BIRD FLOWER TREE

BIRD...
inaudible breaths
of a bird resting awhile,
natural silence


FLOWER...
separate petals,
once a complete flower, crushed,
irreparable


TREE...
cut tree lying flat,
chainsaw crime, undignified,
vertical no more

WRITING

Writing has few borders;
a hand in cramp,
a brain blocked,
a qualm lurking.


Writing is free to roam;
a mind untethered,
a dream recalled,
an idea crafted.

Kick-start the hand and the brain,

throw out the qualm and start again,

distort tidy minds with creative disorders,
for writing has few borders. 

COWBOY DRIFTER

Ride the dusty haze
from here to sunset
past ramshackle towns.
Smell the buffalo,
feel your dry throat,
the pain of riding,
the weight of the gun,
the pure loneliness,
the oneness of one.

CATHAL

Cathal O'Byrne was a wonderfully romantic Irish writer who wrote a collection called "As I Roved Out", one of my favourite books


I sit with you, narrator,
smelling the cosiness of tobacco
as your pipe smoke drifts
adding haze to the memoir.


The stories wear an Oirish coat,
too John Ford to really believe,
too many fairies and gold pots
but I hang on every word you wrote.

9/11 NO NEW WORDS

Today,
no new words.

TORTURE

We use our freedom to fuss over nothing,

to grumble, whine, bellyache and groan,

to bleat, mumble, accuse and moan.

We hear stories from abroad and cringe,
sense the excruciating pain yet whinge
at the checkout queue.


We are victims of sorts within life's walls
but, anytime, the man with electrodes on his balls
will swap places with you.

THE PRESIDENT'S HEAD

It is slowed down beautifully
now on grainy film,
colour of course,
exactly right to see the red
and we watch it again and again
to convince ourselves
that it was Kennedy in Texas,
that it was the President's head.