Best Placesold Poems
In the moldering courtyard I linger awhile
Among ancient arches, in the old Spanish style
Revealed are sad stories...these etched stones hide
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky!
The marble fountain would murmur here
Above the doorway, vines withered and bare
Aloft from the tower, are the four watchful eyes
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky!
Three vestige bells hang overhead
Their voices silent, songs are long dead
Only the pigeons, with cooing cries
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky!
From the ruined walls so simply laid
Shadows of saints...moss covered jade
The weeping old willow, leaves crackled and dry
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky
Far from today, I will pass on through
This gate, this place brings peace anew
I drink with my ears and my glistened eyes
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky
The flowers still bloom and the overgrowth tells
The ancient tolling, of the song of the bells
When the rest of the world is passing by
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky!
The longing to know, is within my heart
Yet a peace I will find, when I finally depart
Tho' silent they have been, over graves that lie
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky!
I breathe in the infused
Essence of my ancestral lands
My heart is as one with its beauty
I long for the feel
Of natural grass -- beneath my feet
And the sweet floral blends
How--Enticing to the eye’s
I watch the rain cloud in reddened sky
Bearing the teardrops of heaven
Readying themselves to spill ~
As a sweet tasteless elixir;
Upon the winds, to touch the earthen floor…
I dream, of the cool water’s edge
Watching the fish jumping upstream
While sitting in an old birch tree…
I carry freshly picked berry fruit
In an old papyrus sack and
Dance beneath the moon
I dream of the cool water’s edge
Watching the fish jumping upstream
While sitting in an old birch tree…
I listen to the timber wolf howling in the hills
Possibly in search of his mate ~
I dine on peaches and cream -- it is now getting late…
Drawing fresh water in which to bathe
I grab homemade soap to wash my back
Cleansed, are these ole bones of mine…
Night works its magic: as I climb into my nap-sack,
Viewing totem clustered stars in form of the bear
I can be found in a state of euphoric bliss –
The crickets’ chip, all is as it should be
While camping beneath the stars of my youth--
Accepting of natures sweet infusions…
The only thing that exceeded the dinginess of this rat-hole bar was its stuffiness. I
stopped in the place to make change for a parking meter just outside its door. God! It was
awful in there, and I wondered, how in the hell the three inebriates sitting at the bar
were able to breathe. I made a futile attempt to hold my breath, but the bartender knew
his effort was a no-sell, took his grand old time getting to the cash register. I just
couldn’t hold my breath any longer.
There was a very old *hit-kicker song lamenting about a lost love while the barflies were
adding to the toxic atmosphere with their continual chain-smoking. Finally, the barkeep
reached where I was standing and slammed the four quarters down on the bar with a loud
bang, that it startled the sots into momentary soberness; but just as quickly, they
lowered their heads and continued staring at the legal poison sitting in front of them.
I said thanks and turned to leave, but not before I was compelled to show my displeasure
for his rudeness by asking him, “By the way, you wouldn’t know the average life expectancy
of your patrons, the ones who frequent this rat hole, would you?” Before he could reply, I
was out the door.
Not all jackasses
Bray, nor do they have four legs;
Some are just blockheads.
NEXT STOP : DUBLIN
Glad to leave the stonefaced Russian labyrinth of passports small
And stamped documents for every footfall
A bureaucrat’s wet dream - checking each other’s bureaucracies
No walking on grass, no stepping over invisible fences,
No original thinking, no whistling indoors please.
Engines start to turn and whistle and whine
Soon be back in old school for a while, unmissed, decadent
Teachers like old Rogers, often boozed-up in class, or that arrogant *
Upstart McCabe, getting high on his minority skills, his sacred Irish language.
( Mustn’t say Irish, say Gaeilge.) Important to an ant or midge.
I have met them at close of day, coming with vivid faces **
Flushed with the triumph of outdated, set-in-stone values
Elation gets them higher than smoky inhalation
Their dreamland is a small island, a Gaeilge nation.
I dream of stepping from frying pan to fire
And life begins to seem a hoax
And tiny ants seem large as folks
Their fragile egos higher float with every puff
Tiny magic dragons never seem to get enough
And from their caves they need a coax
East is east, and west is best - but in the final analysis
Maybe not enough in either one to miss
And the caves are filled with fragile ants
Afraid to be seen with ants in their pants.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOTES
*These are of course fictitious names.
**This is the opening line from W. B. Yeats’ poem EASTER 1916.
Yeats is probably one of the 20th century’s finest poets in the English language.
An eyesore in the community as progress takes its toll.
Windows broken, rust on the old metal frames
Vacant, dust filled, old broken file cabinet in the corner
Taking a walk through it, I could feel the past
Wondered how many lives this old building touched
A way of life for so many
Security in a weekly paycheck
A faded time card on the floor where the office was
Dust covered wooden desk
A monument to the industrial age
A table with the boards curved from age
Where people ate lunch, talked, laughed, cried
Discussions about the kids, sports, politics, shop talk
Feel the past? Yes, days gone by, good days
Boards rotted on the loading dock, a rusted hand truck
No ventilation, no complaints, an honest days work
Clipboard hanging on the wooden beam
Can’t you feel it?
Shuffling into the parking lot, lunch cans in hand
See you tomorrow
Kids waiting for Dad to come home, supper on.
Just another day.
We spoke the history of Flankers under the roof
Of your old school
And I, O I went interviewing for the proof
I have that little book lost somewhere
But in my heart I read it still
The little brown church upon the hill
The iron caterpillars clawing into stone
The thrill of the poor man to capture and own
An heritage where ancestors blood was spilled.
King, the first boy born there lost his life fishing
Beside his father in the airport bog, we
Wept for them three weeks and more, singing
And making light to ease the heavy hearts of loss
Brownie, the first man to settle after years there
On the estate smelling the wine of sugar
Roasting in the sun. I saw your son
In New York and was not intimidate of his skills
In maths again, he was just a another statistics
Like myself, and our hearts were cistern broken
Before our birth.
The first girl born there is now an officer of the law
O could we run those days again
Crazy in the childhood of our dream
The choir of birds in fruiting trees
The endless complain of working bees ...
O their nectar made all sorrows sweet
The evening in the sand bed
Pretending we were Quarrie or Bolt today
And the stars older than us
Longing for us to return their dust.
I wrote the history of that place ... the Easter Rebellion
Kenyatta, Desmond, Cyril, Jiggs, Dragon
And King Baz ... O that was a brilliant son. Corbett
Only walk and complain about dead politics now
But there was another time, we were young
And the sun was our liquid gold to dream
They came with the constabularies and machines
That tore rocks and buildings up
But could not spill us from our cup
We drank it all.
Today across the globe we are gone
None return to die
Where they began
And so lonely now the forest obsolete
The dried out swamp
The tourist that will not see again the lamp
Of Bredda, Nunsa and I
Catching crabs ... I left a tree my kite to fly
An old tree that entangled me ...
The history that began me before I finished it.
We first hailed London, quite a trip,
of London Bridge and “fish and chips”.
Our stay there was hardly over
and suddenly there we were in Dover
waiting at the white cliffs to marvel,
to assimilate, digest and unravel.
Having thoroughly tasted European cuisine,
the finest hotels, Royalty, Parliamentary scenes.
So much to think about and file away
to bring back to mind down the road some day.
We thought about all this and more
as the ferry left Dover for Paris on the far shore.
A trip of a lifetime, here only to highlight
the elegance and grandeur under our spotlight
with passing remarks and observations found
on old, old churches, old villages and towns.
People very polite, of a naturally friendly way,
Hesitate, think and seem to rehearse what they say.
We saw Ann Frank’s home, wooden shoes,
Diamond cutting, glass blowing, the Louvre.
A trip down the Rhine
We tasted their wine.
Florence, Pisa, The Alps, and Venice.
St. Peter’s in Rome and the Chapel of St. Francis
Castles and Monarchs impressive and stoic
Their armies Regal, proven heroic.
They languish in tradition and are willing to share.
Given a few moment of pride, their poignant aire,
Shines forth their love of country and manner.
A trip worth taking, full of grandeur.
© Apr 24, 2010
Dudley, how did you bat today?
Did you hit the wooden ball with rubber wrapped
Over the starapple tree and far away?
Did you ride your bicycle past Knoxwood gate
Smell the cashew blossom and think of me?
Ah Dudley, what did you do today?
Did you cut sticks in the coffee orchard
And make as old the Calaban?
Did you go seven acres and check the swift beside the well?
Do they still grow peanuts there
And do the women and children come to pick
Where I toiled all day and earned nothing for it?
O Dudley, what did you do today?
Do the girls still come at night
For your company to the well? And is there
A long train of youngsters with buckets on their head?
Can they dance like Melveta or Ver, the cotta still in place
And will they gather when its done, to play ring games
While our elders from the fireside watch
The corns so that they will not burn? Can you smell the cashew fat
Oh Dudley, what did you do today?
I want to come again and see
Lime-kiln blazing up to heaven, its rainbow colors
Like a boy's first joy bursting in delirium. I want to touch
My Benbow's head, and quiet his bark from happiness
And hide in the moonshine guinea grass
Where no one finds me, though I pant
The one desired would come. I want to sing
The old folk songs and run and scream ...
Dudley, will these things be there if I come?
Did you climb the breadfruit tree
Or make a gig, or swam in Cecil's marl hole again
Can you still fight fearlessly
Will injustice against your boyhood passion win?
We have a great country, and a great home too
St. Elizabeth, land of the big long river, and the tall bambo
Dudley, I pine for it, please if needs be, die only for it
But live again for the beauty there.