Tuatha de Danann Dreaming
(A lone Irish voice whispers into the night, as a single white candle burns. Looking at a picture of a beautiful woman)
With time-worn
But stubborn like a six-inch
Jerusalem thorn
Dreaming
Forlorn
Tonight
Of Halcyon Nights
With you, my love
When memories waterwheels slowly turn,
And midnight candles burn
As my inner film projectors play
I also remember our beloved Halcyon Days, at the coast
Spent walking and laughing
Before God moved our goal posts
So tonight, I'm praying and yearning for moments
Only The Tuatha de Danann can invoke
Pulling back
My true love
Before I choke
To help me cope
From Hades
Swirling
Grey smoke
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
The Tuatha Dé Danann are described as a supernatural race, much like idealized humans, who are immune from ageing and sickness, and who have powers of magic.
Source; Wikipedia.
My sermon at my funeral
I am lying in the funeral home, oh lovely home!
I am saying the homily in front of my dead body
I am the priest, the mourners are my past lives.
Oh, my sins!
Four men carry my coffin out to the cemetery
Last dark and brilliant sermon, mourning crowd
Crying, just crying, everyone mourns my life
My friends and brothers buried me, mourned me
Flowers, tears, nice words. ‘Why? Why he died?’
I was just standing in front of my grave with a cold face
I completed the job. I did the funeral. It’s the end of my life
A cemetery clerk switched off all the projectors
I planned my funeral in my life and I am staying on Earth
… in hologram life
Lights moving in time with the music
at a mansion in a neighboring town
Vibrations pounding through the stereo bugle
hark you feel it escalate then drown
projectors casting shadows of colorful hew
raindrops falling to the sound
windshield covered in dew
and moistening the ground
wishing to share that moment
with everyone thereof
but business interferes bestowment
and it was aggregated by the one I love
would have enjoyed it nor
if intuition didn't find me last night
I won't be discussing it to for
just hope everything is alright
I’ve seen this silent movie reprise:
lips moving, but there’s no sound
Listen, listen only with your eyes,
Rudy Valentino is speaking now
Lips moving, but there’s no sound ...
fact projectors are taking a break
Charlie Chaplin is speaking now,
telling you all Russia news is fake
Listen, listen only with your eyes,
another silent movie is on the spin
Laugh so hard hearing the false cries,
pantomime lies moving in celluloid skin
Buster Keaton is speaking now,
crying hard listening to palace parody
Lips moving, but there’s no sound ...
throwing blame elsewhere on somebody
Muted smiles saying everything’s great,
Jean Harlow is speaking now
Secrets meetings at an office matinee,
bad actors wearing wordless frowns
Another silent movie is on the spin ...
listen, listen only with your eyes,
Rudy Valentino is speaking again
I’ve seen this silent movie reprise
The dreaded weekly full staff meeting,
Every Thursday, straight after school.
Where each teacher sits through mind numbing talk,
That’s neither fun, intriguing nor cool.
The new teachers sit, pen in hand,
Hanging on every word.
Whilst the other teachers sit, falling asleep,
With their eyes becoming a little bit blurred.
Power points, microphones, projectors and pens,
Graphs, stats, and annual trends.
Let’s not pretend these are interesting ways,
To develop strategies among teaching friends.
These weekly full meetings where everything’s said,
And nothing ever seems to sink in.
It’s my relaxing mental therapy session,
Where all my mental junk goes to the bin.
The mind is what you make it
The mind is a blank book at the time of birth
We are the authors we write what we will
the mind
the mind is like clay
shaped by every
encounter question
doubt and desire
the mind
the mind
We create the allusion We make
the addiction We spark the nervous break down
and unnecessarily bite our nails in reaction to events
We the authors of our mind We create the false and
truth in our mind My truth is not your truth and your
truth isn't mine
the mind
the mind
What you may see in a tree I may not
see our trees endure the seasons differently We see
the emanations of our mind the image may be ugly or sublime
Time is an allusion make your conclusion From day or night
from naked or dressed we draw conclusions of our own
Most minds over look the simple and accentuate
self made complexities
Thus the next step is complicated
Your mysteries is not my mysteries we both have different history's
Our minds are projectors it casts images on everything we see
I see all amalgamated.
What do you see?
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