PEACE

 

Life is like a butterfly

In John Keats's eye, blue

But very beautiful flitting 

to death.

 

I’m looking out to season

And it is looking back at me.

The leaves are golden brown

And the sky is summer blue.

I wish that we could be united

Tender and true?

 

I can see the butterfly within

The layers of tears, I can feel

your magic hand of chance

getting to give humanity

Boldly saying though art free.

RAW WAR

 

Raw war

Is over.

 

Let

Humanity

Begin.

DE-MILI-TEAR-EYES

 

 

TOTEMBRYO

For Dennis

 

I’m flabbergasted, lost for words.

Aphantastic tales, essays, 

pensee’s to be published 

soon

is more than just poetry

Poetic humanity.

 

More than Lagan/Lapwing

More than taig, prod, jew

Red, blue, green, orange.

Don’t look out, look in

And you will wake to

The anagram N.I. We

 

Don’t realize we are

In such a unique place

On this raped, ravaged

Global earth. We have

What the world wants

Peace, poetry like sun-

Shine is free.

 

I wrote a poem in 94’

‘Unwritten graffiti’

 

It’s what we wont

Write now that really

Matters the clear white

Pristine spaces between

the verses.

 

Poetry iss beyond Irish ( I rich)

We are not Irish, English, euro-

Pean, we are beyond a protocol

A line drawn in a current-sea.

 

Six counties are we, we came

Through civil wars to get here.

This is a green and orange up-

Rising, our creation nation.

 

Hi this a small collection of poems and inspiration, he gave me so much hope and energy chi,

He made me see beyond my disabled front door my massive stroke almost killed left me paralyzed I'm

only finding memory having lost My long-term memory my children and my married childhood for 20 years, not into money etc. would you be interested in publishing, I'll send you a sample, I found so much hope in his filthy realism dirty boulevard.

 

THE PILED-UP PYRE

 

I woke to a Lou Reed

Arc around my black screen

View like a street hassle  

Between thought and expression.

 

The clock read 03:30

not like a childhood memory

on Etna drive but a mountainous

cave hill and Napoleons nose conquered.

 

I know I was there collecting wood

For the bonfire, we made a hut

In the center of the piled-up pyre

A Saracen tank ran it over.

 

Lucky the gang was out rioting

It must have been august seventy

Or seventy-one no picture comes

To mind just Lou Reads dirty boulevard.

 

Sipda bardo like a memory of my own

Through the black and blue face mask.

 

hi this a small collection of poems and inspiration, he gave me so much hope and energy chi,

He made me see beyond my disabled front door my massive stroke almost killed left me paralyzed I'm

only finding memory having lost My long-term memory my children and my married childhood for 20 years not into money etc. would you be interested in publishing, I'll send you a sample, I found so much hope in his filthy realism dirty boulevard.

 

this is not even half/

pandemonic

 

 

THE GIFT

When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.

                                                                         Cheslaw Milosz

 

The gift of insight was given to me

by the master Carver, a faction un-

dreamt. I caught his breath all

the way back to the source like

a ripple of his fishing float Yakima

to the Bann in a flow state.

 

For ten years I wrote his breath, became

a published poet, creative writing tutor.

Took a massive stroke that almost killed

Me took my being and long-term memory.

I can’t remember my kids childhood but

his words make me see through my black-

hole aphantasia.

 

 Pure gravy flows through me, I see

Beyond Irish traditionalist nationalistic

Republican nonsense a top I.R.A. was

My father man whom I never spoke but I see

peace through words of wonder the words of

Carver, Kavanagh and Simmons flow through

my veins.

 

They appeared like Nietzsche’s Zarathustra

The world isn’t ready for peaceful words, this

Is a time of war, how can the world do from

Peace to war in one day no longer C.N.D. anti-

 war warped by propaganda like the rise of hate

speech fascism.

 

Humanity is lost in materialist con-sumerism, all

those years I wrote the brutal truth of growing up

an English boy in nationalist Ireland thirty years

of war as if I knew that I would lose

my memory, the die-cast from peace to war.