Silence Screams

Silence wades in somber seas

Lonely in the darkened wood

Floating in a world of dancing grass

Soaring through the cloudy skies

Silence screams within the darkened mind

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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
histories
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
rage)

 

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

The Rising Smoke

Softly drifts the languid smoke beyond its rounded gate,
Intermingling with unhurried, conversated waves,
Coasting through the crowded words –
divinely fashioned forms for patient cogitations –
Listening to passionate opinions stated and defended with
A relishing aplomb;
Coaxing down the speeding train of thought and time
In chilled, relaxing grace;
Cooling minds and harboring unspoken sounds

Sentinel of Stone

Long have grown the grasses green about my cracking base
Running o’er the ancient paths, along the learned grounds
Covering the bones of men who lived and bled and died amongst the years
Constant in their living hue, these blades preserve the memory of age
Thoughts of learning
Thoughts of rivers running strong
Thoughts of blood and violent sport
And here I stand, a sentinel of stone, a marker for the dead

Where Now, Brown Tadpoles?

Where now 
     brown tadpoles?

Swimming in your stinking tidal pool of woe -
darkened sperm that’s spent 
   upon the thirsty ground, 
              offal of your parents’ froggy lust - 
while 
wildly you try 
        to fly 
beyond your watered womb, 
to sprout your legs 
            to leap into the waiting 
                             woods, 
but still you lie in 
all your thousands strong 
                    along the river’s flowing course, 
a waiting smorgasbord of snacks for fowl and fish
to dine on


How now 
   grown tadpoles?

Your numbers shrink before the summer’s 
               heat 
and most of you are fodder 
            in your larger 
                  neighbors’ stomachs, 
gullet goop to 
       soon be joined into the water’s 
                               way, 
while some of you, 
       o holy few!, 
will hence become en-legged 
                   pollywogs: 
cavorting, 
ingesting, 
capitulated copulating, 
            croaking in your species’ 
                              fevered gambol

Woolen Cloak

Quietly the woolen cloak descends upon the sleeping ground, solemnly returning in the winter’s song, softened harmony reflecting silence’ part

Watchful o’er the sleeping land the blanket bathes the senses’ open nerves with subtle waves of resting light and solitude

Underneath this calming sea, the trees have shed their summer’s dress and sleep in dreams and empty growth, preparing for the seasons’ course

Beasts and humans still their mouths and minds before the bright silence, awed at winter’s nuanced shades and shapes displayed beneath the woolen cloak

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