Like lab rats racing
we are on the treadmill
of history, forever chasing
the illusion of progress,
from Guernica to Barcelona.
3 Public Parks, USA
On Boston Common the squirrels
are shy, darting away, barely visible,
ready to ambush the Redcoats,
should they dare to return.
Around Central Park the squirrels
are such exhibitionists. They
prance, peer, pose precociously.
Aerial antics delight their audience.
In Washington Square the squirrels
are quite simply, laid back. Stretched
out on branches they listen to the music,
basking lazily to the busker’s beat.
Much too soon there were no more seen,
the time had come to leave for home.
After all you know what they say,
“Three squirrels and you’re out!”
Duncannon, a stranger called.
We were happily pottering in our little
seaside garden. It was a fine Spring day.
Plants were placed, watering almost done,
proof against the drought,
when quite suddenly he was there.
He was not expected. My wife was
the one who noticed him. She asked,
“what do you make of that?”
At first I did not know what it was
she meant, but looking up from
my work I too saw him close at hand.
He was silent, it seemed he spoke
in ways we could not comprehend.
We were quiet then, as he was.
The only sounds heard were the hushed
murmurs of the little waves gently falling
on Duncannon’s nearby strand.
“We should offer him food,”she said,
then added, “and something
to drink, perhaps he’s thirsty.”
Food and water we placed before him
Keeping a wary eye on us he drank
with evident relish. Still silence held,
no-one saying anything. We
watched him as he watched us.
He wore some form of I.D. bracelet, but the
writing was too small, to us almost invisible.
When the water was gone the pigeon
flew away, our little visitor who seemed
to know that we would offer water to
a stranger, even in a drought.
Pools of Light, poetry, prose and photography is now available on iTunes in an iBook version. This is an enhanced edition which includes both video and audio. The recordings of the poetry made at the Crossroads Studio, Kilkenny are included, just click and play. Hope you enjoy this and spread the word widely. Thanks, Kevin.
the following is the relevant link
“Pools of Light”, my 2015 collection of poetry, prose and photography is available now for purchase online, in eBook format. I know this will make it easier for readers across the globe to access and I look forward to hearing your comments. My thanks to Diarmaid O’Riordan, who is responsible for all the technical magic behind this eBook. Any mistakes are all my own responsibility, of course.
Don’t be shy about sharing this!
Duncannon Beach, evening time
The light by the last wave lingers on fronds
of seaweed fingering wave-wet rocks where
brim-filled pools overflow before they
empty when the water surges then sucks,
surges, then sucks. Small anemones first
finger gently, then kiss hungrily as
they sluice down passing plankton too fine for
my eyes, which greedily feast on the sands
glistening, sunwarmed, lit by the last
light of day while slow footsteps meander
with the gentle waves rhythms, rising, falling,
so calming in my ears, that crest falling
with an almost silent swish, hearbeat’s grace,
footfall pace, soothing place. Salt scented air
embraces me, wrapping me, comforting me.
All troubles tumbled away calmed first,
washed by light where the last wave lingers.
Dead men tell no tales
but old scars do.
Each one begins in violence
then settles over time
into another forgotten one.
Scattered around out of sight
some of them, others not
really invisible, more
likely so familiar
as to be unnoticed,
There are times when some flare
to life. Time heals
it is true, but
changing times, if for the worse,
can revive old weals,
as arthritis in bad weather
becomes again a curse.
I hear that old crackling creak
getting to my feet, finding the remote,
switching off the sound
of an election debate,
silencing those damned old scars
never quite gone away for good,
once and for all.
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Michaela arranged it. On the quayside in old Cambrils she sells tickets to seekers after thrills, those who would glide …
Firstly, they cascade clear, cool, water down carved stone stairways while splashing spouts soar through falling fountains, mist becomes mesmerising. …
Break the silence. End the violence.
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