Where heather hums in Atlantic rain,
old stones remember names;
the wind through gorse like whispered pain
keens low the exile’s flames.
A curlew cries above the bog,
its call a silver thread;
it stitches sky to sodden fog
where silent feet have bled.
O Sídhe stir beneath the hill,
in twilight’s hollow breath;
their music bends the human will
to dance with time and death.
Yet green endures through grief and
If the poems comes from my pen every day,
May be it's a garden given by God.
Don't be jealous!
Nobody can enter this garden without allow,
Who do not understand the value of words!
Someone comes to take a cure from this garden,
Someone comes and breaths without dreams.
I planted seeds in the garden for eternity time,
Number can bear fruits for generation’s keens!
In this garden there is the fun of youth,
Suddenly your twenty-five could meet.
A tree of love in the medium towpath,
Many people are eager to see it!
There are unbreakable friendship tree,
There are kind flowers that you care.
The fruits of these trees are free,
Dream, Goal, Demand is our clear!
White birches - the white hope of kind,
Is ashamed like a girl waiting for speech.
It seems as real soldiers standing in line,
The whole oak guarding the maiden birch.
I water my garden, so that it grows fast,
Person who enter can't leave without taste.
I don't tolerate gossip, lies, and boast.
So that doesn't grow like a weed most!
I don't need a wealth, easy money,
You can eat fruit for free, if you like.
If I cast a shadow over the century,
It means my garden is my second life!
There is the undertone of a haunting melodic presence
unheard by others because she wants my attention
I do not immediately recognize her lamenting song
however her voice is unique and cuts to my reptilian brain
My heart keens to her presence, there is a sorrowful joy
I have not heard her song for over twenty-eight years.
It is a day for listening and appreciating her ethereal efforts
Proof that spirit can return to this side of the veil.
An Aquarian Goddess with a wolf power animal
She often keens at the moon, howling her truth
Others are a bit frightened at her confidence.
Being her mother, I understand her spiritual ways.
She is an empath, needing space.
Picking up on emotions of others takes energy
The only way she can live her truth is to push them away.
Some think she is dismissive, cold, stand offish.
They could not be any further from her truth.
She keens and chants and drums her days into submission
Giving them savage glances, to fend them off….
Because she has to get rid of the sad feelings of this earth world
A world she fits not easily into
Being an empath, a clairvoyant, a Goddess of Wolves.
My heart leaps a bit at this sparkle of tears
Created by raindrops against her gossamer threads
An ordinary spider has created this beauty.
Thunderstorm madness takes nothing away.
I sigh at her beauty,
She holds a place for me
We are true to our selves,
This dazzling wet web and I.
Out of the mist a mockingbird sings
Bursting with enthusiasm
Somewhere in the corner of rain.
Neither of us move, both holding our ground.
A piece of sky for me
A sparkle for her
Uplifting each other away from the crowds
Reverent silence glistens and keens
I weep at the beauty
An ordinary spider web
And yet…
Extraordinary in every way
I will never again be the same.
Entangled and entranced
By this beauty of an everyday thing.
Life Support
The night is calm and shimmers
in its moonlight coat.
I sit and watch the ocean as I
wrest with dark demons.
The vision engulfs me;
I see her sweet innocence
etched on a pillow of death,
awash with cruel tubes and all
the paraphernalia of dying.
I feel detached as I observe
phosphorous ghosts surfing
like green bobbing lanterns
to a glistening alien beach
Black angels bow my head,
bend my back and hang
huge moral weights about me.
A lone gull keens my torment
Am I to be her executioner?
Must I play God?
Juggling with destinies and
barely conceived dreams.
Where are you my child?
My sweet innocent child.
My mind is a black hole full
of question marks and
dark destroying God hatred.
The ocean whispers to me
and gently caresses my soul
I know the right path…
I knew all along
I stand wearily, turn and
look at the brilliant silhouette
of the hospice. It calls to me.
She calls to me.
I stumble and cry out but
the ocean has made me resolute.
I make my way to the switch
that will end her torment
and begin mine.
A duck slowly paddles across the still water,
Disturbing the reflection of brooding storm clouds
Above. The pond sits close to the top of the ridge;
Precisely round, there are no streams entering or
Leaving to explain its presence. Cold wind keens
Through the mis-shapen trees nearby; the thin sound
Is haunting, a threnody played by a distant piper.
A gust catches the loose board on a ruined farmhouse,
The sudden bang provoking a startled shiver.
Splashing rain against the cheek awakens dormant
Memories, and the landscape turns barren, a
Wasteland, the pond revealed as a smoking crater.
Vision clears. In the distance, a red poppy marks
Where the defiant piper fell, his lament for himself.
She has strong shoulders and hands,
able to bear any burden
carried by a man
She possesses a firm mind,
a steely resolve that bends
to no Y-chromosome kind
Yet she retains the heart of a woman
My woman is she,
her man is me
The heart of this woman
is the bravest heart
I've ever been blessed to see
She has sturdy hips and feet,
able to move mountains
of entrenched sexist disparity
She keens an unbreakable will
Mistaking her femininity as a weakness
will leave you always fighting her uphill
It's a battle you can't win,
because you already lost
before the conflict even began
She had you pegged right from the start,
a macho bully ... not very smart
Get you unfocused, upend your apple cart
Diminish your ego and you will meekly depart
Did I mention that my woman has the biggest heart
The heart of a woman like her,
can't be dominated by no man
She gives her heart to me freely,
just as I give mine with loving reciprocity
Yes, she has the heart of a woman unchained,
my warrior woman she will always remain
A solitary Life
When birds return
To their destination
After the day’s exertion
Before darkness befall
They have a lot of antecedents
To exchange, express and listen,
To see and show
And to bear and embalm
Which they exchange
With their keens
Before sleep casts its slumber
But desire of coaxing and rumination
Remains embedded
Within the boundary of heart
When a bird use to lead
A solitary life
It preserves all the happenings
Whatever it hands on
During daily experiences
In the sleepy aspiration
Of a day
When through the stairs of rainbow
Would step down to join
One more life
This is how does it differ, my dear
That is your life
This is my life.
Lets Get On Our Knees
Jesus knows there is something that is wrong,
As Jesus is wanting you to stay here with Him.
Jesus knows you have somewhere else to go,
Why don't you make yourself at home and stay with Jesus?
And you won't ever want to leave.
Lets get on our knees, To pray, and rest you in Jesus' arms.
Don't you think you want someone to talk to?
Lets get on our knees,To pray ,There;s no need to leave so soon.
Jesus has been trying all your life long just to talk to you.
As your life is not nearly on the rise
As we still have the moon and stars above.
Within the beautiful velvet sky,
Love of your Brothers and Sisters is all that matters.
A long with the love and faith of Jesus.
Lets get on our keens, to pray, and rest you in Jesus' arms.
Don't you think you want someone to talk to?
Lets get on our knees, To pray, for our Brothers and Sisters.
Jesus has been trying all their life just to talk to them
Dr. Rev. Samuel Mack, OMS, DD
Copyright 2015.
I languish on a sea of untamed thoughts
I am powerless to reign
The tempest within
Some say there are no new stories
But this way I have not been,
So my story keens
As an infant borne
In the bowels of a ship
Seeking stormy release, fearing the deep
Knowing not what is known
As the word winds sweep
Safe to the shore , where I land in a heap
Alone but with relief. Released.
In the countryside where I walk
Are memories of old, in colors of sunny gold
The grass is green, the wind gently keens
and days are never cold
In the midst of stillness stands a barn
red and sturdy on a farm
The sweet smell of hay,
the mooing of cows bring memories
of home and unrestricted play
Kids played hop- skotch and fired sling -shots
A time of milk pails and iron pots
Mama's washing hung on the line
waving in the wind in 2/4th time
The sturdy barn brought a moment of bliss
As I smelled the hay in the darkened loft
I realized how much I so miss
my mother's loving touch.
The crack of dawn shows me its claws,
the path of happiness between the dragons jaws,
shimmering rays pierce the curtains without flames,
all this in pursuit of happiness.
With my feeble feet i take head of the hurdle,
i make strength to jump over the paddle
life's tasks are not wishes on a saddle's
all this in pursuit of happiness
Risks are essential to meet your goals,
crushing every hope underground like moles,
teaching us the concept of chemistry moles,
all this in pursuit of happiness.
The drive to be best at your game,
constant preparations never subdue your flame
only becoming the king to grow more fame,
all this in pursuit of happiness.
The sunsets as i break from life,
working hard for my children and wife
to give my keens the best of life,
all this in pursuit of happiness.
Winter brims
over bouldered ground
above Rostrevor.
Louring skies meld
blue lough to green forest.
Needling wind keens
through raftered bones,
once homes,
hewn from ancient granite.
Mourne claims her own,
over and over,
defeating generations.
Hasp and staple,
galvanised against the sleekit mist,
defend rude-lintelled doors.
Who comes?
Only ghosts of emigrants,
wraiths of mountainy men
whose quick selves
coaxed poor life
from pale, barren hills
above Rostrevor.
In isolation mull the severed links,
chain corroded thoughts as keens the winter chill;
though shines a sun, strangely cold;
this mind sculpts only cognitive ice.
With rodent greed the hemlock grief it drinks,
stagnant pools of ancient rain lie still;
their primal fears recoil, grow old,
removed, reincarnated once or twice.
Feasting on the hand me down concealing,
filtered through the caverns of a heart;
they marvel at the monster they created,
his tears never shed, nor ever cried.
Only I know garrisons of feeling,
beaten and chastised and chained apart;
miss her more than they anticipated;
something in me died…
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