Storms are my shadow,
Cloaked in grey.
Lightning is my lamp,
flickering with flame.
Fog follows me,
rising from the two rivers.
Once, Crusher was stolen.
I wore a dress to get it back.
Nine steps I will take before I die,
after battering down the great wyrm.
That is my wyrd,
All-mighty Thórr's life thread.
Wandering Sweeney
15.7.12
11.6.12
Sounds
I hear the sound
from the Rushy Mountains,
the wild and sweet Rushy Mountains.
I hear the sound
from the stoney Burren,
the wild and lonesome stoney Burren.
I hear the sound
from Gweedore's green glen,
the wild fierce green glen of Gweedore.
The sound of a hearth fire
I've never sat beside,
snap of a peat fire
and the tramp of feet
from the Rushy Mountains,
the wild and sweet Rushy Mountains.
I hear the sound
from the stoney Burren,
the wild and lonesome stoney Burren.
I hear the sound
from Gweedore's green glen,
the wild fierce green glen of Gweedore.
The sound of a hearth fire
I've never sat beside,
snap of a peat fire
and the tramp of feet
minding the dresser,
whiskey fueled
and music driven -
One day
I will go where my fathers before
trod the land, tilled the land,
were killed by the land -
One day I will go home.
and music driven -
One day
I will go where my fathers before
trod the land, tilled the land,
were killed by the land -
One day I will go home.
19.11.09
Hands.
These hands,
these bonnie bairn's hands,
they wave and wobble, greedy
for the life they have, newgifted;
eager for the heady brush
of Mammy's cheek, soft as love,
and the strength of Da's chin,
weekend wiry.
These hands,
these ready Man's hands,
they grip, grasp, grapple;
leading always in work and rest,
cradling the green coffee-cup,
swinging a hammer from
day's dawning to whistle's howl,
to make his hearth strong
for kith and kin.
These hands,
these worn grandfather's hands
they have seen the ending of many years,
drawn down to the west, descending
in waves off the mountains.
They touch now the hands
of the son's newbrought son,
and give him the old
dragonheaded fiddle,
that has been played all down
the long years past.
these bonnie bairn's hands,
they wave and wobble, greedy
for the life they have, newgifted;
eager for the heady brush
of Mammy's cheek, soft as love,
and the strength of Da's chin,
weekend wiry.
These hands,
these ready Man's hands,
they grip, grasp, grapple;
leading always in work and rest,
cradling the green coffee-cup,
swinging a hammer from
day's dawning to whistle's howl,
to make his hearth strong
for kith and kin.
These hands,
these worn grandfather's hands
they have seen the ending of many years,
drawn down to the west, descending
in waves off the mountains.
They touch now the hands
of the son's newbrought son,
and give him the old
dragonheaded fiddle,
that has been played all down
the long years past.
23.6.09
abschweifen
Don’t wander too far,
little one, from your
wee world of pocket-
phones, pursehounds,
and bug-eye glasses. Don’t
wander so far you cannot
return to worship your
flat plastic god in concrete
temples, standing high as
watch towers to keep, guard
against that old world walled
out until grass unknown
grows in the potholes
and the butterflower
loses its grey shell
into the unkind park
of men. Don’t leave the
black webstrands to
drive down deep
tracks of dusty shale,
and be swallowed alive.
For the world you have
bound, beaten, and
buggered to make that
pretty picture under
your MySpace giggles,
still sits on the edge
of your civilized world,
Hungry.
4.2.08
twa pomes.
Easter
Day-dropped dew ringing the shout,
the thorn-crown red-weeping,
and the sad-glad news of dogwood
timber holding the man.
Today,
life begins.
The wee white cat.
I fear you, wee white cat,
footpad of the night, and more so
than your sablecoat brother.
Which hollow hill did you sneak from,
to munch on mortal mice?
You jump away from the car speeding —
do you fear the weight or the iron
that makes it?
Day-dropped dew ringing the shout,
the thorn-crown red-weeping,
and the sad-glad news of dogwood
timber holding the man.
Today,
life begins.
The wee white cat.
I fear you, wee white cat,
footpad of the night, and more so
than your sablecoat brother.
Which hollow hill did you sneak from,
to munch on mortal mice?
You jump away from the car speeding —
do you fear the weight or the iron
that makes it?
14.1.08
Memoriarum
memories of us staring up together,
diamond-dappled velvet
reaching above,
calm embracing air
filled by the dry scent
of fir needles, pine sap,
whisper-quiet owl wings,
bringing more restless summers –
sun pouring orange through smoke
only to glint back in rainbows
rippling from river-rills,
smokey sweet-sour taste
of barbeque on my tongue,
your summerleaf-green eyes
laughing back at me,
winking like a mischievous brounie,
caught dipping in the whisky.
I see long nights with decks of cards,
sitting far in the back of a old bus,
watching the long miles roll away
to see the city on the bay
and the long gold thread
spread between land and land,
see the mix of water falling and rain,
pool under waterfall, fern-shrouded,
exhilaration to tired boys, the thrill
of leather balls soaring away,
whacked out by hickory wood,
rusty smell of shoes running dust-paths.
memories re-kenned
by eldritch eyes
sing summer’s hymn,
as harvest-sweet hair
and the berry-taste of your lips
make more.
diamond-dappled velvet
reaching above,
calm embracing air
filled by the dry scent
of fir needles, pine sap,
whisper-quiet owl wings,
bringing more restless summers –
sun pouring orange through smoke
only to glint back in rainbows
rippling from river-rills,
smokey sweet-sour taste
of barbeque on my tongue,
your summerleaf-green eyes
laughing back at me,
winking like a mischievous brounie,
caught dipping in the whisky.
I see long nights with decks of cards,
sitting far in the back of a old bus,
watching the long miles roll away
to see the city on the bay
and the long gold thread
spread between land and land,
see the mix of water falling and rain,
pool under waterfall, fern-shrouded,
exhilaration to tired boys, the thrill
of leather balls soaring away,
whacked out by hickory wood,
rusty smell of shoes running dust-paths.
memories re-kenned
by eldritch eyes
sing summer’s hymn,
as harvest-sweet hair
and the berry-taste of your lips
make more.
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