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.