God

There is but one moment, it is a fusion of the present and the past, and ideas of the future, it is all in the personal view of the life, and no matter how much we want to think outside of ourselves, we are trapped in our own life, and this life is our opportunity for movement, so then there is personal expression and action, and then there is the competition of outside forces, and then when you don't succeed in your situation, you tend to turn inward and give blame to yourself, but you can only be a part of the blame, when there has been a meeting of different forces, and mainly, you can only sense your own point of view, and mainly you can only see and remember the combination of the ideas and the words and the actions of interaction, and so ultimately there would appear to be something missing, something not obvious, a higher power, strings being pulled, truth being withheld, and you can then believe in God, or you can then not believe in God, but whatever it is that you may believe in, there is something bigger then we are, in this act of life, and of living.

Ignorance

And in the midst of nighttime, silent words occur, there are negative reactions to art, and forgetfulness of early days, with one who needed to be guided, I guess that I was the shadow then, and that same shadow faded as it disappeared and left you, and in the midst of the daytime, you spoke those irrational words of innocence, but knowing somewhere inside of yourself, that you didn't understand, perhaps to reach your awareness, at another time, I am lateral to the anger, and my quest is for understanding, and I think perhaps, that we are all the same, either with simplicity of not knowing, and with the selfish idea of knowing, feeling has to be stronger than mind, and mind is vain and it deludes, but feeling is the closest thing to the body, and you express a feeling that is unquiet, that seeks to conquer, and I am not going to be able to quieten it, when there is such passion given to your feeling, I really don't want to say a word to you, I feel, that I wish you to feel understanding, and I feel that it will come to you eventually, when you open your heart to its feeling, you have rejected me and expressed your intent of freedom, with new born life in the picture, and I think that you even refuse the picture, but someday, it will assault you with its truth, it will not allow you to leave it alone, and it will question you, and then you will have find an answer for yourself, not for me, but for yourself.

Democracy

What is democracy? Is it when you vote people into government, and then discover, that they make decisions, opposed to the reason that you voted for them in the first place? So it is democratic to be able to vote, to make your choice, your decision, and then apparently they strike, with their selfish notions. Politicians are liars and fakes, and what they see as democracy, is no more than licence for them to behave as they wish. It is all the nature of humanity, and it is no different, from that time, when you or I, have given solace or comfort to someone else, only to betray them, by walking on a different path.

You and I

We are far into the night, the story has stretched beyond its apparently logical conclusion, perhaps it gazes at the Pagan moon, and perhaps a little further. And I am lost within myself, and in the images of outside of me, dreaming of things to come, and feeling that I have to muster the courage to look outside of myself, when doors have been slammed in the face of my anticipation, by those who didn't feel the connection, there is silence in my voice, and its eyes search for you, and you, I imagine are searching on the same search, and I guess, that we are both lost within our personal search. And the clock continues, as we walk different paths, looking for them to align, and I wonder who you are, and how you look, and about the sound of your voice, and what it is, that you feel, and what it is that you seek in me.

Uncertainty

My feet in your shoes, you were Frankenstein in my dream and you asked me not to be so concerned, and I walked these city streets today, with you walking alongside of of me, I guess that the message that you sent me, is to say that you are alright, and that things are not so bad. And I suspect dream, and I ask, can it all really be from me? And then the morning arises, beside me, together with me, and I await for truth to invade the scene, and the dreams that I had were of yesterday, and I withdraw, and tell myself that they are gone from me now, and that I have to let them go, as they have to let me go, and I am lost in the change between yesterday and today, and this moment is a question, it would like to know where it stands, what it really is, it wants to be assured somehow, that it is somewhere, and I can't commit myself to the idea that it is, regardless, I am lost in this moment, not knowing nor understanding its meaning, because it seems to have become a fusion of the past and the now, and what might become, this moment indeed is uncertainty, and perhaps, would wish to walk in my shoes, in the same way that I have wished to walk in yours.

Literature

There are those who write, and those who achieve the quality of literature, and the ones who write, without achieving this, write within a certain kind of vanity, their eyes are not focussed on the soul, and they self opine, before they reach the end of the page, and they will express how great they are, and how accepted, but they are on a narrow road with a simple conclusion, and they will never touch the magic, that being in touch with literature allows.

Thief of My Soul

Thief of my soul, that is what you are when you plagiarise me, and my soul is pure, and what springs from it, asks for no reward, therefore I am not vulnerable, I stand alone in a comfortable and true place, I have no self acceptance, and no sense of personal acclaim, these are all just lies, and deviations, my journey is on a spiritual path, very much lateral, to the shallow of dillusionary acceptance, and alas, there are shadows, always shadows, and they can be so close, that they can dwell in me, and I believe that they do, these are the shadows of memories, of ones, accepted and embraced, there can be no aloneness, when there is the awareness of memory, just a beautiful solitude.

Difference

I misunderstand you as you misunderstand me I don't take the time and the trouble to walk out of myself, to walk into you, and neither do you, relationship is imperfect, and sometimes it is seriously so, and we are apart although we may seek togetherness, but it can only be very temporary, and we may try to compensate for it with empathy, but this again lacks reality and true conviction, love tries to help, but even love, doesn't always linger, only it lingers for it to make you wish for it to happen again, and there are different types and different understandings, disunity persists, there is at best duality, and we don't take the time to understand our differences and then we fight, and then we war and then we kill in the name of difference, and misunderstanding.

The Ugly Nymphomaniac

Book on the shelf of my mind, it knows, that I was the one who put it there, it needs no accompaniment and it knows that I will be there with it sometime, and its December and there is great mercy in the skies, in this apparent wintertime, and I discarded many clothes today, and I walked out, as I thought, even to the day, wondering about the ugly nymphomaniac, and where she might take her feelings to.

Children

Evil in the good, in the religion of Jesus, when the adherents don't adhere, and I wonder if they further question, or is the belief that they have sufficient to keep them comfortable and stable in the basic belief? And flowers cry for the little children, when they have been betrayed, and the priests are no longer priests, but thieves of the innocents, and in their hearts, they must encounter the truth of themselves, their lives have become statements, aggressive to reason and kindness and to the love and respect of the child. They walk in a selfish direction and every step that they take is contrary to the words of their speech, and the world spectates, sees the actions, condemns, and asks for answers, for it cannot understand how good can turn to bad, there is now ugliness in the face of beauty, but as Socrates once said, 'Beauty is Greatness' and the real of beauty, will assert itself and be free, and will be victorious.

Giving and Taking

To give is to receive, but to be asked to give, is invasive, it can be covetous and a threat to the independence of your freedom, and a slight on your generosity, your goodwill. There are those who wish to give, as there are those, who's only wish is to take, and to be subsumed is to surrender, be overwhelmed, allow for your own defeat. And there are people who will assault you, when they see what, what they pinpoint is your weakness, but this perceived weakness, that they may see in you, is just an attack on your beauty, the goodness of your heart, so hang close to your heart, and allow yourself, your personal freedom, and take care of yourself.

Fools

Fools have volume in their speech, and they will try to dictate, not knowing nor understanding, nor taking the time to try to understand, they know things that they do not know, and they can be invasive and provocative, and they will seek to overwhelm, when they feel intimidation from a person that they don't understand, and I don't think that silence is emptiness now, nor yet passive, just the way to deal with fools.

Reflection of the Sky

Indifinitive sky, changing like my perception, wondering what you really are, and which one of you is the truth of you, and then, I am a reflection of that same sky, and I think, am I any more certain about myself?

Awakening

Your body like an altar, where you yourself worship, on behalf of your collection of men, I remember that I stood to the side, listening to your expression, when I was lost in personal poverty, wonder how you eventually dealt with your duplicity, and to the world there was beauty, and then I discovered, that this so called beauty was deception and lied with your lies, and your version of events betrayed the truth of heart, and then I guess, at a point, you would have to stand alone and watch the film of yourself, and from an innocent sky, tears fell, and when they had subsided, there was still the tang of tears, and there was no touch, no, something to behold, no love, and no reason why, and in the innocent sky invaded darkness, and you walked on your indifferent way, leaving the pretence in your wake, walking toward your personal truth, to your reality, when I had been obliterated, and I wonder where it was, that you went.

On Not Understanding

Good and gentle spirit enveloping, rising to a positive moment, already there is successfulness, there is oneness in the day, and it seems to care, offer affection, and now I don't want to search and understand reasons why, just want to be still and silent and receptive, and return the affection that I perceived as I arose, and I can do that in spirit, and shine on the day like I feel that it has shone on me, and the day has its faces and its voices and its motion, it does in fact, have life, and the living, and the day is the world within the day, and the world within the day is everything that I can see, and everyone I can see, and everyone that I can connect with, and those same well trodden streets have a sense of newness to me today, and I have no words to say, I just want to listen to the sound, translate it into feeling, into the warmth that it has already given to me, and then I am back at the beginning, and my only attempt at understanding, has been through feeling, and through this feeling, I didn't even attempt to understand.

Dream

Rain falls from the sun in you eyes, and ambiguity leads one from truth, from oneness, and now there is uncertainty, and truth is a bird in the sky, circling endlessly, seeking the comfort of the tree at times, away from the storm, free from trouble, and this moment of the day wishes to escape, to a simple place, perhaps of an abandoned memory, now coming into focus, and there is a new moment, naked in itself, and looking for accompaniment, and the eyes are empty in indifference, and the mind is taciturn, in a neutral place, there is no knowing, and there is the mystery between the present and the past, with a question mark staring at your face, and your face refers to its eyes, absolving itself from responsibility, and you look for truth, perhaps from the memory of the dream that you dreamed last night, and the memory of the night, is but a dream also, and there is darkness in the eyes, in their search for discovery, and then the moon begins to moan, clouding truth, and truth, lies within, waiting to be expressed, and it gazes into its mirror of doubt, and the mirror looks back at truth, with a question that only truth can answer.

The Minister

She gives life to the bellringer, and her mind is free from her occupation, some say she is fake, while others let her speak for them, she is the God to them, of Sunday morning, and I have felt the kiss of her mouth and the touch of her breasts, yet, her love is for the man, Jesus, and she preaches her belief in him, and she will not let him go, not like, she let me go, like I have let her go, eye to eye and soul to soul, and body to body, and love to love, and severence, and departure, and the present and the past, and remembering.

That Masonic all seeing eye, may just rest in the shadows, neither in the third degree or the thirty-third, and then the kaleidescope continues in its whirling motion, and it journeys to peaceful places of soul and understanding, where you might feel that you belong, away from trappings of whatever society, and dreams hang on the edge of personal reality, and former relationships explode into some kind of hatred, and they are aside from understanding, and their feeling is confused, and extraneous to what once was, and in the evening, without any kind of touch, there is the suggestion, that makes you turn from the present place, perhaps to the wall, and there you are, clinging to the wall, lost to yourself, in a hopeless place, and then you study who exactly it is, that you are, and you are in motion, and the past enters the present time, and your life appears to be in oneness.

Awesome

The only thing that is awesome, is the beauty in life, when it enfolds you with its magic, to your fond embrace.

Eyes Again

Electric eyes seeking moon, they are a together dream, and they merge, and in the colours of the day, there is explosion, until there are no colours left to consider, and there is purple and there is orange and there is lime, and quiet, and easiness, that will not betray, and on the road to truth, I guess that you have to endure many colours, the search is on, and freedom is in sight, and it will take you to the strangest places, and time is alone, and you wonder if it is at peace with itself, and then you move on, continue on your journey, and perhaps love has cornered you, perhaps it wont' let you go free, and perhaps it has allowed you freedom, and perhaps you walk on your own, and perhaps you reject it, and perhaps you ignore it, and perhaps you look to a place where there is no spotlight, life is forever there and it assaults, gets into you face and asks questions of you, and there is weakness in your eyes, and all that they want to do is dream, and all that they want to do is see, and then they see.

Yesterday That Must Stay in the Past

A knock on the door of dream, in an intermittent sleep, and frequent awakenings, and then the seeking of memory of the dream, and understanding, and searching for the source and the reason why, and then the darkness of current memories, alive in the recent past, love that is lost, and the lack of that warm embrace, of the nearness of blood, and then, what is of blood, cannot escape, cannot leave to find another place, and then memories of the distant past, children and love and the treasure of parenthood, knowing then, that it was something to treasure, that wouldn't return at any other time, but the clock was ticking onward, and time became older and there was aging in all of the players, and then a revertion to my early time, and the vacancy that was known to me then, and the emptiness of the time, was the very thing that thrilled me into growth, into strength, into progression, and then I had to look at you, without that experience, without my experience, in our relationship, and there I perceived difference, and then our imperfection arose, and in all of my selfishness, I lie in a place of guilt, and in all of my guilt, I stand in a hopeless place, and I look to where love had been in this place, where I hadn't been true, had not been complete to you, and then I allowed you to wander on your way, thinking that freedom was the gift that I could give you, not knowing, that freedom could not be a friend to you, and this evening, just like the dreams of the last night fill me with dread, with my disappointment for you in me.

Sport

I think the stadium housing a sports' event, should be the domain of sport and nothing else, a place of brotherhood and understanding, a place of fair play, good feeling and spirit among the assembled. Once you start introducing politics, you create division, which is contrary, I believe to the whole idea and ethic of sport. Sport should be a uniting force, and a sporting event should be a celebration of humanity. In my country Ireland, I believe we have this with Gaelic games.

Memory Foam Pillow

Bought a memory foam pillow today, and as I was waiting in the queue at Penney's in O'Connell Street, I happen to ask the lady behind me if she had ever used one, and she said, 'I have, and I felt like it sucked the blood out of me.' Sleep should be interesting tonight then.

Media Gods

Just about had it, with the highlighters of social injustice, who offer nothing in reply. When you take it down to an interpersonal level, our relationships are imperfect, as our lives are, and as life itself is.

Eyes

Eyes, they speak, and when the voice has spoken, it thinks sometimes and it regrets, but the eyes they speak, and sometimes they search, and other times they are inverted, these are the thinking eyes of contemplation, and eyes determine the countenance, they are decisive and the most alive part, this is where the truth dwells, waiting to be interpreted understood, they can be quieted and stilled, and they may also be on fire, but they are never free of expression, and sometimes they may laugh, and at other times they may cry, when they have beheld too much, more than they could have wished to see, and then these eyes are oppressed, and recline, into darkness, and they can speak of care and they can speak of love, and then they can overwhelm another pair of eyes, they are the truth of soul, when soul needs to be expressed in a visual way, so you look into the eyes, and then you see.

Strength

Showing to me the weakness in your aggressive strength, and the volume of speech in which you care to express it with, but alas also a show of weakness, and I wonder if the real strength is held in silence, and in its understanding and compassion, and in love.

Breaking Down

Thought that it was 'breaking down' suggesting some desperation, some despair, and I remembered the strength within, and that it doesn't break down, so easily, so readily, no matter the provocation, the excuse, and then the picture of things being imperfect entered the image, and my mind was full of wondering and questioning, and then I remembered the person that I am, and how far I am divorced from self pity, and everywhere from my vision, is just a place apart, looking perhaps for my connection with it, refusing poverty, and working toward the higher place of mind, life has to be addressed, in its way it is neutral, and I believe that if you meet it in your own neutral way, it will strangle you and it will tyrranise and it will consume you, so the fight is between the self and life, and as much as you feel that you are the underdog, when you fight, then you are in control. and when you are in control, you will not accept defeat, and love will guide you in this battle with the great life, and how could a single individual battle with life? I think the answer is, that he battles in the fight with his own life, although greater life overlooks, so then there is personal life and the greater life, and they are hungry for one another, they are alone, and they seek companionship, and neither of these versions of life can stand alone, how ever much they would like to live in a free way,

Caeser in Overalls

Caesar is in overalls, and he is a student, and is over aware of himself, and he embraces this place, and this place is the haunt of madmen, drinking the blood of the self, they wear the blinkers of delusion, and they, in drinking this personal blood, must find prey, and they focus on the stillness of a soul, apart from their understanding, away from compliance, and their eyes have become a place of unknowing, they no longer guide the self to the place of deliverance, they have departed the self, they have turned inward to a place that avoids the soul, truth, and fools can't see, and they walk on a lateral path, and they have nothing to say with the host of words that they have to say, their quest was for dominance and it has evaded them, it will not allow them, and they are lost within some kind of disappointment, expectation has defeated them, and it lingers, and then perhaps there is a look back to the beginning, that was in the past, when things were just about to begin.

First Born Son

Never knew that I could feel so weak, Always thought I was the quiet tough guy, but now I know that I am not, and now am always wondering where you are, and indeed, if there is some kind of life around you, sometimes, I feel that I should accompany you to where you are now, and I think back to you, and the early years of you, we were far from being the best of friends, and perhaps that was what made us so close, anyway, if you ever want to enter into me and speak to me, I will always be here for you, my first born son.

The Question

An apparently wise and eternal word is spoken, and it is listened to and embraced, and then there becomes the paradox, another version of a particular apparent truth, a thought must explode, knowing that it cannot stand alone, be definitive, be an ultimate answer, and then between the shallow and the deep, there is no difference, apart from a detail, that in the end is unable to justify itself, and what then, is belief based upon? Is it any more than an idea that has become lost in itself? Has deceived itself in its narrowness? And it is in the narrowness of insecure belief that a definite answer has to be found, for the ones of that nature, and the only real answer is the answer of love, with its pattern of forever changing, for its openness and diversity, for its being free to allow interpretation, for the questioning that it enters you with, looking for the answers in the changing of feeling, and every answer, is an answer, for every moment that has a question, and every question can look within itself and know that it needn't ask, it knows already, in its spirit and its soul, and in its love.

Writers of Truth

Writers of truth, how I love the feeling, as opposed to the writers who only write to write, feeling, overhead, determining, dreaming of glory, seeking to be accompanied by acceptance, as if acceptance is the thing that defines the worth, and the worth is expressed by beauty, it stands right there in front of you and it screams at you that your writing is 'out of love' and your money will not bring you art, and everything that you do is temporary, it will not succeed, it will not advance further than the present moment, and I think that there are degrees of success, if success is even a word, and pouring over me are your words, and your being inadequate, and I wonder how you feel when you are truly alone, without the comfort, of the comfort of the one you claim to love, and the one that you claimed to love, wasn't really someone that you could touch, you desired more, you were hungrier, and I wonder how that might feel

Old Eyes

Eyes, in memory, unremovable, fixed, like the star in 'Eileen Aroon' now buried in Bunclody, in County Wexford, and these eyes, still have something to say, and they remain, and they yet continue to pierce their way into my consciousness, yesterday and today align, separated only by refusal, by reluctance to let them have their way, and the picture must be allowed, must be granted its freedom to exist after its death, and those eyes, those eyes of death, question with their question, until they themselves choose to sleep, in a sleep that can never be death, that will return always, they seem to flit between a former death and a present life, they seem to know when to activate and when to retire, and I'm tempted to think that the truth is in the middle somewhere, in that mediocre place, that place that is halfway up the mountain, and those old eyes, spoke to me of love and its search, and then they turned away, to the place that they presently had been focussed upon, and I stood in a lonely place, where music was my master, lending itself to poetry, and I ended up looking at the wall, and at its corner, and the size of my world decreased, and I was assailed by anger, much as I tried to still it, in a time of emptiness.

Thank You

Bring me adversity, fire it into the heart of me, assault me, and provoke me, and inflame me, touch me with your antipathy, walk away from me, avoid me, hurt me, and then watch me rise, watch me rise to be the person that I really am, the person deep inside of the false expression, and then I will thank you for the care you took to inspire me into connecting me to my true spirit.

Lateral to Love

Lateral to love, the song, the poem of declaration, apart and divided in this dichotomy, the suggestion remains, to focus only on the real, the actuality, the eyes, and the feelings and the touch, and dare I say it, the peace and the stillness, and the happiness?

Cormac who Lives

Oh the thought of you being gone, and wondering where you are, and looking back on how I was with you, and the affect that I had on you, and my influence, and perhaps even, your influence on me, and in my sleep, you come to me, mostly when you were a child, when I had spent the most time with you, I have been turned down, refused, blocked, but in reality, this is deviation, and seeks to turn me from you, but I will not turn from you, you will be my companion, and you will walk with me, as you do, and I will never leave you, nor refuse you, and I will continue the search for you and where you are, and in any case, I feel you are here with me, right here inside me, in my heart in my spirit and my mind, this is my prayer to you, to let you know that I will never let you go, nor forget you, and although I left you, I really didn't leave you, I just walked to the side of you, and then one day when I was walking to the side of you, you were gone, and I didn't accept it, and I don't accept it, nor will I ever accept it, as long as there is life in the body that I walk with, as long as there is feeling in the heart, that is my heart, as long as memory, of my memory is true, you live with me each day, and each motion, and I will love you always.

The Single Note

The note is just a part of the chord, on its own it gives, and yet it asks for more, for accompaniment, and then the harmonies of the chord, give greater life to the single note, but still the single note is not to be wronged, for its just being a single note, and like the single note, the chord seeks accompaniment, and there are other single notes, within other chords, seven notes and one variant, and then keys, and then when you put it all together it is infinite,and it is Music.

Shapeshifters on a Railway Track

Shapeshifters on the railway track, going nowhere in a song, and the hangman refuses work, as the bell jar slowly fills, and then today begins for real, and I declared 'kocham cie' to a blushing smile, and then memories invaded my mind, on a journey to the east, and then when I returned from the journey, I found you waiting for me, inside of the area of my time, the clock has escaped is studying the life of trees, and where they might venture to, at the end, and there is stillness in the day, and it walks on a rainbow, music hangs on the breeze, undefined and open to itself, the shy smile repeats itself to me, and my reaction to it now, is an inward smile that meets it in equality, and dreams are in motion, walking their walk into the real, there is spirit, and it is searching for the feel of the spirit of ancient times, bright colours shine into the moment, punctuating, and giving freely after great care and deliberation, misinterpretation has to be understood overwhelmed and then mocked at, the messenger is gazing at the sun, and the messenger understands, the meaning of the message that they embrace enough to seek to convey it, to preach it, to enlighten and to protect, the search is on for real this time and there is nowhere else to go.

She of the Memory

She lurks in my memory, invading the privacy of my mind, in another kind of reality, because, that is where she dwells, in her psychic place, and I rarely accept her, until that moment that I recognise and accept her, and she is the imput of dream, and keeps me from sleep, and then the day begins, and I am lost to the dream, in another world of myself, in another part of personal existence, and then I deal with my relationship with a new day, and I work at awaking from sleep, and from my memory, and there is anger in the pangs of feeling, and they surround me, to the point where I feel that I need to escape, and then in the day, the day in which I should be free, I still feel enchained, and I am in your prison, and you are guarding the cell, and you march back and forth and you are silent and you repeat the things that you once said, and I, like a fool, listen again, and I know, that you are a distant voice, and I can only be the memory connected to that distance voice, and then I walk through doors to the day, to the present day, and I am free.

The Preacher

A simple expression, challenging the 'so called' profound, as if 'profound' is more insightful, has greater understanding, and that it could not be expressed in a simple way, when there is no ultimate, we are all just strangers with ideas of grandeur, there are only ideas, there are no statements of truth, the kind of thing to inspire, to change a heart, reality can hold a cold feeling, it may not be a lover, it has though, to be addressed, to be met, and is unlikely to come in a vision of dream, and being alone is a lonely place, until you understand what it really is, and it is about the absence of fear, and it is about courage, and it is about acceptance of a present situation, and then the preacher hides behinds the curtains of his unknowing, he stands up there on Sunday mornings, pretending to be in touch with truth, and he stands there emptily, as in his heart there is no assurance, and out of his heart there perhaps may be some kind of dread, but its alright, because he is the preacher and you trust in him, and he would never think of leading you astray, he takes what you were slightly thinking of, to a place of spirituality, he is your ambassador and could even rise to become your own personal saint, so what do you have to worry about?

Literature

I guess its the difference between writing and writing literature. Anyone can write, most people do, or many people do, but to write literature, is to let the soul take over, it is not about writing for a reason, or a cause, it is about writing for the soul.

Journey

The Gentry walk their path incongruous to the peasants, they walk a separate way, and the sky is full of grey and blue, and sometimes there is sun and sometimes there is dark. Truth escapes the confusion, it will not be subdued, it rises, and all that it needs is to be sought, and it is there, right there in the thought, right there in personal belief. And sometimes, there is warmth, and sometimes there is the cold of indifference, and sometimes nature is unjust and some other times it is an embrace, and sometimes nature is unjust in the same place over and over, and it provokes question, a question that cannot find an answer, and the sky is filled with the wonderment of the questioner, and it stands still, although there is change in its motion, but yet it refuses and it contains just itself, and then it is all left to the place of dream, of a place of feeling, of a certain place of mind, that knows more than the thinking mind, and this knowing, is not of thought, and this knowing is just feeling given by a certain kind of spirit, soul. Eyes engage, they have recognised the search, and are tacitly complicit, they do not blink nor yet wink, but they come on board, and on the ship that they are on, is the oneness of the crew, and they walk in the same direction of search, of moving to the goal, and life is on edge, cornered, unsuspecting, until it too recognises, this search as being a closer part of itself, there is magic in the eyes, and there is beauty in the magic within the eyes, and there is love on the journey, and it will guide and it will steer to the place of truth. And truth is where the arrow seeks to land, because it knows that this is the place of, insight, and this insight is the one of generous friendship and love, and of kindness and it creates a love and a warmth and an understanding. And today is exactly today, and the moment of this today, is exactly this moment of this today, and the now of this now, is only of this now, and peace has arrived and the world is easy.

Memory

Trials of the mind of memory, abstraction of loose connection, thoughts of false love, and of ill conceived love, and questioning love, or questioning the declaration of it, years hence, and the spirit is in place, it sits easily, is very accepted, and all around is only today and its vision and its feel, anger is suppressed, somewhere close to reality dictates it to be, and it guides to a place where angels dwell, and in this place, there is a world of itself, it is unselfconscious, and it is easy and it is in movement, and it is striding for a righteous place, between the orient and the occident, between the then and the now, between the me of then and the me of today, and between the person that you once were, and the person that I once was, and the dream is of sincerity, in a world of deceit, in a world of lies, of deception. I turn from this area, and visit myself and my real panorama, and I return again, and again and again.

Katarzyna

Curtained, bright eyes within, threat of implosion, hidden within yourself, inhibition, deviation, looking inside, refusing, ignoring, and the world gapes, but yet it smiles, tangled in your moment, in your movement, and your eyes know truth, personal truth, away from a world of question, I looked at you and I saw your attraction, and it stays, it lingers in me, and it looks for a future, we are all just strangers here, just making our ways, and you are the greatest stranger, far from home, and I wonder how the world is with Poznan this evening, and I caught another glimpse of you as you walked in another direction, imperfect, and real, and kind and open and curious, and receptive to my dumb questions, and modest and true, and somewhere in the evening of the lack of ideas, you live like a storm, and you penetrate, and I can't but think on you, and I was in the day with you, once, and we didn't have the time, and now I have the time, it is wide and it appeals, and it is gentle and it seeks embrace, and only you can be the embrace of this particular time.

Measuring the Wine

As she poured out the wine, in a very studied way, the thought came to me, that I should go out and buy her a measuring tape.

Magic

That quiet thoughtful moment, you sit there on your own, she is gone, like she almost always was, the soul rises, it comes right into you, you say something like 'its ok, so its you again' and the room is in wintertime, but your acceptance is low, the eyes of this soul, sparkle into life, there is nothing to wait for anymore, now is the moment, and in the moment, you are in the light, you can not escape, the focus is on you, and now you are aware and now you have a choice to make. do you look the moment in the eye or do you attempt to slither away to an easier place, the brave will look at the moment and confront it with their ambition, others, may look in another direction to a place that is in the distant, in the past of distance perhaps, magic places itself before you, provoking you, tantalising you, and yet it doesn't speak a word, and yet it screams at your passivity, and questions arise within you now, about this apparently passive part of you, that isn't passive at all, the magic is waiting for you, to meet it with your own personal magic, and do you choose to ignore this magic, or the potential for it, or for the chance to make it more, or do you sleep? I think you meet magic with magic, and then there is the place where angels sleep, and feelings of heart, be them of today or yesterday, and magic contains all of the things that you cannot see or touch, it will only touch you when it feels like it wants to touch you, and it will ask you very tacitly, if you want to be its friend, and then this night of wintertime, becomes lost to itself, it must have another place to go, it doesn't belong here anymore, in this moment, in this moment of magic, in this moment of you.

Not Letting Go

They all tell me to let it go, but I will never let it go, I will keep it buried in my heart, it will never leave me, and I will recall it endlessly, until the day that I die, it will live with me, right here inside of me, it will be my truth and my spirit and my soul, and no-one will ever be able to interrupt it, it will be a part of the love that I give and take, and in every step that I take it will take those steps with me.

The New Irish

People sitting perfectly still on Grafton Street, I wonder what the interest can be, I am more at home on Moore Street, the dealers and the people from every nation i can think of, a veritable crucible, and the people are milling, without time for the other, the clock is on fire somehow, and there is danger in the stillness, this is how I see it, no-one wants to stand up to scrutiny, they seek to be away from the moment, but the moment has them imprisoned and it won't let them go. Female African posterias, and East European coldness, whom my friend called 'Ice Maidens' and petite Asians grasping for opportunity, I stand to the side, I am lateral to the movement, and sometimes there are eyes placed on me, and sometimes they ask their questions, and sometimes, I refuse their glance, and Chinese girls with their oriental spread, and today I talked to three people and one was Hungarian, and one was Brazilian, and one was Egyptian. This place has me on edge, I don't know what to expect from it anymore, it seems to have exploded, and the sun shines. And it shines for difference, and it shines for compassion and it shines for the longing of prosperity, and long may it shine.

Now of Now

Darkening in the sleeping night, so dark that it awakens, and the darkness looks at past truth, and I am complicit, an ancient love bursts to the fore, it has become forlorn, but yet it strives for acceptance. there is music in the memory, and the seeds of soul, some move away by nature, and some move away by choice, and there is light in the morning sky with the awakening, it will not forget, and it will not refuse, and in the evening time, gazing to the wall, attempting to discover the bright of the day, in the eyes of a present generation, and the heart sinks into its soul, and it hurts in its knowing, somewhere in this town tonight, seed and then seed are alive, there is warmth in the memory of the day, with the thought that it is exact, according to the way of my memory of it, there is solace in the thought of time past, and in its quality and in the love that lived there, demons were playful giants from storybooks of tales that never had an end, and then there was an end, that I won't let go of, won't let drift from me, won't let escape to another place, and feelings feel a certain peace in a certain place apart from here, and apart from here is now, of now.

Folk Music

Digging some great Folk/Acoustical music this evening. What is Folk Music? I have no idea, but Louis Armstrong said 'its all folk music, because I sure never heard no horse sing' and what is traditional folk song? songs written within a tradition? I have even less idea, I just know that the music I dig is so cool and I love it. It seems that in our insecurity we seek for definition to every move we make, and especially to everything that we embrace, and that there is a fear of not knowing, not understanding, when the truth is, that we don't understand, and we are not going to understand, so why can't we accept this? That is what God is for, to let his leash out a little bit to us, and tease and tantalise, and to leave us guessing, we would like to believe that we are in control, to be our own God, but we delude ourselves in our vanity. Long live unknowingness and the search.

Peace

Peace is its own strength, it comes from the innermost strength, it is the bravest thing, it stands apart, and it asks for no reward. It is the companion of love and of beauty, and it can also be the companion of weakness and cowardice, at its height, at its most powerful, it can be a fire, and at its depth of its weakness, it can be a traitor.

The Fool Inside

The fool lurks inside, he is never far from the wisest thought, he returns you to your base, he explains to you, that when you are impressed with your wisdom, he is watching you, from not a great distance, and to be aware of him, makes the fool inside, no less of a fool, he is your personal sense of the self, that has to be understood and for the self to be aware of, he can arise at any moment, and in the drunkenness of vanity, he is waiting to pounce, he is ready, and his song is waiting to be sung, he can be avoided with humour, self deprecation, knowing that the self is nothing more than the self, like any other self, the only difference from self to self is difference of self, and the mind of the self, of any self has a shape and a size, and 'know the size of your mind' is the adage that explains, that the self cannot be all encompassing, and cannot know any more than it already pretends to know.

Night and Day

Even the night, has the memory of light, as the day believes the dark will soon return, truth is not given freely, except when truth and I are one.

After Sleeping on a Sleepy Day

I wonder what the magpies saw in the sleeping day of intermittent rain. There were two of them, I was sleeping in the sleeping day too, at least my mind told me so, when I had looked back on the recent past of the day. I remember that I hadn't thought about what I had been thinking. I angered inside I showed it to the congregation. The evening beckoned, the rustling leaves were dancing for me. A mighty tree, overpowering showed its strength to me. I could only wonder within its majesty. I am the moneylender and I'm closing the door. I had thought about what I was thinking, and then I thought about what I had done. The instruction book was thrown from me about the day I was born, and from my memory, but the seed within continues to grow and explain to me, perhaps like the mighty tree to its rustling leaves. There is no denying imprint. There is no way clear that is a way clear. I doubt if tomorrow will be a sleeping day. There's a cloud in my head and its raining outside.

God of Life

Dream images, clues or distractions? Variation, diversions? Impossibility? And dreams again, and why the attempt within futility? God knows. The only truth that I only partially believe. And belief in something that is in the world of dream, is ethereal, is foreign, and perhaps is even surreal. The day escapes, and it hides its truth away in a box somewhere. And still, there is longing, and the longing will not be stilled, it is breathing and it seeks guardianship, truth is veiled, is a cloak, its mystery cannot be unravelled, yet the search continues. Art and literature and music and creative ideas, are for me, what comes closest, to getting to the point of understanding, subject is naked, provoking interpretation, and then variations of understanding, of a weakened kind of 'knowing' life is crazy and it lives in every soul, it possesses and it teases and it explains that there is no getting perfectly close to it, that it will continue to be your mystery, and your mystery will not inform you, it will not love you enough to give its truth to you. There is magic in the mind, that can touch the mystery that life would prefer you not to understand, so then there becomes, the fight with the children of life and the God of life.

Words

Words are only words, they aren't necessarily that feeling, the feeling cannot be tyrranised by a simple word, attempting description, the feeling is true, it cannot be perfectly touched by words to describe it, to understand it, to make it feel that it owes to words, mattering most is the feeling, on its own, in isolation, it is naked in itself, and it should turn to no other place, it is right and correct, just where it is, words are like a ship on the ocean and the ocean is a place where mysteries dwell, and how can a ship truly know the ocean? Any more than the ocean can know this particular ship, they are together yet apart, and the night will set them free, it will explain this to the two of them, and women and men are like the ocean and the ship, they are not necessarily understanding of one another, they can have the same close connection and then they can travel apart, love resides in a place of mystery, it does not give itself so easily, is not so available,

The Terror of Truth

Oh, the terror of the truth, that is after all, just an idea of it, virgin ideas, and the ways to escape from them to something real, patience I fear, must be the embrace, maturation is deceit as well, it mustn't be allowed to colour the picture, yes it needs a quiet acceptance, and in the play it has to take its breath, lies are everywhere, especially the ones that you pretend, and don't care to listen to, certainly the certain is more than uncertain, provocative, it puts its body in your way, tantalising offering its cheap touch, a meaningless moment in a world of self, and again self must be controlled and stilled, mind should be easy, the self should be aware of the mind of the self and the power that it can be allowed to have, to overcome to overwhelm, freedom must be king, it is alone as only freedom can be and must be, eyes speak, and the circle is a gyroscope, and it leaves the mind to spirit and to soul to feel and to sense and to judge within this, seems the strongest are the gentlest and the strongest the most weak, and there is weakness within weakness as there is strength within strength, and there really is no being apart for them.

Church

The church is the temple to the God of time, sometimes it feels like an ageless place in mystique of the ages, and one of the cloth told me that I wouldn't find God there, suggesting perhaps that I should turn my searching gaze elsewhere, my church has become out of doors, and my preachers are the voices of soul, and sexual spirituality, I need not look any further for my answers they are within and then they are without, and they aren't answers, that tell you that there is nowhere else to look, they just offer momentary comfort and ease you a little further along the way, and advancing is retreating, to places like ages past, the atmosphere of which I sensed in a church one day.

Distance

She has all the sincerity of a skeleton key, the truth lies within her eyes, and all you have to do is look. She would seek to beguile, confuse your mind into thinking that she is true, she entertains me and I keep her hanging, to me and her delusion, and the delusion that she wishes for me to accept, and she speaks to my agape mouth of her love, and my agape mouth discovers lockjaw, and ultimately I have pity for her, and wish her luck, and sometimes she doesn't want to answer me, and that makes me not want to question her, and I stand to the side, with her on the outside and lost to herself in her imagined quest.

The Sound of One Voice Laughing

A smile and a voice within the laughter of the crowd, the sound of one voice laughing, it inverts suggesting joy, it is in your hands now, the decision is yours, you move in your own direction after the tantalising moment. Wealth and poverty stretch apart both have a need for greed of the former, they have an eye on tomorrow, the moderate mind is in the moment, has understanding that tomorrow belongs with yesterday and the past with the future, so in a neutral place, where there is indifference and ease and clarity of mind, the responsibility of decision arrives, living is moving though, it does not pause for breath, that first breath is the reason for its being, and that first breath, is a life's only breath, and the first breath is a traveller, it moves with and through a life, it is constant with each life, and is often set aside. Discoveries are made after pursuance, and they may guide a life to embrace them further, and each life within life is as much a life as life is to itself, for the knowledge of a life of life is uniquely personal.

Light

Light brings bright breath, it gives itself to subjects to carry and permeate its warmth, they are vehicles of the light of love, to darkened corridors and to eyes that are lost in a moment in time, they will change according to the light and its breath, and at times light dwells in the unlikeliest of places, houses of innocence, of apparent unknowing, but light knows them, and it gives its heart to them, in its fully knowing, it is positive and it is true and it discerns, light of life and of giving your soul, rest your arms on me, breathe your will into my soul, fill me with the madness of your dream, instill me with you, possess me, make me my own and your own, fit your eyes to mine, be my guide and my guard, and sing my song unto me, and I will sing our song to my world.

Orange

Orange is my colour, vibrant orange, it has a great strength, and it knows and it believes in itself, it knows where it is and understands its meaning, yet it is difficult to see its living presence, it isn't really apparent, but it is astral and is complementary to soul, and soul should be invaded, it should not be so sitting so quietly where it resides always, nothing is apart, should be aloof, all things should be considered, should be brought into the picture, I see things like, evenings of lost love re-engaged, tripping to the garden of autumnal blessing, aching sky, laughter in the tears, a world lost and a kiss of eternal grace, questions to myself, and some kind of dissatisfaction with the way I have been acting, there's an intense look, it is inward and it questions, it is looking like it might become angry at some point, it is not at ease, and its finger is pointing only at me, and I, I just look on in innocence, leafing through the book, remembering, wanting to be in a place of the past, lost in this dubious moment, time, in this moment of orange.

September 2013

A song has lost its tune and the dancers are gypsy minds in a day of rain, astral colours exploding like thunder on a rainbow, and spirit is quietly questioning the lack of living in the day, it hides in the corner, on a morning of tranquil ease, it lurks in that corner, waiting for its moment, looking inwardly for the time for its action, and spirit must lose control, and it must be free, its eyes are on a search, through darkness and into the sparkling sky, the sky of the past, the sky of memory, infinity is asking questions of a single moment, a moment that is a single day, dancers still, weave their patterns to the song, the tune will be recovered, it will emerge and it will live again, and the spirit will find its freedom and will not be dictated to by the disappointment of a single one day in September in the year of 2013.

Changes

From the periphery to the middle of the picture, observation finds itself a new perspective, a spotlight gleams, and now there is a consideration, do I really want to be here in this 'here' or do I want to slink back to the sidelines? Do I accept the onus and do I think that the onus is prepared to accept me? Perhaps the answer is simply nothing, but to ignore that there ever was a question, and where did the question come from anyway? from negative mind? from doubt, and unlove? Seems to me that the more you do, then the more that you have to care. There is a tyrant inside and is like a leech sometimes, and his criticism is questionable at times, yet at other times, pretty cool. This leech or this tyrant needs control, he must not be allowed to become the commander, he must be a lesser player in the act of the self. And dreams explode into the waking consciousness, they leave their impressions they too need control, and this can be found in understanding, and with them understanding is the present interpretation, although this will change. Change is forever present, it is constant, and it is acceptable. To accept it indeed, creates a comfort, and the world keeps on turning, and to be in time with the turning of the world, is to be in touch with the changes that it challenges you with.

Waiting for Tomorrow

All of my money in the suitcase, and I turn away for a moment and it is all lost to me, all of my paper money lost to me, I've always wished to smile at paper money, it probably looks more interesting that it actually is, it doesn't own any of my feeling and it dies as it goes into another's hands. And midnight angel, with darkened eyes, looking like darkness, speak to me again, and sometimes I look at her sincerity and sensitivity with all the care of money. A jungle is alive with minds of thought and hearts of feeling, and in the jungle there is both ecstasy and depression, reality is inconstant and to be in touch with it, you have to change along with it. And sometimes as I change I can be hurtful, and sometimes as I change, I can be kind, and twilight will gaze at my soul and question and will advise on direction. In the barbed wire evening, other angels sing of love, and they thrill with their sound, and they have no eyes, so it is futile then to seek the truth within them, and I guess you just have to make some kind of sensual judgement, and afterwards at some critical point, questions arise, within the uncertainty, within the not knowing. Someone seems to look downward with strings attached, denying liberty, I wonder if John Calvin was right about predestination and how it is a mystery? And I thought that I heard an angel cry, and she shied from a comforting embrace, and then I became lost within myself, in that moment. And tomorrow sometimes takes its time in arriving, and it creates suspense, and some kind of anticipation. It sometimes isn't so easy to wait until tomorrow.

Not Knowing

There is warmth in the home of the heart, life is beguiling, and perhaps sometimes in the place where you perceive the home of your heart is, there is less than peace, and the feeling can touch frustration and anger, and very often you fix upon another person to rid yourself of this within yourself, hoping somehow, that it really isn't anything connected with the self, and with this antipathy for someone, you can be close to acceptance of them in the most positive way, nothing is that definitive, but interrelationship is a great truth, a reality. One idea and one thought should look for other related ideas and thoughts, there should never be the feeling of 'I am correct' for it a falsehood that deludes with its deception. And any personal opinion should not be considered any more than a present idea, and should not be taken to heart as being the 'end.' Thought and life are circular, they are eternal, there is no beginning and there is no end, and there is no knowing, and I guess the problem ultimately the insecure feeling that 'not knowing' may bring.

Fools

The perceived to be fools, are working their magic tonight, they would seem to have had enough of condescension they live in a quiet way, they are apart and they disallow touch, Pearse wrote about them and considered himself as one, as I do, we are the fools, who have no idea where we are going, we just tend to go, and the Tarot fool always tends to come back for more, does he really go off the edge of the mountain with his dog? or does his dog hold him back, does it enlighten him? And does the fool listen to the words of his dog? I guess that he has to listen, and I guess that is why he might be considered a fool, perhaps the fool is the one who listens, who has nothing to say for a while, until he has something to say, and the fool is without opinion, he stands alone, apart from the crowd, his world is a world of his own, he is alone, because, who else would like to join him in being a fellow fool? And at some point, just some point, you may want to look into his eyes and inquire, 'what it it about this fool that makes him such a fool?'

This Time of Life

Aromatic fusion, circling, manifesting, giving its opinion, in its own innate way, and in the demise of the summertime, it offers some kind of pretended consolation, but of course, the discerning and the discriminating know otherwise, sometimes though, they have to remember to still themselves, and allow things to slide, and the circus of life, seems to wink at the movement of the passing moments, words delude, passive isn't so lifeless, and mediocrity isn't so mediocre, after all, it is the middle place on that mountain of existence, I guess, and you look around and see things like, beauty, that isn't even close to its apparent self, to the truth of your before, understanding of its word, and diversely, you see that an apparently ugliness, that isn't true to your perception of it either, isn't such an ugly thing to focus upon either, life lies in chaos and it almost lies in ruins, but as long as it is life, it turns to you, yes you, to instill, and to penetrate and to influence and to change and create something harmonious and true, I guess, that life waits in the wings sometimes, looking at us, daring us to contribute, asking us for our own answers, after we have forgotten, that we are in life and are a part of this great life, there is magic within the grasp of the livers of life, yet sometimes they seem to be afraid to actually be in touch with the reality of themselves in their lives, and there is magic in the dream that we dream, and there is magic in the love that we desire and share, and there is magic in our being alive together, at this time.

In the Cafe

Saw you in the cafe, it had been a long time, your car needed a push, so did I, and after exchanging wearying looks, we exchanged numbers too, the place was quiet the only music was in my head from a memory from earlier in the day, but still it stayed and it began to sing about you to me, and I had somewhere else to be, as we both had, so we didn't delay, and there was that instinctive feeling that I couldn't translate to words in my head, and then we moved apart and I looked at the day now, devoid of you, and there was a certain relief and there was a certain sense of loss, and there was a certain sense of nothing being certain, especially regarding memory, I had walked myself to the end of you, when you had done the same, and we were both now in our rightful place, apart.

The End

Drunken writers and so called poets, drinking deeply of their own emptiness. and a word of acceptance seems like the world of acceptance to them, they are empty and they are hungry and they lust for accompaniment, they are hungry and they live in a particular poverty. And this poverty somehow makes them feel wealth, for they can progress no further, this beginning actually is the the end.

The Daytime and the Nighttime

The nighttime questioning spirit, you seek God, you reckon he should be here at this time. The moon has escaped to its world of love and lunacy, and that there is understanding between God and the Pagan moon I have no doubt. People give comfort, or attempt to, one to the other, working at keeping demons at bay. Now is a world of now and memory, tomorrow walks the other way in its diversion, uncertainty. I wonder of the loneliness of the bitter and angry hearts, and what there is to comfort them, in their despair. And the angry heart at some point, must console itself with what reality actually was and in fact is right now. George Jackson in Soledad Prison declared that 'no-one can crawl inside your head' but I know that there are people who can. Duality is the key in the face of uncertainty, it wants to encapsulate, it wishes to keep spirit alive, it offers its love in its way, and in return it seeks understanding. And city streets are a world full of strangers, who sometimes are unable to converse with language. People are lost as friends are lost and friendship is lost, and again there is the mystical nighttime, which is lost mainly to all but itself. So there is comfort in the nighttime, and within its dark, and it displays this always and it has forever turned to the light of day. And the day, is the time for fire, and it breathes a deeper life than the nighttime, into its souls. We are souls of the daytime and the nighttime, and we are one, just like the nighttime and the daytime are one.

Life and Death

Thinking's crazy, the brighter it gets, the duller it gets, the mind must look for its answers to spirit and soul. Intellect doesn't know, although it knows how to delude, there are strings being pulled somewhere, and the shape of the mind spells constriction. I wonder if there is another name for God, when God is collective consciousness, that each of us makes his or her contribution to? There are answers, as many answers as one would allow oneself to find, nothing is definitive, life is mystery, and so, is its death. And we no more understand life, than we understand death, perhaps then, death teaches definition, and perhaps death has answers, and death has truth, and perhaps death is the answer to life, and perhaps then, death knows life and can understand its mystery.

Character

Flirting with blame, attached to a memory, and excuses sitting so right next to me. Cowardice can suggest, it can seek embrace, and it can swallow the true spirit. And character must always raise its head in assertion, it is the personal higher power, and it is the road to success on the road of a personal life. And I look around at mirrors of my condition, in the see-saw of changing feelings, in the variousness of different eyes and faces and experiences. Sameness, is a small place to dwell on, and can be the easy way out, when I don't feel like I want to get in touch with my truth. So the spirit grows with shows and decisions of character, and the easy way out, is no way out at all. It is a stagnant and a lazy place and ultimately it will explain to you that you are mistaken.

Love is the Change

From the dark abyss to the wishing well, we are shadows in our worlds of truth. Venturing onward to unforeseen places. Lovingkindness, is the most radical of things, and it has no questions of itself, it strides forward on its own, oblivious to opinions. And in its life, there is fire, and in its fire, there is the explosion of soul. And the soul is the essence, it is the director, it is the conductor, and what once was inhibited, gives way to the change of love, and love is the change. And love is the change.

Flashback

Had this flashback today. I am with my girlfriend, and we have to visit her parents to tell them the news. And I guess, that I was sober at the time, and I look at her father in the face sort of, and I proclaim, after all the waffle had subsided, 'and she's pregnant' Shit! I'm still mortified yet.

The Depths of the Darkness in the Night

Strange, like trying to fathom the depths of the darkness in the night. Elusive, like a forgotten dream, and imperceptible, like the quality of the silence. And hope, stays in place, when you even think of attempting to understand what it is in a distant and a foreign place. And the effort can be warming, it can feel a hand on its shoulder of comfort, comforting its unknowing. And distance is vague and it appeals to imagination, and it looks for the imagination to picture it, to grasp its time and its place. To understand, that distance is just another picture show. And in any distance, it is strange, like trying to fathom the depths of the darkness in the night.

The Picture

Step into picture, there is comfort there, in possibility, when you have left the periphery behind. And your truth will be sensed and it will guide you and be accepted. On the periphery you observe, in the picture you are the actor, the player. What once was a mystery can turn to magic, It can hold you in its fond embrace, it can still, and it can thrill you, time has lost it reason, and the world is dancing to another beat.

Book on the Shelf

There's a book on the shelf and it gazes at me endlessly, and I am in the middle of breakfast and I avert my gaze, and the morning gives wealth to my breakfast. and without the morning, my breakfast would be in some kind of trouble. My book, approaches me always, and always it confronts me and asks questions of me. It seems to want to tell me, that it is a part of my heart and soul. and I don't know any different, and I try to squeeze myself away from it. And I stand alone in an evening, there are colours of orange and of purple and they would appear to be the colours of dream. And I can't pretend to hear the songs of angels, like some writers of hymns do, and I dream perhaps, of the next dream, and if I will be able to remember it, and therefore, make use of it somehow. I have lost everything that it was possible to lose, and I work within to overcome the defeat. It appears that I was the greatest demon that I had never taken the opportunity to confront. And the sky is overcast, and lacks expression, it hides behind this state of itself. It is a shy thing. and it seeks for love. And who will be the lover of the skies? Whenever I look to the skies, all I can see are clouds and sometimes sun and sometimes moon. So how much is the sky? Is it enough to cause a dream? Should you take it with you somewhere that you believe somehow, that it doesn't want you to go? And then it all comes back down to the book on the shelf, and how you want to consider it.

Today Becomes Yesterday

You dwell in a place albeit temporarily, but you are oblivious to any allotted time span befitting the present place. You project, and you seep yourself into this moment and place in time, there may be affection, and there may be longing. And in the night you may dream of the happenings of the day, and the days before, you may even bring this present situation that you stand in, into your dream. And you perhaps, may be unknowing, unaware of how this place receives you, in your drive to be right there, because you believe somehow, inside, that this is the only place for you to be right now, and then your comfortable feeling is shattered, signals inform you that this is not the place where you belong,that this is a temporary place, and a place that must be left behind in yesterday. And it may take a while to fully relieve yourself from the attachment that you had found there, And in time, it could be a day and it could be year, you understand that this place was not your home, and that you have some other place to go.

Success and Failure

Just one step away from failure, ah but you sidestep into the wonderland of success, with an eye on the temperature of the moment. Its odd how successfulness loves to question itself, like there is something lacking in its confidence. I guess when a thing isn't constant, it may create uncertainty. The wise tend to question themselves when the fools tend to forgive themselves in their unthinking, albeit tacitly, and without awareness. There is sensitivity and self consciousness within the wise and they don't seem to scream about their successes too much. In the melting pot though, everything has the same merit. You arrive at a point, and what does it matter how you happened to reach that point? So the wise and the foolish are closer to each other than one might think. We are all the same and none of us know, we just attempt, and some of us appear to win, certainly in the eyes of certain others, and some of us appear to lose, again in the eyes of others. And our own eyes, are suspicious to us, for they are selfish eyes, and they seek always for understanding from others. There is no contentment in isolation, there is always the quest for confirmation, acceptance. Perhaps then success and failure are more or less the same.

The New Order

They're throwing the lions to the Christians, the circus is on fire, and the government is all in jail. The world is having second thoughts, and science is questioning its sanity. Tomorrow is the prospect of unpredictability, some are frightened into the comfort of their easy answers, and some are on fire with their imaginations. And just around the corner from tomorrow are wild dreams of crazy truth. Freedom is in the air, and the air has the whiff of options and opportunities. Doors open wide to a new reality, what appeared to be lost, now appears to have been mislaid, uninformed, confused, overwhelmed. And the Christians sure are battling the lions, like the fight is from past lifetimes. Buddha sits still and smiles a fat smile, remembering how he left his loved ones and went on the road. I guess that at last his conscience is starting to bother him. The sun rains on a moonlit day, the earth escapes into the wilderness, all the comfort left, is in the fire of love, it is unchangable. It remains true, it dwells in hearts of love, and it explodes into beauty.

Silence and Sound

Interrupting me when I don't want to talk, there is more to peace than silence, when I have nothing to say. Some people seem to be afraid of the absence of sound. And then there is that screaming silence, a quiet aggression, A beautiful stillness, pervades sometimes, nonetheless, it reaches into the heart of you and it comforts and it shelters it walks you in its own direction and you have no choice but to follow.

Song

A meandering wind, takes me to places I never been. I wonder if poverty creates greed, and I have never been to poverty, but somehow, I am being shown the way to go there. The night is still, except for me, I am not still in the night. I am restless, and I wonder if my restlessness is noticed by the night. Dreams escape from the ether, they now gain life in a real place, they are mattering. And so far away from me, in a different place, glory exists, it does not take itself easily, it will not subside. Glory has its pride, and is attentive and stands lateral to my movement. The song appears to have died, there was disparity between the lyric and the air. And music is alive and it thrills.

Different Places

Similar games in different places, the eyes of minds and hearts, go searching through the barriers. I try to make some kind of sense out of my self, thoughts escape and flee sometimes within emotion. In this duality, there is some kind of oneness, although within it all, there is doubt. Truth stands behind its curtain, waiting for its cue. There is an area of mystery, and in this place, knowledge is lost somehow, for now, at least. The answers of decision are veiled, alive is a world between truth and corruption, and suspicion is always on hand, it would appear to be the only thing around that has any kind of understanding. Hearts fall and rise again, constancy is changing its course always, and elusive is its soul, it whirls in its own confusion, sometimes here and sometimes there, and sometimes it runs away to rest. And the focus is the future, undetermined although at times, imagined. Crazy is the heart when it doesn't know the way to travel, when it is unsure, when it is, ill at ease. And in different places, time suspects. The moon dances in the night, to the tune of romance. Otherwise, the sky is asleep and has nothing to declare. Even fortune tellers stand amazed and ask 'did this really happen to you?' to the reply of a semi-smile, of memories past. The world looks on, indifferent apparently, without opinion. Perhaps the world holds the answer, and its padlock just has to be unlocked.

Cormac

What I write is for you my darlng boy. Since you left, I have decided to dedicate my words to you. I have tried to be at one with you, and I will yet try. Where you are today, is the place, or is one of the places that i ponder upon. I try to exclude the darkness, and I dream that a life once lived, is its own expression. And you dwell within me and will continue to do so. You were of me, and you are of me, and you will always have been of me. There is no separation, death will not keep us apart. As long as I dwell in this land of life, you will dwell right here with me, and in this way I will keep you alive until my breath is no more. And I just had this sense that you were different from how you were, from how you lived. I can yet feel it. And perhaps where you are today will understand you, and will be close to you. When I lost you, I lost a part of myself, but my memory tells me that we are together, and neither of us can be alone.

French Cafe Evening

There you were, clinging to the remains of an French cafe evening. T-shirt and jeans, and eyes searching the distance. And outside the traffic is abuzz with its action. The clock, stops to dream, its hands empty now. We are in a museum of stillness, but still that sense of ages, persists. We are in the church of time, and time has become mislaid. I can only look at you again within all of the stillness, lest I may feel the fear of this moment, so you are exalted by me now, you have gained some greater position, as yet unbeknownst to you. We travel outside, the city streets are cold and hungry in the nighttime, they become lost within the darkness, and there is fear in the skies, and their only comfort is their stars. And shape shifting is happening, right before our eyes, that is, if only our eyes could look from outside of us. We can see only each other and this particular night, and perhaps our motion. The question to be asked is; 'Now where do we go?'

God

And in this particular ether, there are dreams of dreams, and places of sun that dwell in hearts of dream. Focus is confused and sometimes, just sometimes, things appear to become clear. And where is the place of this apparent clarity I sometimes wonder? Perhaps it is in the sky somewhere, in a place where angels reside, and perhaps it is on a cloudy day in a place where the lion tamer's breath seeks out the psychic mind of the fortuneteller. She knows things that are not common to know, and I am envious of her. I would like to touch the root of her smile, I would like to know where all of her insight emanates from. And I think of eyes, and I think of nature, and I think of the one who really holds the cards, and has loaned them to her, to discover what she may make of them. So truth is distant and people, or some people looking for it, seem to think that it should come easily to them, when they have the feeling of purity within themselves, and perhaps that feeling of purity within themselves is no more than a feeling of purity within themselves. The sky cracks thunder, and it rains on the other side of the world, and there are prayers to Gods, as yet undefined, perhaps God has looked at you and your prayers and has decided that your prayer and you belong among you and yours, and that you and yours, are the God that you seek so fervently.

Conformity

The idea of achieving the impossible is a thrilling thing. The barriers of imposed, so called 'reality' come crashing down, they are helpless and they really don't know which way to turn. And I am standing here, looking at this apparent impossibility, and I laugh into its face, yet my laugh is not one of mockery, but a laugh nonetheless. My laughter just wants to quietly explain to the impossible, that it isn't impossible, that it isn't out of reach, that it is attainable, a dream has explained this to me, and dreams are no fool. Objects of nature, like trees, teach the spirit well, and the spirit is imbued with a certain kind of love. That kind of love that is willing to give its spirit to the overwhelming of crazy so called, impossibility. And in the mirror of the memory of my mind, I saw a young man cry, in his constriction. His strength was taken from him, and he thought that the enemy was his judgement, when the enemy was his conformity.

The Journey of the Self

Journeying onward, stars descend to the eyes. and the moon shines in approval. What is known as 'sense' hides in its corner. Seeking for comfort from a completely different place. And this place today, in this moment, accepts itself in its unreality, in its gift of romance. The clock has lost its tick, and time has disappeared into its tediousness. A new day has begun and its rules have been mislaid. There is no black and white feeling within the changes of the heart. Life approves in its sense of justice, in its allowing you to be free. Memory has died, and the world seeks to become at one with itself. Thought has been betrayed, it lies in a lonely forsaken place, and it is lost in this place, it doesn't quite know where it should turn to. Now is the special time, and the feeling and ambition within this now. And this now is impregnated with desire, and this desire will search into the personal eyes for direction. This is the moment that has been dreamt of and it will live. On the street come the voices of the playing children and they seem to unite in unison to the tone of this time. Darkness has been overcome by light, and all that there is, is possibility, of the creation of wild imagining, manifested. Life is new. Life has suddenly changed, the self is in control. The self is suddenly in charge.

Heart and Mind

The heart looks within when it allows mind. Heart and mind fight for victory. So now a quandary is created, which one is to be followed? which is the one to trust? And each one is not entirely naked in itself, is not isolated, is not alone in itself. Or could there be, the lonely heart and the lonely mind? Perhaps this could be the work. They see-saw and they gain and lose control over one another. Can one respect the other? Is the other one necessary? There is no feeling in the mind, and there is no thought in the heart. They are sceptical of one another. One cannot gain the other's trust. They reside in worlds apart within a person. Yet the mind can believe in love, and the heart can understand the reasons and the motives of thought. Feeling needs to be comforted sometimes, before it can fully accept its freedom. And the heart can run free and the mind can run free. And you snuck up on me, all so suddenly with your change of heart, and all so suddenly I was so grateful that you had. The heart can have its secrets too. It can hold the greatest dreams. It can lead the way for mind to follow. It can lead the way to soul.

Silence

withdrawing that step into the darkness, fools they make their voices heard, when all that there is to be said is nothing. And fools seem to be in control, to themselves, they are not in touch with real thought. But still they sound,. And the sound is the foolish sound, the unnecessary sound, it happens upon a time that doesn't lack for it. And there are eyes, quiet eyes, and they journey within themselves, with no ambition to conquer others. For them life is within. They are the eyes of truth, they do not seek reward, they don't ask questions of the ones outside of themselves. They live within themselves, they do not venture, yet they are too searchers and they own power, and they are on a journey. I wonder now, if noise is a thing of fools, and I wonder now, if silence is the thing of the wise.

The Art of Knowing

I know there should be no motivation, no lust for acceptance. Art has to be pure, I know that there should be no reason why. It is just a happening thing, it shouldn't seek reward. Art itself is the reward, and there are different facets of the reward. To understand you need to be in humility, and then again, there is no cause for trying to understand. There is nothing to even attempt to understand, and any way, that kind of thing belongs to dumb intellect. This is the place of delusion, and if you are not aware, it will attempt to suck you in to its deception, to its being removed from truth, to its bullshit, to its lie. Mind so enjoys having an opinion of itself, sometimes it is afraid to just stand still and relax an just be. There is a kind of knowing, that is far removed from intellect, not that intellect can ever really know. Feeling knows, although it will not speak a word. Love knows and it deals in feeling too. This is higher knowledge, and I believe to even suggest knowledge in relation to them is a great insult. So then, there is no real knowledge except for the feelings in the heart. So I guess, to be in touch with the purity of the heart is to know as much as you can know for yourself.

Forsaken angels, and their angelic kind of love, which isn't really any kind of love. And right now in this moment is such a good place to be. There is violence in the love, and all that it asks for is more. It doesn't accept some easy and therefore some kind of phoney kind of love. And we stand here in all of this weakness, nothing speaks of truth, it wanders and it sways, and it deceives, after it has tantalised, it is not to be trusted, it is a liar. And then, love with its particular violence stands apart, and it turns from judgement and it is real. Love has its own aggression and its own violence, it does not stand in a passive place, Its eyes are searching for a place that is further on. Right here, in this moment, nothing seems to live, there is a waiting for the day to change or a waiting for tomorrow. And angels, are drifting, and all they ever seem to do is wing. I know an angel, and she is love

The Question Within the Silence

That sweet taste, both mellow and poignant, where the impossibility that you had imagined, glares back at you and questions the soundness of your mind. You stand helpless in a corner, your movement is all within the changes of your mind. You turn into yourself, looking for inward guilt. And inside of you, recognises the challenge just as you have suggested it, and in the silence dwell your feelings. They bob back and forth, on the horizon of decision. Beauty would appear to be intact, and colours your silence, and this perceived beauty has nothing to say for itself, but to speak to you. And you discover that you have to open your ears, to give yourself the chance of understanding, and the challenge is to understand the question within the silence, and to answer with both heart and mind.

Farewell and Adios

I never realised when I listened to those old Folk songs, that 'Farewell my own true love' actually meant, 'fare well my own true love' just like I never knew that 'adieu and adios' meant 'To God'

The Truth

The truth is what comes from out of you, when you explode. You sit comfortably within yourself, in a tired ease, unquestioned by the self, and you don't realise it, and you don't see it, but you subside. You become like a lesser self, a pretending, lesser self. Prudence is a straightjacket, it will take you into its noose, and it will leave you hanging there. Truth is when you wipe the tears from your eyes and you give them your own fire. And the fiery eyes will seek direction, and they will explore outside of the parameters that you had originally had imposed on them. And then perhaps in some kind of seeking to bring a distance closer, you embrace somewhere outside of your own personal world. And then two worlds collide, and a greater truth emerges, if everything is real and keeps to truth.

Evening

Perhaps I needed it then, but it means little to me now. I wonder though, where she was headed to. she, and her false affection, I am alive in this moment, and my memory doesn't love. So there was the rape of love in the place where the angels sing, and she was apart from the angels although somehow, she was on high. And she had urged me to remember her, and in this moment, all I can do is consider the moment. And today, I saw what I perceived to be beauty, and I addressed it and I told it so. And this beauty, thanked me for my appreciation, and then the beauty was gone. And the evening is crazy and it envelopes, it is helpless within itself, it doesn't know, it is lost in itself. I wonder if evening is easy with itself>?

Looking for Truth

These are ideas they are not statements of fact, as if they even could be. They are attempts at truth, I guess that they are attempts to get into touch with truth. And then the attempt at truth takes us to different places. I don't know anything, I haven't been informed of truth, I am yet, in the dark. So in the evening, I look into the eyes. I don't know which way to turn, no-one has told me, where I should go. I am lost within my life, and it would seem to be the only place that I can go.

Art

James Dean was right, the highest point of creation is in its creation, and then it is over, it is a memory, and there is a choice to be made for anyone who cares to make a choice, would like to place some value upon its head. A song or a poem or a physical piece of art cannot live again, because essentially, the creation involves the feeling. and the feeling is temporary will change when you don't even want to consider it. Some people understand how to feel toward art, and some people dont, some people are artists and some are understanding of artists and to some, it is all just foreign to them. And the artist and the ones who appreciate art are also lost in understanding the ways of others, they are unknowing too. So there are two types of people, the artist and his appreciators and the ones outside of art, but who dwell in another kind of world of art. And we all criticise so readily, as if there is no other way but ours, or at least, that ours is the only credible way. I guess that art is a bigger word than we imagine.

The Dream Within the Real

A moment turns to magic without forewarning, a demon escapes to its freedom in a nether place. And the clock is yet warning of routine, lust for compliance, but alas, no-one cares. And the moment of the magic, withdraws to itself, It seeks its own solitude within its own beauty. Definition howls in frustration, with opposition of rye smiles. And definition can now turn to the clock to gain comfort, it is all that is left for them, in their mathematical world. Nothing makes sense, and that is what makes the most sense. Eyes collide and recognise, theirs is the only knowing around, and crazy is this reality within dream, and real is this dream within reality. And today was the only time in life's history, although it sidles into its shyness. The clock is on fire and the only time is now.

The River Tolka and its Added Attractions

So I'm walking along the East Wall Road this morning, minding my own business as usual, and happen to look at the River Tolka which runs lateral to it, and I see a burned out Motor Car at the side of the river, just above the water, and I'm wondering to myself 'how the hell did that get there?' so i continue on, to do a bit of shopping in Aldi, and on my way back I happen to look in the direction of the river again, and now, there's a Motor Bike.

The Search

Crazily dancing on the eye on the window of living. Back and forth, twisting and turning, looking into the memory and the dreams of the future, and then stilling oneself to to alone with the present. Everywhere is a departure and an escape from the present reality, that teases and wants to beguile. So, without certainty, that insecure feeling visits, is the companion. And you can either accept it, or run from it in some kind of fear of reality. And then reality stands before you, naked in itself, without prejudice, dwelling in an apparently neutral place. So fear is the enemy of the understanding of reality, of an acceptance of a present truth. And you walk out of yourself to gaze at a picture of life outside of the self, and suddenly you have changed to a bigger self. It all takes courage, and has to be looked in the eye, sometimes even, in an unpleasant eye. There are comforts of course, like the kiss of another lost soul, but the greatest kiss, is the kiss of truth, and the kiss of truth lives within God. And God has to be perceived in selflessness, in humility, and then I believe he will grant understanding, when you are aligned to the search.

Man and God

Even an open mind, must make up its mind. The search may not yet be over but it becomes better informed. And a decision, doesn't necessarily have to be a conclusion, and anyway what is a conclusion? A delusion that stills one into some kind of 'knowing?' And high on the ramparts of the spirit God condescends to you to inform , that he doesn't give the ultimate information away. God is truth, and man is helpless, no matter how hard he may try, and where he might look. He has to face the reality of being unknowing, of someone having him on a leash. But he is asinine and proud and this too is the source of his delusion. He is you and I, and he is not God, although he may a trivial part of God. And then again, there couldn't possibly be a trivial part of God. I guess man in his deluded state, may still be God.

We Are One

Alive to this moment, and then nervously looking at the possibility of you, the darkness in our skies seems to subside into oblivion. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, but perhaps from the great God, I am confronted. You have sung the song that was in my heart, and I am helpless in compliance, and I gaze upon the pictures on your wall, that were written for me. And there is no point in trying to understand anymore, because there can be no understanding, what is, just is. Mind has given way to heart, and the heart is open searches into the open. And in the open, the whole world. And I refuse the past, in my consciousness of this moment. There is beauty in the air, and I am entranced. There is a kaleidescope forever changing, until it fixes itself on you and nowhere else. I am lost in you, and my own personal history, has become lost within itself. Your life lives within my life, and just like making love, we are one.

Now

Wild in a dream, the movement in the moment is given zest. I put my mind to sleep, for a rest that is overdue. Life is a aflame in its possibility, constriction is in bed with the mind, and the heart breaks through, its eyes are on fire with longing and creativity, and the day stands lateral to the present moment, it is somehow alien, to the present feeling. Time is a memory that will not be remembered, all there is, is now, and the feeling of this particular now. And the feeling is the sense, that grasp of sensuous now. There is no escape nor can there be, from the escape that the feeling explodes into the sleeping mind. Eyes, live to dwell in mystic life, eyes that have smiled and eyes that have cried. there is sun in the rain, and it attacks its shower its downness. And possibilities cling to the sun, and the sun inspires, it acts as a guardian, it radiates into some kind of magic. And there is magic in the stillness, and then the stillness is in motion and it succeeds. It lives.

Jennifer

I long for you jennifer, your serious look, the truth in your eyes, your long dark hair and your fullsome lips. I long to be with you on a warm day, walking with you in peace and in stillness. I long to make you smile and see your smile bewilder the day. And I long for your touch and feel your breath on my face. I long to help rid you of your darkness. And I long for you to touch me with your love, and I long for our love to manifest.

Life and Dream

Facets of person, like, do I believe you? when you are so interchangible? Our hearts drum, in a place that searches for music. You are new here, and in the reaches of your mind, is your sense of radio. Beauty stands aloof, there is an angry look, and then a sympathetic smile, it makes you wonder. Night comes down, and you gaze toward the glory of the day, which was of yesterday. Eyes crawl out of the darkness, your hands are tied enough to know that you can't be there with them. And suddenly, all there is, is now, and you care to think that this 'now' is the answer, is your guardian, is the one to give comfort. And this 'now' pretends to be forever present, to be some kind of permanent reality. So you, are standing on the sidelines, looking at the picture, until, the picture sinks into the life of your dream. And then you wonder about your life, and then you wonder about the dream....

Wondering

Some place in the past. A quiet moment remembers. Lost to the moment that this moment itself is in. And to delve into this place can summon the darkness, and the darkness is the enemy of the day. And the day gazes into the eyes and it wants to explode, it is uncontented with your reality, it wants a little bit more, something extra. And then it has suggested, that you look a little further into the day, and you are sitting there, just thinking, just being. Not exactly thinking of movement, and not exactly thinking of standing still. And the night can set fire to the placidity of all within its grasp. It can gain control over the day, and the life within the day. And so there is the confrontation with the day and the night, and you stand in the middle helplessly, you hardly can be aware of this confrontation, but at some point, you may enquire, when the mystery has confounded you, into a place where comfort no longer strays. And then music plays, and perhaps, the sun may shine. And inside, there is fire, and the fire looks for understanding, and it looks into your eyes for expression. And then you are in the corner, wondering, and your wondering may turn to wondering of where your next action lies.

The Diversions of Summer

That torrential rain was out of this world, wading home in six inches of it, really has made my day, not to mention the thunder and the the lightning, and then a complete change of clothing. Oh, the joys and the diversions of summer!

Adversity

Adversity is when life looks at you with a question mark

Where are You With Me?

Dancing my imagination within your mystery. My eyes turn inward and question my ambition and motive. There is a faulty connection, and it tries to imbue me with guilt. And I ask myself, 'am I doing right, or am I doing wrong?' And this love, that we speak so often of: Is it a righteous thing, or is it something that belongs in a back alley? And my thought takes me to you, yet again, despite physical reality. There is great vagueness in the picture of the story, and you declare your love for me, and I am in the corner, and I don't know which way to turn to get out of it. And you are in the heart of me, when the heart looks for real answers. So you, are not then a conclusion, you are dancing in mid air somehow, painting your dream on the outskirts of my thinking mind, and all I crave is feeling, that feeling of justice, of doing what it rightful.

The Artist

The song and the sound have gone to sleep, who knows, if it is to return? and the creation of the song dies in its creation, it cannot linger, it can only be memorised and repeated, so the song belongs to the particular moment, mood, feeling and soul of the song. And if you care to record the song, you lose its real truth, yet, you can still hear its sound. A particular moment of love is like this too, and love is its own kind of song and it lingers. and it also subsides. And artists can say the most vain of things, like 'I am the messenger' 'I am the intermediary' outside of the creation of their art. And I wonder if outside of the creation of the art, is the artist still an artist. I guess this is the point when perhaps the artist embraces his ego. A person is an artist, no less than a classical author or writer. Artist, you should moderate, you should be selfless you should lose your self in your art, or you are not an artist.

Taxi in Belfast

I'm in Belfast and there is a connection I have to make to get to the Ferryport, but I can't be bothered waiting for it, as I got an early bus, so I decide on a Taxi, so I approach the Taxi rank outside the Europa bus station, and then this guy says to me 'are you looking for a taxi, where are you coming from?' I tell him 'Dublin' and he directs me to a suitable taxi, and I get in, and it only then I realise, that if I had been a Protestant, I would have had to get into another taxi. How sad is this in the 21st Century?

Heart and Mind

And sometimes crazy is the right way to go, far from prudence and austerity. Perhaps, just a single time, when a particular situation has been created, has been a confrontation. And sometimes the heart demands to be heard, and to be in control. And romance invades reality, or stands lateral to it, and mind, is old and out of originality, and when it is total, it is boring. And love is little of mind anyway, and mind cannot know not even in its wildest most sustained study. Perhaps the heart is a student too, and perhaps it can sense more than mind can think, that it can know.

Analysis

Somebody said to me recently 'why do you feel that you have to analyse everything?' and then I had to sit down and analyse that.

Closing the Door on the Loser

Self pity arrives at my door, with a face of the child in the man. And at times I have accommodated him, the loser. And then I see that he has lost one time too many, for in his losing he has dumped me into a part of his losing also. And finally, I chose to to turn from compassion, and to my own personal needs, and the work is, to feel justified in, that I am not showing cruelty or inconsideration. Gnawing at me, a softer part of my conscience, which I prefer to see now as my own personal weakness. So as I close the door to the loser, I open the door to my own dignity and strength.

Troubles

I remember during the troubles the incredible bias of the British media, all they wanted to do was to condemn the nationalists and in particular the IRA, who many times deserved to be condemned. But they were extremely blinkered, and it was like no atrocities were committed by Loyalist paramilitaries, And I remember there were no expressions of sympathy from Unionist politicians whenever Catholics were killed. They tried to brainwash the British people, and probably succeeded. I think I have even read that more Catholics were killed by Loyalist terrrorists, than were Protestants by Republican ones. And of course, it was all very wrong.

God

Some are gifted with magic. It happens to pure hearts without expectation, without reliance. Perhaps God, is after all available, is not so silent, but is still, waiting, anticipating, looking for those headed in his direction, to impart his gift upon them. Man is vain, he gives all the credit to himself for the things that he seems to achieve. But man, cannot gift himself with a gift, he must realise his limitations, his reality. God is the highest point of achievement, and when you have reached this particular point within yourself, you are in touch with him, he is at your side, and encouraging you. God can dwell inside of you, when you yourself have given yourself to the idea of understanding, and humility is the basis of understanding always, it is aggressive in its way, and it is aggressive in its passive way, but its passive way is just a part of quietude, which is a part of peace. So I will believe in God, as I may believe in myself.

Me

I'm pretty quiet, sensitive, introspective, I like people of thought, I like very much words and music and I particularly like the power of words, I would like to meet someone who was something like me but not a mirror image, someone gentle and genuine and loving. With insight gained from the pain of living. I am separated and on my own, I am not afraid of myself so therefore am not afraid of being on my own, but I would like to link my life with someone I could progress along with mutually, I think that this has to be an important part of a relationship, unless you just want to have a relationship for relationship's sake. I am open to the idea of difference as we all are different. I don't expect anyone to be the same as I am nor will I. I will study the differences as I look to the other, I will search for the value and the beauty within that difference that I perceive and ultimately take it to my heart if it belongs to the person I truly feel bonded with. I believe that love is a miracle and I believe in love, so I don't know why I should begin to feel bonded with one and not another. I like the spiritual and pyschical aspects of love. I like the mystique and the understated and unstated, the talking with the eyes, from the questions of the soul