Poe-artry: Morphic

vibration of life

act1

0N THE GUN RUN WITH MUTTLEY

These images are seared into my mind not like memory.

I feel them don't  see, like my poetic faction. 

 I am not sureif they fit in poetic fiction there is nothing else nothing else in my mind. 

Like odes they are a song of myself. I wanted to write a romantic poem like keats and milton but my paradise is lost. The morphic

vibration of life is felt through works of art like a shamanic foot-

fall,fingerprint. I feel poe-artry without memory, poe-artry is under

my skin. It seems i have lived two lives one with and one without.

A Fox looking at a fox by A Fox mean so much to me likes those

two states A Fox thought and the dreamscape of the fox thought.

I cant put my finger footfall on natures memory but I feel adrift.

Like the diving bell and the butterfly, fluttering in a backward law.

A reverse effort floating up to the top, locked-in a default syndrome.

When i first took the massive stroke j was drifting between life

and death in a flimsy hologam, a grey state. Beside my hospital

bed was an exit door above it was a little greenman. I was tripping

like I never tripped the drugs to keep me alive were making me

hallucinate and my balance was gone, I couldnt even put my foot 

on the floor, it was like an ocean. My compass point of fantacy 

 and reality, I had no fixed point couldnt tell the difference.

Everything on the ward was moving nurses on off rota, patients

time/space meant nothing to me. The little greenman I focused 

on where I got this strength of mind is beyond me because 

the stroke erased my hard drive . There was nothing in my mind

but i told myself if I seen the greenman then I was in reality

and not fantacy hallucinating. I realized that the consultants

whispered not knowing where i fitted in life or death.

Self-determination gives you strength if you just believe in you

It felt great knowing that I was in control of my stroke recovery.

The nurse opened the exit door and I tasted greenery my ashen grey

flimsy hologram felt the rush of life. The breath of fresh air was like the stroke boost that woke me bolt upright from deaths door. Declared dead for seconds,  I seen my reflection in my sons eye

like a zom-me.

Summer entered me, like a rebirth, the nurses, and doctors saw me

in a different light. Paddy the little green man showed me Ashfalt

which led to the bluestone road and Lylo cemetary where my mother

and sister are soiled waiting for me. This was the first day of my

blemished acceptance, I knew where I was at the back of the hospital. A Google map opened in my mind like a sat-nav from that

moment no matter what three hospitals I went to the compass point

was in my mind. I no longer felt lost and alone. I felt good in myself knowing my mind had figured this out, there was hope in me. Paddy showed me the road, self-determination is a wonderful thing. If  only

we believed in ourselves.  I was on the road to recovery not hell.

Memory threw this up, compelled to write even on repeat.   The cottage holds a treasure of memory if only I could remember

I ran through an acre of summer scent greenery 

a world i had never known, brought up inner city

streets, I have no recollection of how sweet that

freedom wind felt, the morphic resonance

of the poet Patrick Kavanagh poetic footfall.

He came to encapture, enrapture me 

in my mother's birthplace. The Dodder, 

Rathmines,The grand canal poems.

                                                                             

He was my bright shillings of March 1961 

my birthright, the time at the cottage was 

so strange. Now I have no mental imagery, 

blind imagination. I followed in the poet's 

footsteps. I went on to be a writer with 

a master's degree, creative writing tutor 

with seven collections of poetry.

There is a poetic coincidence I dont or cant 

fathom, they appear accidently on purpose. 

I wrote of entangible essence,The Ray river 

flowing out to sea as if they were meant to be 

a part of me.I only know this because I wrote 

them my poems are my memory like touchable 

recurring dreams but I am so confused. Everything 

links to everything there so no clutter in my life so 

in a sense thats a good but i miss my friends you 

know who you are.

Muttley chased black and white camouflaged

cows like the camouflaged british army who beat

him with rifle butts, three legs and one eye that

dog was my best friend.Away from war, the cows

chased us laughing he barked with joy.No more

war torn streets, we both were shell-shocked. He

was kicked to near death and I was dragged from

a gunbattle,bullets ripped the street at my feet, 

The Da,he was released on bail from a nine month 

special powers act. I thought we all ran from war-torn. 

When he died I learned that the I.R.A..owned the cottage

to run guns across the border, my poetry was riddled syl-

labels. Patrick Kavanagh was more of a father to me.

This picture memory are all that is left of my freedom winds.

I feel like that dog now broken with one hand no mind long-

term memory is gone but in a poem I will never forgot.