the whole world is happening at the same time
every conversation, every bird call, every lion roar
every everything bunched up to oneness in my head
I carry the white noise of distance wherever I go
I am an out of tune radio coursing through debris
and tin whistle high notes playing one key in harmony
that is my head, that is my thunderstorm in stereo
imagine a life having to speak over an orchestra
but there is a beauty and stability to hearing
all the insects of the world crawling along
simultaneously with every wave and fish fuzz in water
wait, I think I can hear the flowers growing
the leaves falling, the sand rearranging on every beach
though if it can happen a little less loudly
so it doesn’t fill my every second, that would be ok
now, and it has taken sleeplessness,
I am privy to galactic secrets, the gods are chattering
all at once so I’m none the wiser for the cacophony
just full of loud
Being part Irish I have to admit
that yes indeed, I celebrate it.
If truly the Irish are lucky you see,
I’ll have my green beer and sandwich of brie.
I’ll dress in me greens with a button or two
that says I am Irish, how about you?
I’ll get out me Bodhran and give it some beats;
then my tin whistle, I will play while folks eat.
I’ll have buttery shortbreads’ and other great treats;
and don me tapp’in shoes with their new cleats.
While the fiddler bows his old Irish tunes,
I may take a moment to have me a croon.
I’ll do me a jig or two, for good measure;
then politely say, thank’ye, ‘tis been a pleasure.
Me ancestors came from that dear Emerald Isle;
though they hated to leave, they did it with style.
The time spent thinking up these rhymes,
could be put to better use.
I could learn a language, or DIY the house.
Maybe learn to fly a plane, or sail across the sea,
or walk across the Gobi, and drink Mongolian tea.
I could learn to play piano,
it can't be all that hard,
after all, I used to play tin whistle,
when I was just a lad.
There must be lots of activities,
I'm not too old to learn,
like playing tennis, keeping fit,
I've got some fat to burn.
But, Hey, you're no Spring chicken,
my dear wife likes to say,
Sit in your chair, put the blanket round,
and balance this tea tray.
I suppose I'll just keep dreaming,
of things that I could do,
or maybe write ideas down,
and make a rhyme or two.
COMING HOME
I came home at last across the seas
To my home country in South Dublin,
And stood soaking up the refreshing Irish mist,
Allowing the Manchester smoke to wash out of my lungs.
O’ Connell Street was busy as usual,
And the familiar glottal stops of Arabic drifted
Out from a traditional kebab take away,
In its doorway a tin whistle player and his hat of coins.
I watched the policewomen adjusting their hejabs
And very politely controlling the football crowd -
Stragglers from Croke Park,
Heading for Guinness and kebabs for supper.
A bee met an antelope. Rescued it with a spear. It did. That was sheer bravery to face such horn. When patterns of wings grow dim it is wise to fly around erratically thus eradicating the stench from a curdled curd drop. Brilliant. Just remarkable really. In such amazement the wild wizard whale drops his spoon. And the dusk shouts hello to the stars. Merely a fragment. A slice of time in a layered era cake. Great. And meanwhile a small footed deer trots past playing a ten foot tin whistle. Lovely Lively linking looking leaking leaning learning. And a cooked dinner looking for a plate on which to sit. Xxxx harmonisation harpsichord. Xxxx rationalisation Z so go pickle that in a pie of thought!
so much colour
wrapped in one tune
plays enchanting music
upon a tin whistle
dancing upon ripples
whistling pipes
played within
the ocean
a boat
sailing calm waters
coming ashore
out of the shadows
of oneself
i seek
the answers
in darkness
calling for light
brushing the dark
a silver mist
sunshine sparking
within two eyes
a candle held
lighting one soul
oh colourful beauty
rainbows one treasure
shining bright
upon mist
i found
at a rainbow end
one promise
made to love
is the light
of you
Waking, realizing dawn was past
Hearing a background noise
Some what like a wet tin whistle
Child blown in a futile attempt at a note
“What kind of bird is that?”
“A red winged blackbird”
She rose and left me lying abed
Wondering what else she lived
That I missed so easily so busily
So lazily dependent on her living
So easily a part of it
As she is so much of mine
The smell of grinding coffee
Led me down the stairs
Some where there’s a poem
To pen on this awakening
To mild frustrated fear
What powers of observation am I
Losing to disuse
Habits help to pass the time before
The coffee kicks life up a bit
Amusing to the muse
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