Rhythmic Poetry

Rains Descend

Rains descend upon my head
The sky grows dark and chill
The rush surround my mind and soul
To freeze my halting will

Clouds move o’er the dawning sun
And halt the marching light
My vision dims throughout the morn
And shrinks into the night

Fogs envelope mind and frame
The world becomes a haze
The hues of life are bled and dried
My eyes are dark and glazed

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Easter Sonnet

Within the blackness of the night His body lies at rest
Alone within His catacomb, amidst the quiet chill
His skin is pale and bled of life, no air’s within His chest
He lies in state, forsook by God, within the lonely hill
She weeps within the waning night, alone before the morn
When death is at its blackest tide and hope’s forever lost
But when the pitch is at its peak the dawn is at its bourn
And when despair is at its end there’s light to melt the frost
A ray is cast upon the tomb; the stone is split and rolled
And death is turned upon its head, defeated by the Cross
The Lion stands within His How and strides upon His Wold
Victorious in life and death, in laughter, pain, and loss
He comes to save His enemies with grace and love and death
In love He’s raised in human blood, in human life and breath

Blank Verse

The Dusk of Night

I find myself within the dusk of night
Where ghouls and shadows flit around my head
Spitting words of hopeless paths and tired treads
Pressing under me, the weight of darkness’ might
In the midst of shadowed storms I seek the light
Trying to remember words of hope I’ve heard and read
Holding onto sanity by naught but tiny threads
Beat and bruised and cast beyond the realm of fight
In this pitied state I seek the light of Jesus’ hope
I cling unto the splintered Cross, I’m washed by perfect blood
I feel as one who’s lost to die, but sought by He who hung
And as the light shines down upon my bloody face, I grope
I seek the One who saves and keeps with perfect love
For I have no one else to seek and no one else to run


The Epochs’ Sentinel

Proudly stands the ancient Rock, the epoch’s sentinel
Resolute upon the running fields
Once home to primal, angry mangonels
And men of arms with glinting claimhte and clashing shields
Where prayers were said in whispers and in hallowed song
Where worship rose a scented smoke upon the lifting breeze
Where stones have stood through seasons changed and long
Through countless lives of men and aged trees
A place where death is laid to lasting rest
The rotted frames in dust awaiting second life
Until that day the stones and grass anticipate the final quest
The land to be released from sin and bloody strife
The Rock is standing still
The epoch’s sentinel

Rhythmic Poetry

Tara’s Lasting Memories

They whisper still on Tara’s Hill, the lasting memories
Of men and beasts, of rain and wind, of ages run to die
They whisper of the highest kings, resplendent in their dress
Brought-forth from waring clans upon the Isle of the Green
They whisper of the strains of men, in fellowship arrayed
They whisper of the streams of blood
That’s borne upon the mighty River Boyne unto the thirsty sea
They whisper of the sumptuous feasts, where mead and laughter flowed
They whisper of the druids dark, King-Makers in the ancient land
They whisper in their silent tears for all the Island’s children dear
Who’ve mourned and suffered in their sordid history
They whisper still, on Tara’s Hill, these lasting memories

Free Verse

She Calls to Me

She calls to me. The fair island.


Her fragrant scent,
so sweet,
so full of death and growth,
flows o’er the oceans vast
that stretch so tautly on
our mother’s swollen womb
with dark and melancholy
distending in a body’s sullen soul
by resonating peals;
a paradox, a pox
of reeling brews
that ply a healing trade
on dour thoughts and funny feelings paining
through unholy nights;
through songs sung sadly
through the ages’ deaths;
her wars whirl gayly in merry, Faerie step;
her people weave
into the dirt and grass and trees,
tied ever to her lovely, bloody land
by langauge’s lilting
rugged lullabies –
bog-born brogues of soil’s
ferocious raw-bred tenacity,
bred on love and sorrow’s teats –
raised in seas and rolling mountains green with growth,
maturing in the mouths of saints
and scholared bards
(a full and heady brew,
drunk and read and writ
by literary sages
singing in their happy


Persistently she calls to me,
sweet Eire fair, until her bloody end.

Blank Verse, Uncategorized

So Cry the Rocks

The sun’s propelled in warming, flowing waves
The land is bathed in streams of fresh delight
Its praise unites in brightly wooded naves
The hills rejoice to bask amongst the cooling light
The grasses dance a lusty jig atop the sighing earth
The mountains stand as bastions tall in stoic might
The varied beasts and birds sing out with lusty mirth
Along the laughing, running, fair happy streams
Amongst the silent trees of ancient worth
The constant stones shout out in steady, artful song
The wooded groves stand cloaked in lovely, leafy staves
In worship of the one who made and wafts the world along
Who triumphs o’er our waiting graves
Who bled to die, and died to save