Though the echoes of you are gone

I lose the grip I thought I'd won

You hoard your grief in a shrouded manor

While I'm buried in the wreckage of mine

What is it that reminds me of you?

All that I know and love leads to you

I share my dreams with your ghosts

They reclaim the throne of closure's bones

As I draw ink from all tongues known to me

To brush in strokes...

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My other life is pretty good;

It seems to lie beyond the stars,

Beyond the pettiness of Earth,

Its angry men, its belching wars.

My other life makes lots of sense:

An antidote to gloominess.

It lifts me from the daily dread;

Away from this destructive mess.

My other life turns up in dreams,

When I snatch instances of sleep;

Where joyful and unscripted larks

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Walking blind in the darkness 

outreached hands 

calling no names

godless

I ask where I am 

and nothing answers 

dante walked with a poet beside him

but my path is wordless 

no witness

I wail so someone will hold me 

the darkness clothes my body

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I choose my mask — 
a polished smile,
quiet eyes
looking past everyone in the room,
the yes before anyone asks — 
afraid my own skin
would not be enough.

I brush past others,
strangers’ shoulders meeting in a crowd — 
brief pressure,
then the quick pull away
I have learned to expect.

Then something gives — 
a breath held too long
that slipped beneath the surface — 
a hairline fr...

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And, the day after,

will the evil cease?

Will Hope conquer Hate?

Le Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh,

Dé Domhnaigh, an t-aonú lá is fiche de mhí an Mheitimh,

an bhliain dhá mhíle is fiche a sé.

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If you find yourself in such distress,
That you cannot show nor express.
If you find yourself in so much pain,
And you'll not feel happiness again.

If you find yourself in dreadful trouble,
That you must hide inside a secret bubble.
If you believe that there is no more hope,
And with your problems you just can't cope. 

If you are stuck in such deep misery,
And there's no light outside...

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Gibberish

If all those dying in the fray

Were laid from end to end,

They would stretch for many a mile

And no doubt grievously offend,

Behind their desks so far away,

The same men talking gibberish

With a sickly, spray-on smile.

As it happens

No one needed to die today

But, as it happens, sixteen did.

Of the usual bagged variety:

Men, women and so...

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Palestine Action

went a-courting with courage:

Hopes’s green shoots showing.

Le Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh,

Dé Sathairn, an ceathrú lá déag de mhí Feabhra,

An Bhliain Dhá Mhíle is Fiche a sé.

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Her habit, during nights deprived of peace,

Of dark skies savaged by the usual crowd,

Was to tell the world in her loudest voice:

‘For God’s sake, listen; this madness must cease!’.

But no one did, although she shouted loud.

Close by, stunned citizens with no choice

Took comfort in the echoes of her scream,

While they browsed damage as though in a dream.

Today she was ...

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