Yesterday

The changes of her heart invade her mind. And I discovered through her that romance was a spiritual thing. And fleeting seems to be truth within her apparent insincerity, that I accused her of. And had guilt thereafter and couldn't be easy with conclusions, which were never meant to be conclusions. I can't quite manage to steer clear of yesterday, when she was around and around me in her prescence. I thought that I could look somewhere for answers when in reality I knew in the truth of myself, that the truth was all within myself. And yesterday has moved on, and has taken its own course, yesterday doesn't dwell in today, it has turned its back on the present, and in the present, she is around somewhere, although nowhere to be seen, without the prospect of being seen. And I wonder if today can really be true of yesterday. Yesterday when there was the feeling of love. Yesterday, when her eyes shined in mine. Yesterday when she was here.

The Music and Me

after all the muzak, I am in a Godly place listening to the delights of the art. And at the fingertips of my good fortune, I luxuriate in the beauty that is close to me. Still though, I haven't given myself to the beauty of it all, like I have and I can. Somewhere a voice is calling, as in the words of the old John McCormack song, or at least the song that he sang, and am wondering to myself, 'just how suggestible am I?' I am provoked by my non compliance, and my thoughts turn to love, the love that dwells deeply within the art of this beautiful sound of sounds. And the evening envelops me and looks at me in a precarious place, and it gazes in the eyes, and it wraps its arms around me, both in comfort and in warning me to go to the place where it feels, and possibly I, feel where I belong.

The Question

I remember when she told me that 'the only magic you will ever need, you'll find in love' and in that moment I wondered if Christians believed in magic. And I wondered then and I am still wondering now, and I believe that she has shared her magic with me, and her eyes told me to pursue the magic that she held within her, and in the distance between our eyes, the magic spoke to me of love, and she walked away on that holy evening and my eyes followed her as she left, she had given me enough to make me follow her, and I went home in the evening, to find myself alone with her in my mind, and my mind consulted the heart for feeling, and the feeling spoke to me both of mind and heart and the oneness of both, and then there had been a question, a question that I didn't realise had been asked,

Children in the Rain

Children in the rain, with no eye on the past, a thought explodes, causing a momentary ambition to be fulfilled. The old people now are but illusions, attempting to destroy the brilliancy of childhood. They are largely ignored as they should be. There is thunder in the eyes and the spirit speaks and screams and the spirit dwells and is present in each moment. Children in the rain, where there is no darkness. And the rain is but a cooling concern, the sky is yet not crying but gently embracing in empathy. And in a swingpark there is excitement and togetherness, and communion. Laughing eyes explain to the world, that the world has got it wrong. And I think that the world had better listen, because this world that the children have hanging over them, does not know. And I look in at the children in the rain and I remember when I was a child standing in the rain, but didn't realise the power or the beauty that I now perceive.

Waiting for You Impatiently

Standing within the shadow, Headphone sounds and the rain is trickling on the outside. There is guilt in the heart and its beginning to turn to a mild kind of anger. Her face is on my mind, and I sense her smile. The distance is close always, she is near to me and I feel her around me. Wondering where she will lead me to, and if it a real place to be. Defining who we are what we are, she said to me, wondering if I was to go back in school again, and the heart smiles in a sardonic kind of way. Waiting for the future, I am restless, and the heart beats in anticipation and it quietens again and I relax. The streets are made for heroes and I am on the inside and gazing through the window of my life. I am haunted by my need of her and I must endure, I brighten, I can't allow the depths to darken me. I have told her that I could tell her in the truth of my heart, and yet I am questioning my own motives. It has turned now to Autumn and the sun is largely gone, but the moon can be so beautiful in the peaceful nighttime. So I wait to discover about these definitions she had spoken of, and a smile arises. Its going to be alright I convince myself.

Mandolin

Been treating my Mandolin like a stranger, and in turn the Mandolin wont allow me closeness. Music indeed has distanced itself somewhat, and I plead for mercy, and I then have to enter my memory, and the scenes of times when there was oneness and the days had no end, and all of heart was in tune with the magic.

Strangeness

Women are strange, or is it just her? Or is it me perhaps?

Isn't it Strange?

Isn't it strange when something happens when nothing happens and when the silence speaks to you disturbing you to understanding?

Nighttime Love and the Time that Never Ends

nighttime love and the time that never ends, there is hunger in the eyes and the feet can't stand still. A cool wind blows and the heat is getting soft. Rainbow dancers swing to the rhythms of esoterica and I in my memories of telepathic nightmares am gazing in the window of my soul. A dog barks, the candle burns out, there is a feeling of complicity, how many times must there be a return to the same story? And in the mind, are thoughts of strangers, and wonderings of the times which are to be, or not to be. Someone came close and looked me completely in the eye, I don't know whether to suspect her or not, and she waltzed into the eyes and she sang into the lamplight of a song, and the song turned its head away wondered to itself in the restless nighttime. And the nighttime was non-committal and just stood there looking at the moon, and all around the stars were on fire and birds escape to the comfort of new found tales of ancient history. and the rhymms can't let go and dig the beat as only rhythms can. And the music stands on edge, checking itself on every note, not being easy, not letting go of itself. looking into its own eyes for comfort, and I walk away with eyes turned back to the action, and reckon that I might have somewhere new to turn on.

The Fade-Out Cannot Erase the Introduction

there is death in every moment and perhaps that particular moment is gone and has died. Today you walked right there beside me when you were nowhere to be seen, and I held you close to me but I knew somehow that we couldn't be apart like this forever. And I wondered if it would be correct of me in perhaps my selfishness, to say goodbye to you and our time, our not quite connecting in the conventional way. And your song was singing inside of me and I couldn't keep the beat any more. There was brightness still. I knew that there could never be tears between us and that picture that we made together could not disappear completly and the fade-out cannot erase the introduction.

Pat Ingoldsby

Pat Ingoldsby is still alive and selling his books in the city centre. I saw him other day and he saved himself yet another Euro by remembering my name (the blaggard) So he still hasn't published the book that he mentioned me in. And he has been warned that I will sue for libel if there is anything less than wonderful about me in it. So should I remember him in a song? or a Short story? Or one of those little philosophical things that I write? Hmm I am kept on edge. One of the most famous of the present day poets and he is a truly nice and gentle man and his wit and his kindness when I have not always been receptive to these things spurs me to the point where I feel I should recognise him in print also, but alas, it is my own personal snobbery that makes me turn from him and walk into myself again. He said that he wants my accent when I die, and I asked him if we could perhaps come to a pre-death arrangement and all he ever wants to do is smile. I missed the man for the few months he hawked his wares in Howth. And why Howth of all places? Isn't that the place where Gay Byrne dwells? And I guess he would like to be in Barra once again and frightening the sheep with his version of the Rocky Road to Dublin. God Bless him.