Waves still crash, soft on the hammered shore,
while people dance, and sing,
nursing what went before,
though why this long line in the sand?
Living in deep waters, riding high on a crest,
we always sang, and knew our place,
and our place in Paradise is close, but lest
you steal it away,
while grains of sand create a beach,
in our single, softly trodden patch, we sway
in rising storms,
and now, where merging waters kiss
under open skies, and warm sun bakes,
and ask you journey with us,
for all our sakes.
With my fingers all a quiver
And we begin our merry dance.
What wondrous chance
Has sought us two out
To come together in this way.
And soft sounds silence the air
As we sway as one
Entwined, a love so rare
My heart-strings pulled, stretched, fulfilled,
Overcome as we ignore all other types.
There’s just me, with you,
My fingers dancing
On my Irish pipes.
Finding my voice, in this choir of calamity,
each chorus a mystery,
singing parts I can not reach
is a task I’ve been set
by choristers and masters alike,
demanding I find it, own it,
look for it in places I find hard to seek,
and instead settle into
my comfort zone, humming, drone,
soft circle of my personal scale
and feel some nurture there.
Big bite in the neck.
Little more blood
Oh, what the heck:
Eight pints of red nectar
To keep alive the haunting spectre
And enter the hallowed fraternity,
Not just for Halloween,
But for all of damned eternity.
Running, running in a race
Faster, faster feels the pace
Cut through the water
Over the blocked path
Breathless push now up the hill
Only a few miles to go
Nearer then against the foe
Positioning at the top men
Getting right beside them
Seeing the last klick coming
Concentrating on the running
Last few hundred now in sight
Powering home to win the fight
I did not cross the bridge that day,
Though stood and looked upon its arch,
Its mossy carpet, soft within the mist,
Lead to a wood of distant larch.
Perhaps with some regret, I might add,
I turned away from what I’d seen
And the future promise of a secret view
Became a thought of what might have been.
I guessed, as I listened to the distant sound
Of quiet thunderous waters fall,
I would one day return to that scene
And without the mists would see it all.
But in telling this little memory tale
My memory fades of that little track
And I can no longer find the bridge
And therefore never able to go back.
I went, one day,
to a school
on the way
to the end of my life.
when I got home
and I sighed
with my wife
and together we cried
on our own.
For the Daily Post: Educate