Poetry

A Sidewalk Tickle

Poetry

Laughter twinkling at the bottom of the pavement,
Bubbling up silent; knowing, growing.
Not yet…
Cracking under the surface.
Can’t keep down.
Night flies over,
And the sun comes up
On a renegade daisy in the sidewalk.
She hands the pavement an “I told you so” look.
The greysome weight blinks up at her sunny mane.
A pair of curious eyes stoops down.
“How’d you—”
“Yup,” she grins, “Bet you didn’t see that coming.”
Giggles all around.

In the Clouds

Poetry

There’s lightning in the clouds tonight;
Tears falling on a barefoot field
Sown in hope.
O God, send some rain for this harvest.
Cracked earth like broken ribs;
To dust we are returning,
Letters on the mantel yearning,
Waiting on the stagecoach
And a rain cloud the size of a man’s hand.

A Prayer for Belfast

Poetry, Ponderings, Travel

because this is the night the bonfires are lit,
three stories tall.
And sometimes bombs go off.
Pipe bombs, parades, and peace, mostly.
We hope.

The Troubles are over in Northern Ireland, but this week tends to be a bit troublesome. Troubled. The Twelfth.

A holiday for some. On holiday are others. The history runs deep. And the hurt.

I wrote this last summer in the shadow of the wall, where my heart wept:

One wall
Two stories
Two countries
One wall
Two memories
Two passions
Too tall
Two enclaves
Two hard hearts
One wall
Too much pain
Too much to change
How does one navigate a wall?
Two murals
Two memorials
One wall
Too many dead
Too much blood shed
For what?
A wall that holds the peace
but holds them back,
That breeds a lie
and fears attack.
The roads split because to walk from here to there
is to cross a wall that must not be crossed.
Because they live there
and we live here.
That’s just how it is
in the shadow of fear.
And you never talk to those people so near
because they have their banner
and you have yours.
In city center you might meet,
but at home you lock the doors
and mark your street,
and retreat behind the wall
because that’s just how it’s done.
As kids we grew up with our heroes
and our flags
And we threw stones, it was fun.
So now we have a wall.
It’s safer.
That’s just how it’s done.


Shankill Road

Truer Than Time

Love Like Steel, Poetry

Time floats on evanescent wings.
Minutes make hours,
And winters make springs.
Bronze becomes silver,
And silver gets dusty.
The things that endure
Are the things that are trusty.
“Trust me.”
How does one know when to—
“Trust me.”
Time and time, when you say—
“Trust me.”
Everything works out, but —
“Trust me.”
Words are easy.
“My words are True.”
I know. ‘Til my time burns out, I will—
“Trust me?”
…Trust you.
‘Til I watch you roll away the night. And then…
“With me there is no ‘then’.”
All will be “now.”
All will be well.
“All will be perfect.”
Amen.

The Castle Remembers

Poetry, Travel

Proud stands Classiebawn on Mullaghmore head,
An elegant watchtower, guarding the flocks and herds
From the crashing Atlantic below.
The pastureland kisses her foundation stones.
The cows graze on, unimpressed by her graceful strength.
Alone she sits on the hill with her cows,
Lone but for a single cottage.
The grass has long since thatched over the village that stood,
But the castle remembers…

When the village asleep
Was a secret to none,
When it shrugged off the rain
And laughed in the sun
That now makes the grass grow
To feed the sheep
Who never knew
There was a secret to keep.

But the castle knows.
The castle remembers…

The hands of the people
Who made her tall
And lived by her side
In their own castles, small,
Where the women reigned
While the men were at work
Until the day Classiebawn
Had no more need
Of the ones who built her up so fine.

And they trudged their ways
To who knows where,
Leaving cliff and beach
And windswept air
And no trace
Of the village called Mullachgearr.

But the castle remembers.
The castle remembers.

Sparks from a Big Red Sun

Love Like Steel, Outdoors, Poetry

An ember-glow sun sinks through the trees,
Dips down, disappears,
And up comes a shower of sparks
Dancing over the spirited water
Where the roots run deep,
Blinking, saying it’s time to go home.
Pack up the teacup and a banquet of words.
Wrap up a few more stories for the road,
And watch the creatures of the evening, not shy.
Heron passes by, fishing,
And the lantern heralds of the night
Rise up like stars from the ground
To spatter the night sky.
We’ll follow the bright one home.
Steady north.
Eyes lifted up.
Time to go.

—

Speaking of “time to go,” they can sing this when they lay my body in the dust.

Headstrong is a little white calf

Outdoors, Poetry

Headstrong is a little white calf,
If I gave her a name, it would end in “-ita”
And it would mean something like “too big for her britches.”
The vet is here, and she doesn’t know what’s good for her.
The others, docile. She’s a fighter
On a concrete stage.
“Take me on, boys,”
She seems to say.
Three of them, pulling on her rope.
She whips her strong head this way and that,
Popping sweat from their arms.
But they hold on.
Headstrong is a little white calf,
Giving their money a run;
Stubborn is a Caribbean cowboy,
Born under a mountain sun.