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.