poetry, trails of thought

“U think I C ill, dear RED – do you really?”

U think I C ill, dear red,

but what I C is everything

there is

for anyone

to C,

if anyone is

of the mind to remind

themselves of truth in its entirety.

U, meanwhile, C only surfaces of happy flat,

which result in

pleasantness and fun and the running of

young child in that wilful ignorance of wild.

 

And if U R out to convince me I C only ill,

let me inform U I not only see

the very best stuff

which

this tough rock has to offer,

I am able – quite despite the horrors

U choose to ignore,

and refuse to con-

template – to enjoy the diamond amongst the

rough-

est of (delibe{rat[ed.]}) cruelties.

 

And when U enjoy your world,

and ask me Y not,

UR fearless loving is hardly brave conduct

on UR part, in the

least of petite strate-

gems U do seriously insist on

calling me out for:

and it seems to me,

in further serious honesty,

U do seem

to prefer

to treat life as a ball-game of highs,

when in truth

the most joyful people I know

have had the grandest of times

as, simultaneous-

like, they know all too well its lows.

 

So don’t question my capacity to have fun:

question, instead,

your inability to run with the truth –

and still come out on top;

that top I right do,

despite

all the fro

and to;

despite

all the come

and pretty go which, curious-

like, U eject like seat

of wind-up show.

 

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poetry, trails of thought

[Re]claiming #Belfast

Belfast now belongs to me 

In way it never did.

Belfast now does sing to me

In a way it never could.

Belfast now is so deep in my soul 

In a way I never did witness true.

And Belfast now I reclaim proud 

And loud and tall and despite her shroud,

As city of lights and heights and wills:

The release of real freedom

 From the lover who killed.






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poetry, trails of thought

Last day in #Belfast

It’s good to revisit – anywhere I mean; 

revisiting puts back into place 

the treacherous memories which hurl this disgrace

our sorry, worried and weirdsome ways.

And although I loved dear Karen as never I loved any soul before,

the wrong we were and did

made quite impossible the sought and hid

we tarried with;

and then it came my time again –

as foolish men are unwilling, silly, with sensible ken –

to confound and confuse 

the ruse of younger child:

her wildness and beauty meant so much more to me

the day we met and had such grand repast –

or was it only grand for me?

And so ever since, dearest Claire you know I’m sure

you’ve been

the very reason for all these rhymes which 

sit so still, like currents deep in streams of gold.

And if anyone could fairly rid me of the sad we had,

the family we goodbye bade,

at the abandonment your mother and I once committed mad,

then it did have, I guess, in poetic retrospect,

to be the sight of you that night of wonder 

in Dublin town, in Dublin town.

In Dublin town, that night.

And so now it is from other town, from Belfast brave and strong,

I leave again with empty hands;

no bands of marriage 

nor bonds of easy conversation.

And the pain of continuing silence does take

its toll, like road of unseen

destination.

How much?  What now?  When ever?  Why then?

And so the questions do proceed on their ever so wild tumbleforth; 

and so the answers stand outside my ken; here and now;

then and when.

And if you stood before me straight,

no rancour nor anger 

could I possible feel: 

only the curious, puzzled bemusement of a man

who will only ever love, 

never understand his women.

And if finally, in two hundred years or so,

my words to you, dear Claire, you know,

do end up collectable in winsome tome of 

strange times past, left solid behind – those 

rhyming couplets 

and monologues unheard like birds of briefly leaning flight, 

as record clear 

of my affection and real love

for the grandeur of your

voice and smile, 

and the iron will,

and the firmest of lives, striven truly tough,

oh, the stuff you have done …

… so just hear this now:

always loved by me you’ll find yourself;

always loved by me,

until my tomb.

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poetry

This Belfast, finally met / And so the people on the streets … / Just see

And you listen to good music,

And the people on the streets walk on by,

And the lyric rhymes nicely with the side of supper

You might have chosen once – but had to let go, sly.

And the stealthy ones are them; or so you suspect.

But it’s OK, because 

If what you wrote is any good, in any way,

At least when you’re dead 

Your kids will be proud of you.

And it doesn’t matter if you hurt whilst it happens

Because if there is worth,

There is reward –

Even if the reward is only for them,

That time, I mean, when you’re dead.

And the people on the street walk on by,

And the younger folk clasp hands and love, 

And later probably sigh,

In the evening of basking Belfast:

The Belfast you finally met.

And so maybe you’re a fool,

And maybe you were a tad ill, after all –

Some time after the walls you built,

And they built,

And more particularly she built,

And – truly! – we all built;

But that time is no longer.

And the wrongs you survived

Have revived your truths,

And made you the man that becomes 

The futures you will be.

Just see.

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poetry, trails of thought

Today’s gone and done 

As I wander through my thoughts 

My wandering makes me 

Wonder

At loss over loss.

And the cost has been essentially tremendous.

And my innate cautiousness 

Has made me loosen myself from so much 

My life could’ve provided me with.

But no matter:

For that was a yesterday.

And today is tomorrow’s yesterday.

And therein lies –

And therein truths – 

The grandest of 

The grandest of 

Differences.

I did so much wrong through inaction, 

But now can do no more than apologise –

And then change where I am able.

And always remember that

Today is tomorrow’s yesterday.

And always remember that 

Yesterday is today’s 

Well gone and 

Done.

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poetry, trails of thought

Or did I misunderstand quite awful and bad?

And so when you said “Don’t make me your enemy”, 

Did you actually mean to say – 

To the core of my sore, 

To the weary of my reason –

“Don’t carry on doing what you’re doing to me and mine”?

‘Cos if that’s what you really meant, we ain’t got a deal:

You’ve so savaged my soul and belittled me tough

By now,

That only the stuff of truth does remain me for sure.

Only the stuff

Of absolute truth I will proclaim.

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