Sarah Ferguson and the 'Access Fee.'

Seems like they marched the Grand old Duchess of York up to the top of the hill and took the greatest of pleasure in seeing her march right down again

In the Moment

She was dancing inside her head to the music that she was creating. It was like a new art form, but she didn't call it anything. She was just there. And she was living it.

The Yo-Yo Murders

'Sometimes the words arrive, sometimes there is emptiness.' I said; 'but who is in control of you?' She looked out of the window, raising her head to the sky. It had neen a tougth day for Valerie Marlett, there was red around her eyes and her hair was less together than was usual. I decided to say no more as I watched her come from the window back to the armchair that she had been occupying before my question. She picked up again the book she had been writing in.

I decided that I would go out walking for a while to ease the atmosphere that had developed between us and to get some much needed air and excercise. Dun Carrig had known better times. With a population of about 2,500 and a high rate of unemployment in the area. Years previously the town had been noted for its weaving industry and in particular for its own Duncarrig Tweed. But now it was 2010 and things had changed dramatically. There was no weaving industry, and no longer was there Duncarrig Tweed.

I left the cottage and proceeded up the hill to the town. It was abjout six o'clock in the evening and there were quite a few people around. I passed a couple of people that I was familiar with and we exchnged greetings, as was normal, at least around here in Dun Carrig. I decided I would walk further up the hill and have a pint in Mooney's. It was January and the temperature was about -1 Celsius. I was dressed in my usual Jeans and Denin jacket and beacause of the time of year had my hat and gloves on.

As I was approaching the pub I could hear the sound of music. Mooney's was the local music pub and some of the local trad musicians made a point of meeting there for a session on certain nights of the week. Tonight was Friday and although it was fairly early in the evening there were a few customers and musicians in the bar. I approached the bar and ordered a pint of lager from Jack, the old barman. After receiving and paying for this I took a seat beside an old friend of mine from my schooldays, Michael Harkness. We engaged in some easy conversation about the town the county and the politicians.

After a few minutes when our easy conversation had run its course we both sat and listened to the music that was being played. there were three players on fiddle, guitar and bodhran and at this time the guitarist had broken into song with the musical version of Yeats' poem 'Down by the Sally Gardens.'

Valerie sat with her sister Susan in the Kylemore cafe on O'Connell Street, going through several coffees and tales from the heart. She gazed out of the window, thinking of Sean Og and wondering how things were since she had left Dun Carrig. Now she was staying for the time being at least, with her sister Susan at her place in Drumcondra. She was still busy writing her third novel, as yet untitled and although Drumcondra didn't hold quite the same tranquility as Dun Carrig, she was progressing with her current writing nonetheless.

Mona Lisa

Haunting and beguiling, alluring Mona Lisa. Shy reticent mouth and ravishing seductive eyes. She is man and she is woman. She is bisexuality. Not the most feminine and not the least feminine. Hands that hold onto herself, bidding to confirm her reality. Posing for Da Vinci in the midst of a fantasy island.

Leila

Questionable beauty, physical deception, cosmetic appeal, enchanted by a lie. Accepting of my own foolishness, not really wondering why.

Again and again, she walks that studied walk, and again and again, I am taken.

Somehow I refuse the truth of my real opinion. The truth this time, seems bland and unexciting and dull. She seems vibrant and living and sensual. Her motion turns to me for my approval, which it readily gains.

And I know that I mustn't get too close, nor gaze through the veneer. There is feeling within distance and not a sound to my ear. And ultimately I kissed her, and I saw her face arrange.

With her arm around my waist, I wished her well, and I have never seen her again.

Do You Remember When You Died?

Do you remember when you died?
Was it like you pictured it might be?
Or did death control you and show its strength over yours?
Were you ready for the moment?
Did you think that this could happen to you?
Did you feel that tang of freedom,
Of a certain kind of beauty?
Did you embrace it?
Was it a friend?
And are you pleased with the outcome?
Do you think that you can progress from here?
And how has your form changed?
Are you yet a physical body?
Do you need for anything?
Is there something you would like a little more?
Do you think of that lifetime?
Do you evaluate it, or do you ignore it?
Was it just an illusion?
Was there significance in it?
Was it was it seemed to be?
Or was it just something that had to be done?
Do you remember when you died and how that will happen to everyone?

The Miser

The Miser, is a thief, a cheat, and a liar. His love is sealed within an uncaring heart. He must look to only himself, he will not reveal himself to others. He is alone when he is with anyone, even someone he may profess to love. If a gift is given to him, he will accept it gladly and he will accept all the more gifts that you should care to bring his way.

The miser has a heart of rust. His smile is not a smile and his truth is not a truth, and his friendship is not a friendship. He has no need for embrace. He sees things clearly in his dullness. he is a bore and he is a fool. He has not breathed in the beauty of the things around him. He has no purpose and his eyes are dark and unknowing. He walks in his darkness until something or someone will awaken him. The miser doesn't care and poverty will be his crown.

Eyes

Wild expectation in the swirling wonderland, where the night is on fire, and the world is at hand. A song sings. The radio levitates. The room a forever changing coloured spiral. I walk inside, try to step aboard, the conductor he waves to me, says 'Are you supposed to be here?' I look him strongly in the eye and throw his hat to the ground. I dance my way through his hat and into the vortex.

The moon reads seven o'clock and the stars are playing football with a puffy, frothy cloud, and all that I can think of is Canada. But Canada appeals to me, and says: 'I am not here, concentrate!' I work to try to forget about Canada and the world as I have known it, and it comes to me that I should take another turning (well Canada suggested it anyway).

I gaze again at the moon and wonder if he will reveal his secrets to me. I think again of a new direction and I meditate on the moment. I open my eyes to find myself in the arms of a beautiful woman, and in her eyes, there is Moon.

And as I beheld her, I thought not of her name or where she had come from, but of the familiarity I felt with her, and the warmth she had brought to me that made me feel that I had made it home.

And we walked in a world of mystery remaining close to one another, and I beheld her beauty once again, and I sensed that her beauty was real, and I wondered if she would remain or she was just a part of a fleeting fantasy, a phantom, that I could have no control over, and perhaps had little right to be with.

And in her eyes the moon had turned to sea, and wave after wave of imagining washed over me. And I was in a pleasant garden and I mingled with the quietude, and my heart was at ease, and flowers danced in agreement, of how the day had become, and I wondered if I could take this day with me, and into tomorrow, although I knew in my heart that today could never be tomorrow and that perhaps tomorrow might hold some fear for me that I wasn't fully aware of in today.

The sun had gone in and had taken its love away. She told me that I had to focus on the clouds in the sky. So I lay down on the earth and I gazed at the sky and I pictured myself as in a cloud till I pictured myself as a cloud and I turned and asked the sun 'Are you satisfied with me now?' and she smiled upon me on a summer's day and she was radiant and she was beautiful.

The Appropriate one and I

The Appropriate one. The yin to my yang. The other half of the Two of Cups, comes running down the stairs as i am running up the stairs. Simultaneous same words. Mutuality of care. A shared look, a book we both have read, a place we both belong. A place called 'Love.' A single warmth radiates singleness of feeling. No touch is required and touch is required. Nowhere is abroad and no-one is a stranger. The world is singular and the clock has no time. There is no past, no future. Now is fully here. This is the only moment there has ever been and need ever be. Abandonment of care. Dreams suddenly have meaning, have a reason why, in the mystical world of the appropriate one and I.

Climate Change

She in the Ice-House, heart in a sling, mouth like desire, touch like the wind, sending me fire, playing my strings, giving her all to me, shedding her wings. Breathing her life to me, making me sing, her eyes burn me with their magical sting, the time has no gauge, the moment no mind, the place is unknown and the world is behind. Dancing her way into me, keeping in time, sharing her rythmm with this rythmm of mine. Angry for love, drawing no lines, loving her loving with this loving of mine.

She flies in the nighttime, long hair flowing, the gown of indeterminate shape and style. Her eyes are for no-one, she is alone with herself, her very breath is beauty, and her song is of desire fulfilled. There are wide open spaces upon which she dances her dance to an unheard melody, within a lovers' trance. She rests beside a rock and closes her eyes to dream. She focuses on the feeling that is inside of her. It speaks to her of understanding outwith her simple understanding, knowledge outside of her knowledge, truth outsisde of her truth. She will return to the Ice-House no more, she will go where she is taken, by the feeling inside of her. Love will determine the future.

Love will determine the future.

The Gift of the Gift

A gift to the outcast which he must recognise and acknowledge with honesty and selflessness, and gift back to where it came from. The gift cannot be from within and he must decide for himself from whom the presentation is from. A gift from within love and caring. An implantation freom a higher power, and the greater the soul of the gift, the greater the quality of it, then the greater the gift of the gift.