Christmas

There is good in the hearts of men, much of our goodness goes unpublicised. We so readily hear, about all the bad in the world, from tyrannical governments, to murderers and general evil doings. There is good in the hearts of men. We are not always comfortable with expressing our love for them, to others, but we show love, and even to perfect strangers, we can show love. He shows you an act of love, as you ask for simple directions to somewhere that you wish to find, and not being content with informing you about how to get there, he may even take you there. He has shown love to you, a simple and honest expression of human love, that has asked for nothing in return. And Christmas is the time of year, I believe, when people have become less inhibited with their expressions of love. Christmas is a thing of natural human beauty, and we rejoice in it.

The Science in the Mystique of Art

The Science in the Mystique of Art.

The Joyful Onion Peeler

The joyful onion peeler, and dark love of infinite gaze. Memories of tomorrow, history is conquered, lost in its hollowness, defenceless at the dawn. Joy and sorrow merge as peace, turning to the day, and the sky, and the past has returned, to find its story confronted by an elongated present time, life and death sing the one song, mind has given way to feeling, and truth, awaits its rightful time.

Stillness

The ragged moneylender, is changed to a different fit, and the evening appeals in relative nakedness, to a temporal pursuit, curtains drawn against the recent, closure against an attempted conqueror, in the time of a barren stillness, yet he is still to the moment, without trepidation or dread. And all over the air, the phantoms present, and often there is nothing said, when the words have been spoken, in the reliance on emptiness, in a twitchy time of fear of a moment, and then suggestion of diversion, that will take and steal from time, and the barren stillness, will become the peaceful stillness, and the moment will be absorbed into the living stream, and other eyes will settle upon the peace and will be drawn, be drawn to the same stillness.

Walking in Our Love

Excuse me my confusion, my moments of the doubt of my uncertainty. I walked out today, still carrying your words beside me, in my head, and when I walked from you, I knew that I couldn't really ever walk from you. And the day for me broke late, I came alive with it. And even if I wanted to escape from you, I couldn't escape from you, and now I discover that you can feel how I feel in a psychic moment, and we differ in a moment or two, and it is nothing more than adding breadth to our love, and when you go your way, I believe you take me along with you, and when I go mine, you are there with me too. It seems like love has cast its net over us, and there is no escape, no ultimate freedom, there is just the truth of our love, and it is in everything that there is of us, and about us.

Today

Today? I will just let it come at me, and gaze into its face, and have the usual argument with it, and then we'll see who wins.

Transition

Orchestral music soothing the day, and dreams of distance flicker on the equator of decision, when the smile of summer has lent itself to autumn, and within all of the midst, stands the real, defying definition and conclusion, and the distance casts shadows on the soul, and the heart is wild, as only the heart can be, and the separation of the warm air and the cool air, breathing within the same as one, and the present feeling of it being too soon for memory engages the spirit and the spirit urges present action, and action turns to ask itself if it is going in the right direction, and it seeks the earth and the sun and the moon for its answers, and there is slowness, and there is speed, not always a matter of choice, and then there is the quiet dictator, the mysterious quiet dictator, before thinking mind relays his thoughts to the self, and the question arises once again: 'am I really a person?' And how much am I the marionette, of a bigger player, so who is this marionettist, and what is his purpose and where does he come from, and why does he hide in the spiritual shadows of humanity, and then another day begins, just like the last one, only to be faced with another tomorrow, and faces change and voices change, but they look and feel the same and utter the same things in our narrowness, in our being captive dreamers unable to reach for the answers always, and knowing nothing.

Thunder from the Heart

Thunder from the heart, and it enters the mind, and it uneases, and takes you to a foreign place, and you become aware, determined to resist this potential slavery, and you look into the memory, the memory before the thunder, when there was oneness of self, at least to your own personal perception, and now, there is the task of bringing a part of tomorrow into today, but awareness, that today is today, and that the past is gone, it has left, it remains, just a part of memory, a part of the existence nonetheless, and you work to determine the realness of the self, the one, that only you, know who you are, in your aloneness, in your truth, in the privacy of personal honesty of spirit and soul, and always, there are disruptions, antagonisations, and they assault, and they would like to steal you from yourself, but then you understand just what they are, and then they sink into their own ignorance and unknowing, and you know, and you are the only one who does, and you don't seek vanity, and in fact, you fight against it, and in the end then, you are left with yourself, and how do deal with the self, outside of thunder, outside of self love, outside of condemnation, outside of the obvious reality, and you venture into a place where love may dwell, and imagining where you belong, and where you fit there, and into exactly the moment, now.

Life Explodes

So you are just trundling along from week to week, and each day, is difficult to differentiate from the last one, and then suddenly Life Explodes!

Scotland

Scotland, you are the land of my birth, and I know that I love another country with more love, but please, please, take this opportunity to grasp freedom, and open your hearts to great posibilities, and your minds, to great wonders of happenings in the days ahead, trust the imagination, and trust the love of you country, and trust Scotland.

Hazel

Hazel and the leaving, and the wine, and the mention of it, and the wondering, is she? Does she? And I scurry back to the original position, and the pains of the day, and my back, and looking for some kind of improvement. And then thinking of tomorrow, and wondering if I should treat in the same way that I treated today, and colours of culture, facing onto me, and again wine, and sleek and kind and laughing. I walk away, and through the door of departure, wishing I could linger, and that this moment could too. And eyes, and the longing, and the ages, and the difference, and the odds, and reality, and this moment, in the now.

Ian K. Paisley

Playing to the gallery, with trumpetting roar, and vitriol, in younger years, where reason and justice hid, your own political party, and your own Calvanistic church, I believe Jean Cauvain, could well have been your closest friend. And there were those surprising stories of the same justice for all, with you, their member of parliament, and your daughter, well she called you a 'saint' and McGuinness, even called you a friend. I call you an enigma, complex and charming, away from the act. Ian K Paisley.

The Impossible Truth

Mixed metaphors, like the arrow, seeking its reward, on the target, and though the target remains still and in place, the effort continues, and eyes of smiling countenance, and hearts, crazy with the passion of the lust for understanding, and there is cracking in the wind, and the day, just like the arrow, searching for its reality, And the present time, refuses the clock, and dwells upon the truth of a moment in its present time. Exactitude, and the comfort of living, and the worth of the breath, and the sight of the eye, and the smell and the hearing, and the touch. And truth just doesn't exist here, and exactitude is therefor a joke, and bright vibrant colours confront, and they try to explain, but we all are too busy talking and painting, to look and to listen and to learn. In fact, it is comfortable for us to feel that we don't know when we are lost. So discernment isn't impressed, it has been scared away, and it casts a backward look, for the soul to speak to the soul, and then to begin to grasp, the truth outside of the impossible truth.

Tomorrow

And no matter how impressive that it appears to be, it is temporal and nothing more. Finity with borders and ending and nothing further on. Nothing here is worth getting too excited about, if you have a look at the great tomorrow. Now tomorrow, isn't that where the answers and conclusions are? A place removed from hopeless optimism, and dream, and wishing the greatest wish, for all of this to be real and true. Unless of course, you have been gifted with the greatest of insights. And now perhaps dream, suggests some more than the reality of the day, and perhaps, it isn't so much given to sleep, and perhaps, it could be life's greatest deception, and perhaps this other reality, is a greater reality in the face of futility within finity. And perhaps again, this finite reality is all that there is, in this place where are there no real answers, no conclusions, no knowing. And perhaps again the creators and the shapers are you and I. And perhaps once again, we are the God of our life, our world.

Mountain Madness

Mountain madness, and the call of the wild evening, in a song of decision, and the air around, cracking like a nut. Progression in the movement, in the nerve, and the now compliance of the walking calf. and sitting down at the Coombe, and contemplating the streets of the city of Dublin. And taking a certain past into the now, and allowing it to merge, and discovering that only death will allow merging with the recent death, if even? And love in a disguise of antipathy, enforcing a change in memory, and life remains still, through spirit, and the freedom to be, and be for another, of precious love and closeness. And of course the denial of some, lies to the truth, in a delusion, in an immature conclusion, in an innocent wrong. And yet no anger, no bitterness, but no love achieved, an attempt only of empathy, of care and understanding, and hoping and loving in this hope, that time will guide others to the same.

Music

Guitar memories, like the moon that has forsaken the sky, and now there has to be something to pick on, and my mandolin and my bodhran, gazing at my musicality, and the stack of harmonicas, lying in their place, and the keyboards, bored with me, but words, and their music, accompany and the music lies within their feeling, and the search within, for the good, the musical good, for that for me, is what music is, suggesting of love, or at least the goodness, of the soul, and so you let it lie, you let it rest, and then it won't let you let it lie, nor let you rest, and it seeps into your conscience, and in its beauty assaults you, there are no words to speak, and the time just doesn't matter anymore, and it doesn't register, and you are in a place now, oblivious of it, and now you are lateral to the music, and the beauty, escaping into a self created dimness, and then suddenly, you discover that the moon hasn't deserted the sky, and you awaken, and you realise, and you understand, and you see the reason for your existance, the reason for now, and your place within this now, and then I pick up my guitar once again, play a friend, that I once had written, take it into myself again, and give it love of the present.

Apart From You

Apart from you, is that where I am? And who are you, and must you always live forever? I have been renunciated, I have been condemned, and I know that I have been justified, and the family, they sing the weakest songs of comfort to themselves, and they just can't get by, and they spin, and they revolve again and again, and they move no further, an d their bitterness, is their own personal enemy, and then they refuse the idea, they are alone, and in the perversions, they search for the right and the left and the weak and the strong, and they are crazy in their weakness, and they struggle today,

A Little Part of Eternity

In this little part of eternity, the sky darkens, and the target seems unclear, there are missionary angels, and yesterday's dream, and colourful lightning, streaming in many directions, and the sky just stands there, oppressed, the silent sky and the wind, and personal breath, an entrapment, and the anxious moment, knowing its past, but suspicious of its future, and the darkness, the obvious and inevitable darkness, shines like a memory, and then there is the space between the invevitable and the memory, and the only way to go to, is, escape. And there is fear in the heart, and the past burns inside the present, and the memory of yesterday, and in younger years, things would have been different, and today, there is the search for the place of tomorrow, and then there is sleep, and visitation, and suggestion, and then the morning breaks, and the day begins again, in this little part of eternity.

The Open Mind, Victorious

Darkness in the morning, and enemies of the discriminating open mind. A frightening thing in insecurity. And so, I am free from the union, and the freedom rides with real strength and assurance, perhaps lonely as it possibly has to be, and in this place there is certainty and uncertainty, and it repeats itself, and fires its question of duality, right into the heart of you. And peace hangs around for you, waiting on your understanding, It confronts you in its gentle way, but yet, it confronts you, and then the morning walks out of its gloom and into the day, where the colours of life reside, and then there is personal design, interpretation and creation, a world awaits change, and you have it cornered, it has nothing to say anymore, it is passive and stationery, and it agrees to comply somehow, and there are shadows of the past merged with the now in a moment of the reality of dream, and the enemies come to pass, and understood in your forgiveness of them, there is light in the heart, and the day has come to rest with you, and then is ease between yourself and the day.

Circular Games

Circular games, and smiles of an evening, toward some false heartbreak, and your body and your face deceives you, it is victorious over you, but, you are vainly oblivious, when you were wishing for life to be a puppet of yours, and perhaps, life smiles along with me, at your fallibility, and now, ultimately, you are trapped in the corner that you created for yourself, and in this corner, you have made the corner itself feel discomfited, and you survey the corner, and you are paralysed by your own need for deception, for an impossible success, and then you are frighteningly alone, and the only place that you can look, is within.

The Goddess

Shining like the moon in her dark sky, eyes undefined in a certain gloom, mystical poetess of the evening. Music ambient to her soul, pervasive to her being. She is naked in her clothing, and she smiles in her tears, and she weeps in her joy. She is life's picture, some may think, confused, but she dwells in a higher place, she is knowing, and her speech is pure, and her manner even. And her look, is the least of her, she is not how she looks, she is just exactly, who she is, and envy and greed cannot touch her. And she stands in quietude, without the need to outwardly express what she feels and what it is that she knows that she does not know, and has no way of knowing. And she is goodness and kindness and care, and she is love, and she is the Goddess.

Touch

And when you touch, is it that you touch? Or is it just some place to place pieces of yourself? And when you feel, is it really that you feel, or somewhere to take your emptiness to, to justify yourself, to ease you, to salve that place within yourself, that historically, has learnt that this must be done, that it is convention, that it is expectation. And is it really your truth? Or is it just a way to become in a moment? And they say that it is all in the eyes, but eyes can wink and can be blinkered. And there is someone standing next to you, watching and listening to you, and he watches you until you betray, and then you are gone, and he takes a backwards glance at all of your words and actions, and he stills, and then he moves, and no matter how far or how much he moves sometimes, he cannot escape, that moment that you captivated in, with you. And you, who were you anyway? And the nerve? And the way that you felt that you could use. And did you realize about hurt? And did you think about tomorrow? In this time when you were free from freedom, in a time of libertine glory.

In a Place of Gentle Rain

Tantric lady in the middle of the day, pointing me from the disturbations of an ignorant jealousy, and the walk from your door in the gentle rain, breathing its reward for me, and I thank you again, with quiet feeling, away from the place that you are in, by proxy. And the gentle rain and the kindness of its touch, its soul, and the kindness of your touch, your soul, and the gentleness of the rain that you fell on me, and the day is renewed, and it smiles, and it gives, and my wish is to repay you, and the day that you happened upon, when I happened upon a small part of your day, on a summer's day, when the sky decided on a gentle rain. just to inform, to embrace, and speak with the mind of the rain, to explain where feeling can be taken to, in a place of gentle rain, in a place, where love lies lurking, waiting for the moment of truth.

Art

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.

The Music of the Soul

Jealous anger, the mesmerised fool, and the mystery, dark horses in glorious aloneness, comfortable in the personal darkness, where great light awaits, voiceless conversation, and few words of reply, just enough to suggest somehow, and in the quiet, warmth and understanding arrives, a stranger to a stranger, a soul to a soul, and feeling to feeling. And the moment is exactly clear and free and now and awake, and the diversions of mistakes, discarded, knowing that these too were the victims of the jealously, so then, the truth stands before you, waiting for acceptance, and it is sane and understandable, and there is great movement in the apparently passive moment, but there is thunder there too, the peaceful thunder of a justified heart subjected. And the pleasuring song, wants you to dance to its rhythm, and all it asks for you is to believe, to know, to dance to the music of the soul.

You Are the Vain

The life that felt the death in that moment, squaring to each others eyes, and comfort, perhaps of the touch, distracts, alleviates, and then in remembrance, there are smiles that weren't really smiles, and differences that weren't really differences, and kisses that weren't really kisses, in the moment of life, that wasn't really life, and touch, and its memory, sometimes empty and sometimes lingering to the point of, something to thrill to, and the day looks on, it does not opine, it just stands there and looks on in its nakedness. not to be forsaken or ignored, and within the moment, lies the mystery, the place to pursue, to venture to, to seek to be at one with, a place indeed to gain affection from, and then you turn in a moment, only to find that the affection that you sought in a certain direction, has been delivered to you, from a completely different place, it is life, and it is bigger than you could ever think that you are. Life is the power, and you are the vain.

Anger in the Heart

Anger in the heart, expressed towards a distant belief, something that isn't considered and therefore not embraced, and then this anger at some point, finds your gaze, and if you are open enough, questions your self. We are worlds apart, you in yours, and I in mine, and at times a long way from understanding, being blinkered in our ignorance, in our lack of the attempt to understand what it is that is outside of us. The world outside of our own personal world can be a threatening thing, when fear will not allow us the chance to look, to know that our own personal world is not the only world in the world, peace dwells next door, and all it takes is a ring on the bell, and when the heart is open, and is one with your own personal truth, will reply to you in a truthful way. And peace in its own gentle way, will destroy the anger, when you decide to be at one with it, and all it takes is nothing. Nothing to argue about and nothing to fight for, and nothing to feel different with others about, and so then, nothing becomes everything, nothing is love, and nothing is peace, and nothing is understanding, and nothing is the God within.

The Question

Speaking to me wth your touch, in the dimly lit room in summertime, love lives in the room next door presumably, and she darts like a butterfly, settling here and settling there, and so you dwell, sweet lady in the door next to love, in focus, concentrated, and then so, we come together once again, in moments of our lives, you for your reason, and I, for mine, and now the moment of being with you, doesn't wish to leave or betray you, wishes to be constant to you, and recent memory, and I think perhaps, that you fit the most with my style, with my need, outside of permanancy, and before, I had thought of some kind of future guilt, of indignity, and now it has been swept aside, and eyes collide at a point of difference, and the moon looks on, questioning me, and no doubt you, and my answer is yet in the making, and I wonder if you have even yet heard the question.

Found Within Silence

The lateral non-mind, Spirit invades and determines, in its quiet and peaceful way, entry to a side door accepted, and the world becomes anew, in a place where poets sing and angels dwell, and the only place where truth can be is in the silence, and even within the silence, questions arise, and how is your broken heart? And why don't you confront it in your need? And have you defined your need? And is it really something that you need? Or is your need, something that you don't necessarily need? Is it the distraction, the deviation, taking you, or trying to, from yourself? And a return to the silence, and the inquisition, for silence is not the answer in itself, so you settle yourself into a place within the silence, trying to find the rightful place, that place, the homely place, the place that fits with you, and then when you discover, you emerge, and then the silence becomes a gift, given to you by itself, and you find that all that you have had to do, has to have been, is to have found your place within it.

Voices of Silence

Voices of silence speaking within heads, looking beyond the face for a greater understanding, the hidden truth, the secret, dwelling in the quietest of places, naked in itself, asking for only its own accompaniment, and the obvious is gone to rest, and the dream surfaces, dream brought out of sleep, awakened by need, and the day merges with the night, and yesterday with today and tomorrow, and one soul with another, and the death, with the life, collective consciousness, has its point to prove, and it means to prove it, and the changing sky and feeling, creating the oneness of the all, and now there is no difference, no black no white, no race, no religion, just the reality of truth.

By the Royal Canal

Stalemate, and motion eases the self from the real. It refuses the tears and its soul is urgent somehow. Faces of the city, the ravaged and the torn, drinking by the Royal Canal, on the edge of sane, and the frustrated language and feeling, crazy in its anger, in its discomfort. All the world is a cruel place, until, you find that kind place of love, a gentle and a simple love, not the accepted love of lovers, but the love within interconnection, of friendship, and of care. Seems to me sometimes, that like finds like, in a desperation, in a loneliness, in a helplessness, in a fanatical need. And it is very difficult to see love within the drinkers on the Royal Canal, but theres is love just the same. And the sun escapes to places like Dalkey and Kiliney apparently, where quality is apparently increased, and simple sentences and words of art align, there is anger in the madness, and everyone, whether rich or poor, has the same spotlight thrust upon them.

A Mexican Thing

So she says to me: 'You don't smile so often, do you'? and then she says; 'But I like how you look.' Perhaps, its a Mexican thing.

Aeroplane in Toronto

Sitting in an aeroplane in the airport at Toronto, whatever it is properly called, and the guy next to me, ask me; 'Do you think the Leafs will make the Play-offs?' And I am wearing, unfortunately for me, a Canada Hockey shirt, and I have no idea what he is talking about, and I answer, ''Well, they've as good a chance as anyone.'

Increasing Spirit

Woke up this morning with my spirit depressed and then I asked myself 'why should my spirit be like this? And I determined to make things different, and increase my spirit, and the day has been good, seems like sometimes you have to fight the spirit that you wake up with in the morning, question and not accept it, and realise the power within.

Easter Time Again

Dark and grey and the bank is on the telephone, eyes think of tears, and meaning has reclined from the day, and then, waiting for that precise moment, where care meets with care and the abandonment of the anxious time, and looking within for changes, searching for betterment for within and without, outside of the dream of the sleeping day, and seeking to be at ease in the present moment, and the changes that it necessarily must bring, and losing the future and the past, or fusing them in a sane way with the moment, and it is Easter time and the heart and mind return to almost a century ago in the persecuted city, of the heroes of justice, giving their all for the future lives of generations to come, for no present reward. I give you Pearse and Connolly and Ceannt and Clarke and Plunkett and McDiarmuid and McDonagh, I don't feel the need to try to remember them at each Easter time, it is almost as if they remind me to remember them, and who I am and how lesser I am than them, and the brave men and women who followed them, let them never be forgotten nor their esteem lessened.

Love

And sometimes, there is no venture into words, they will not express, they are detached from truth, and then perhaps, they are inclined to lie, albeit in an innocent way, and then the reclining into silence, and the wealth of feeling it is invested with, I am sure that at the zenith, love doesn't crave for a wordy accompaniment, in its purest state, it has the strength to stand on its own, perhaps, it is a provocation, known best to itself, but yet, love must care for itself, it must accept itself, for outside of this, it would have to be a pretender, and love is too real to pretend. Love is at war, it is being subdued, it is being terrorised, there are ones in this world who care to assault it, they are ones with faces, just like the ones that you and I have, and love looks outside of itself, for mirror, be a mirror, let love seep into you, divorce yourself from selfish wants, and allow love its place, to be the master.

My Roman Catholic Upbringing

I look around and back at all the places that I have been and visited, and I ask myself, 'whatever happened to my good Catholic upbringing?' Was it always to be just a challenge? Just a place to progress from, and a place that in fact was never really there in the first place?

Wildfire Eyes

Wildfire eyes, and the heat just keeps on heating, to be lateral, is just to cower, in a fear, in the world of togetherness, so there can be no question, can there?

St Patrick's Day 2014

St Patrick's Day is what is on my mind, an event and an occasion, open to anyone and everyone, regardless of creed or colour of skin or political persuasion, it is a celebration of humanity and its essential differences, and the things that make us special to each other, our beauty is in our difference, and that is where our wonder is too. St Patrick's Day is a celebration of our lives and nothing more, and nothing less.

Reclaiming the Spirit

So where does that spirit come from that makes you wish to reclaim your true spirit, away from drink and drugs, when their spirit has invaded your life?

Division

I understand, and then emotion tackles it, and then there is the battle between the two, and relationships are everywhere, and sometimes they argue and sometimes they slide together, but they never become as one. And I walked these city streets today, looking at the people that I will never know, and remembering the people that I have known, and that I do know. And I was wondering about whittling it all down to one person, and I thought of narrowness and decision and feeling. And the day proceeded and there I was sitting inside and gazing on the day, away from faces known and unknown, and the sun shining through my window in wintertime, and now emotion had gone to sleep, and peace had taken over, and it spoke to me, directed me, instructed me to love, this was the question that it had given to me, and now there was an answer to give.

Memories

Erstwhile memories, the obvious really, and the judges and the priests are infidels. and they all reside in this smoky room, they have come up to the present time, moment, and porn stars are seeking me, and I refuse them, telling them, that I don't need them, so far removed from love, when love is what I believe to be truth, and my heart and mind gain peace, perhaps in a smug way, but there is satisfaction nonetheless, and then I face the day, and the day faces me, and my innocent heart, my pure heart, is neither innocent nor pure, but true to itself, it needs no accompaniment, it is exact, and then in another page of another time, I see her, now invisible to me, and evasive as she almost always was, and I look into the eyes of the past and then I wonder,.

Truth

Patronising plaudits, and then she turns from me, to her reality, expecting me to consume them, be influenced by her throwaway ideas, devoid of truth, and I turn from her to a place of reality, in a moment of so long ago. Hurt remembers, and it wishes not for the accompaniment of anger, and I have heard the words of bitterness, and I have seen the words that I have written, and in the sobriety of my changing mind, they are distant from me. And then I wish to apologise for my being a misrepresentation of myself, and then within this, I seek personal change, that will align itself to my reason, to the truth of myself, or what I see, to be the truth of myself, and then I ask myself; 'who exactly am I?' And who exactly, do I want to chose to be? And why do I betray myself with giving illusions to the world? So then I have become as patronising to myself as those patronising plaudits have been, and perhaps, in retrospect, she showed me something that I was loath to see.