. 

Can you hear them? 

Swirling currents flowing past each other. 
The thunder of the water splashing 
on the rocks down below, drowning out 
all sound. And the songs You sing to me, 
and I to you, sink into the shadows 
until nothing is left. 


But down in the hollows, a hydra grows 
on our sorrows, feeding off these pipe dreams 
between Us.

Details | Ailill Ailill Poem

Wrong

Who was wrong? 
We both were wrong. 
Me, with my lies; 
And You, 
with that 
glare of false pride 
A-glazing your eyes. 

Now, 
These scars, 
Hidden within 
our hearts. 

Can they be forgiven?

Details | Ailill Ailill Poem

Freedom's Tranquility

With a Zen poet’s simplicity, 
he said to me,

“Were you there when others
had to bear their cross? 
What do you know about 
suffering and loss, 

freedom and its costs? 

These insults are minor flesh wounds.

Do you follow
the cycles of the moon,
the change in seasons, 
a flowers bloom,

the queen rising
from winter’s tomb
on a quest to find her groom?

The fire of birth
inside earth’s womb? 

For those who mourn, 
there is calm 
beyond the storm. 

Accept your mistakes
when life dictates.”

“Finally,” 
he spoke thoughtfully,

“Don’t lose heart too soon,
Instead, give to life
When it is asked of you.”

Details | Ailill Ailill Poem

The Power of the Lines

Back in the time 
when they were first coming alive, 
didn't understand the power of the lines. 

But when the rhyme takes hold, 
stealing its way into your soul, 

it's like an addiction, 
ecstatic emotions 
in anticipation 
of the liberation 
of poetic inspiration. 

Metaphoric transformation 

spinning out of control. 

Nothing left to hold 
onto. 

Now, 
what is there left to do? 

Except rhyme these lines 
to you.