Table of Contents
It's in the winds
the wails, the darkening clouds
The thundering mists curling
oe'r the slumbering bog
It's in the gloom
the ecstasy of the howl
The cry of freedom -- release
from oppression, repression
In the angel's flight
across the oceans,
the skies
In emigration, forced migration
in leaving the sweet fresh scent
of Ireland's welcome
In the turf embers, the hearth
-- the scowling skies
The peace, the wish, the hope
A thundering roar
of ancient tribes
The cry of freedom
four green fields
and one crushed rose
Heaven is enriched at
our expense.
A mountain of flowers, an ocean
of tears
fill this greasy spoon.
Strange word, for what many take as a tedious, expenditure of effort, hastily engaged in with the intent of ending it rather quickly. I would love to enjoy this game with you, where we play until the night turns into morning, and the morning into another day, as we continue to find new ways to play. Do you think they used this word to suggest that we could, no, maybe we should enjoy each other with abandon, and get serious about just playing, not serious about ending the joy, but fulfilling each other in the continuous games that we play. I wonder, if, just like when we were much younger, when the game would go on and on, days into weeks, and weeks into months, the endless wonderful game that we played. Do you think this is why they call it foreplay, well this is the game that I would love to play with you my dear.
The tyger has stalked you,
perhaps ever since your birth,
furry, padded soles, pacing off
the minutes of your breathing . . .
there is no defense, save one
thought: to know it is not you
it has come to devour, only
your flesh . . .
and the panic of howling,
the screams of pain, mostly
come after you are extracted
by the other half of your soul . . .
pulled back, yanked back,
the fear still pounding in your
conscious, fear from your body
below so shocked by your abandonment.
it is your name on his lips
it is your face in his
eyes that only he sees
i think this is not an
innocent man of heart but
a man in love and his
heart like the man is
not innocent any more
Today I rode a motorcycle, first time in years.
Fear, which only came with maturity,
Had long kept me from this ride.
But today I rode, wind blowing my hair,
Bare legs unprotected and innocent
With only beer and wine for courage.
The thrill was so real that I had to look closely
To see if the muffler burn had still scarred.
I rode the cycle with eyes watered by the wind
And heart leaping ahead,
Forgetting it had been left behind.
Maybe it had happened,
I crossed the divide and second child
Had gone for a ride....
If so, here's to hoping tomorrow I'll ride again
And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
The oceans' tide has turned again
The moon has come and pulls again
With sand beneath my feet so old
So old, their words beneath my toes
From divine to refined
Has seen great fires, great floods, great souls
And all that is true returns to the founder
Continuing a process embedded through ages
Turned my head to the sky where the individual is lost
Here I play on great stages just up in the toss
Infinite words and pennies thrown pond-bound
Listen deep, discover sound, words whisper like winds upon the ground
Now light dawns as darkness mourns
A fiery sphere burns across the sky
This I know was bound to be
Yet I am consumed in welcome surprise
Thin streaks of clouds glow red and amber, lined with hues of gold
Could never fathom to tamper with beauty so powerful
Or question energy so bold
Rather appreciate with forlorn yearning
Turning circles in the sand
From wispy words I'm learning
Relentless tides stay turning
And from those words I know I am
Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).