Alive

He stood barefoot, his back against the old oak tree. He closed his eyes. He dug his toes into the rich, welcoming earth which lay between the oak tree’s gnarly roots. They were warm in the primeval dust which had swallowed them up. He almost felt them grow, reach down deeper, further, closer to the timeless, abyssal mysteries. He slowly lifted his arms above his head. He could hear the suave whispering of the leaves above him. The wind, that evanescent lover, stroked his hair, caressed his soul. His face glowed in the sun. He could feel its fingertips on his cheeks. He smiled. He knew at that moment that he was alone, utterly, fatally alone. But he was alive. And that was enough.

Moon Hill

On an ancient hill in Yorefolkshire
Encircled by the whispering oaks,
Who sway in the wind’s gentle stir,
Unremittingly striving to coax
The Moon out of her silver dress,
I lie, enthralled by her quiet caress.

The Moon gives in to the oaks’ plea
And slips out of the cloud she wore,
Casting her smile on all, with glee.
I look up and with my eyes explore
The expanse unveiled by her light,
Enchanted by the pastoral sight.

A brook nearby laughs with a star,
Its image caught in her nacre lips;
The blue meadows that stretch afar
Into the night, speckled with cowslips,
Form a tranquil ocean of shapely waves,
Which my melancholic soul enslaves.

Wet with dew and on the hill supine,
For a more innocent age I long,
For a forlorn communion I pine.
We once belonged to the same Song,
The trees, the stars, the brook and I;
A symphony from beyond the Sky.

18 September 2008

Monolith

Flamboyant they came,
Hapless they went;
Lovers, suitors, hopefuls and friends
They fled.

Her body was open,
Hers arms Christ-like
But her heart -
Och! - her heart…

How many young ships,
Eager to dock,
Breached their hulls
In her murky waters?

I knew such a man;
His heart went for a dander
And never came back.
His mind is gone.

But the murderess
Was herself
More ensanguined
Than her ghosts;

For cruel, she was not.
Nicht wirlkich.
Naïveté
Was her bane.

The stone slab
That her ribs housed
Was never engraved
By anyone. Ever.

This, one supposes,
Is her epitaph,
By one detached enough
To care.

August 2008

The Forester

I met you in the woods on a dark autumn day
When a fair young fawn, fleeting, Ied me astray
Through the deep green clouds, into the clearing
Where you held court with the oak and yew trees.
A red flannel shirt and denim slacks were your robes;
An empty packet of cigarettes, your sceptre.
Your beard was an ancient thicket, sage and regal,
And your long sylvan hair was your silver circlet.
Your eyes were black and deep, bottomless wells
Wisened by the water of life you always
Carried in the pocket of your duffle coat.
I was a lost child, under a moonless canopy,
Seeking a star that might, perchance, light my way.
You never said a word, but slowly raised your eyes,
And with your arms outstretched, you parted the emerald sea.
We never said a word, but I went, and you wept,
Your smile stinging my back with my own shame.
When I turned around for a last glimpse of you,
I saw you swinging your axe, bringing it down,
Felling timber for your own funeral pyre.

Tim, 17 June 2008

Adele

Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell. - Emily Dickinson

You walked away at night
So the sun couldn't comb
Your raven locks
With its weary fingers.
Winter was waiting for you,
So you went sailing
Through his white cloak
And into the marshes.

Wee will o' the wisp,
I hope you found your way
To where the loughs are crisp
With the ringlets of laughter.

You walked away the night
When Lughnasadh began.
Lily body,
Reaped by raucous fingers;
You never knew who you were,
So you went smoothly,
Without a care,
Into the gloomy moors.

Wee will o' the wisp,
I hope you found your way
To where the nights are lit
With the serenades of stars.

You walked away that night,
Ere I could say goodbye.
Your crimson lips
Never uttered a word.
I was left pining
In the blue mist,
On the banks of the Styx.

Wee will o' the wisp
Is it an ignis fatuus
To hope that you will tread
On the sands of Elysion
With us?

Wee will o' the wisp,
We're still dancing round the fire,
Backwards, backwards.
We're still there where you left us,
But closer, closer.
Closer, Adele.

Tim, 16 June 2008

Extract from "Pot Pourri" #2

Mummy have big tummy. Daddy have big smile. We go to see the man who put jelly on mummy's tummy. There is a TV but no Bugs Bunny, no Winnie the Pooh. The TV is black and white and it look like clouds moving. Clouds moving slow. Daddy say it's sister. That mean another one of me, but like Mummy, not like Daddy. The man with the jelly have no big smile. He does not like the TV. He say something. Mummy and Daddy have no big smile now. The clouds is not happy in the TV.
Back home. Playing in my room with clown and Bunbury bear. Daddy say sister sick. But not sick like when my nose sticky. Very more sick than that. Mummy cry. Daddy cry. Me cry.

Mummy have big, big, big tummy. Daddy have smile. We in Ireland. Me stay with Granny and Grampa. Mummy and Daddy go to get sister. She in Mummy's tummy. Big, big, big. Me play Lego on floor. Floor blue like sea, with black shapes like clouds. Nice black clouds.

Mummy and Daddy come back but not sister. She not in Mummy's tummy. She come out but not come home. She go to Jesus. I play with Lego. White bricks and red bricks. I make Lego house. Lego house on black cloud on floor. Why she go to Jesus? She go to play with Jesus? I want to play with sister. I want to play with Jesus. But Jesus never come to play Lego.

Daddy angry at clouds. He not look up at clouds. He not speak to clouds.

Words

I love writing. There's just something about words that helps bring peace to my mind. Lately I haven't had as much time to write as I used to ; but when I take an effort and put the quill to the parchment, or rather my fingers to the keyboard, I am never disappointed. I am always rewarded in some way. Sometimes it's the cathartic release of bottled-up emotions or nostalgic memories that words provide me ; often it's the feeling that I have accomplished, manufactured or created something with my own hands, however humble that thing might be.
Usually I write poetry, mostly because I find it easier to concentrate on writing a small text, in rhyme, rather than page after page of prose. But I've always wanted to write a short story of some kind — I've just never had the patience to finish what I'd started. Recently I've tried working on a new idea, Clouds. We'll see how that goes. In my last post I included an extract of it. It's not great writing, and it doesn't make much sense on its own, but it's a draft of something I hope to build upon in the future. We'll see!