Anarchy

(For the lost child within)

i am not a writer

any longer.

what have I lost, between

these nineteen forty-eight pages

and the whisper of the observant,

clinical streetlamps

we waited under –

for an instant

only

immersed in knowledge

without the aid of chopin,

or the selfish scholarliness

of the summer rains

that reared us.

do we cease to seek the sunlight

after we’ve felt the angst

and desolation

of winter tears?

Too Thin

(For a warrior history has forgotten)

remember those days of fire-lit dancing,

a cuisla,

when you’d stomp in youthful impetuousness

to make me your proper warrior –

but i’d flutter too much,

like the heather and the fox,

and the small thorn-tree we’d

take for an omen,

just as your father

(the gypsy)

used to instruct us to do.

remember the naked, warlike ebullience you felt

when he taught you to leap

with muscular fierce boyishness,

after you’d creep to me

apologetically,

for comfort;

you

with your gentle irreverence for my brown

horsetail hair,

and the pure scratchiness of my coat that always carried

the close, musky scent

of ashes and hay.

remember how my eyes glinted

with pain and

gladness

to see you throw your slender spear,

mo ghra,

knowing with a foolish certainty

that i would hold you,

still,

today

as i’d hoped and prayed,

mercilessly,

to hold your child.

Siúil, Siúil

(For one taken too soon)

i tripped today,

somewhere

between the road

and paddy's grave,

alone

in the thickets and

dusky heather,

and in the

silken

morning fog.

the blackbird

listened

as i sat and cried.

she

was kindly, wrinkled -

whispering

naughty child, alanna,

as she wiped the

berry stains

from

my fingers; the

bloodstains

from

my knees.

Luna

(For the eternal wanderer)

i. Nunitus

He stroked the concavities

Of the moon

Like no one ever had before,

Fascinating her with

Mercury

And clockwork...

So like herself, she

Whispered.

ii. Amavi

She called him strong,

I think.

Childlike.

He slept

On the curve of her hips:

Too light,

Too restless.

iii. Barbara

Waking in solitude,

He found the moon's chalk

Gift

Crushed in his left pocket.