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.