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.