Then

in one motion –
my arm and cupped hand in the stream
scoop water like a copper ladle
through a school of minnows,
catches one, others cascade between
my thumb and forefinger
or over the edge of my hand
back into their salvation.
Tadpoles scatter and dart
through the rippled image
of my head and eyes;
my shins itch from wet, cuffed jeans
and clinging grass;
green shallots on the opposite bank
tingle my nasal membrane; the emptiness
of my stomach aches.
A monarch butterfly
jitters past, slow motion, like a leaf
sent speeding by a gust of wind
but caught now, caught now, caught now
as the lone minnow circles
the sea of my open palm.

Poem

The Big Sleep

Before closure:
on the slope of the hill,
soft, clumps of mowed grass
pillow my head with meshed cuttings
and the fresh smell

my eyes read the dusk sky
for first winks of stars and the cusps
of the smiling crescent moon, the one who lays
snug against me, shoulder to shoulder,
does not disturb the gathering cricket song
or my mind – a night latch without a key –
a slap at a mosquito curbs the cricket chirp stream

her chest heaves steady, deep,
I know she dreams of “esta um dia
tão bonito lá fora…”

two birds on a telephone line are
identical as the last sinews of day drag
across my sky’s ceiling of cover; a wild
Canadian goose, no, a flock in a ‘V’ honks heading
south, the sound far-off along some natural map
marker, the echoing hangs
on the slipping light
a tribute, taps. Sunset.
And a first kiss of star light:
I wish I may, I wish I might, live forever.

Had a very nice dinner in a railway car....

at the Glenlo Abbey, which is just outside of Galway.

My new friend on Inisheer, Aran Islands, Ireland

Nothing is better than an apple in the morning!

Poem

In the Garden

In the garden of my heart
I care for all the flowers
I tend evenly.
Grace of sun
and rain feeds the tulip
seed in the same way as
the lady slipper, lily,
yellow rose. Most
flourish in my coarse hands
but one grows
toward me not
the sun inexplicably.
In the garden
of my heart insects
pollinate iris and
orchid equally.
Color, pattern, taste,
scent, shape attract me
to each plant,
yet one pleases
me more favorably.
Daisy petals in
my hand fly away
with the wind
but one flower clings
to me in the garden
of my heart.
In the garden of my heart
one flower grows
into the filament.

Woodstock Estate - Inistioge, Ireland

Poem

Autumn

The ‘where to’
is your last stop. A night’s
drive and home before sunrise.
All the road unknowns
soon will ease away into sleep,
your mind tracing white and yellow
lines through all of your thoughts.
What guides you easier
than the North Star, compass,
parents, friends? Engine
tuned, gas tank full, wheels straight;
it is the geometry of travel.
“All worry,” you say out loud, “is removed
out here on the road.” With no moon
or streetlights, your vision is limited
even with high beam headlamps: you
can only see 40 to 50 feet ahead of you
in an ellipse
that hides all angles
of vulnerability. You open
a window to stop the slip,
the nod, the drowse. The cool air
fills your nostrils and lungs,
tears your eyes and parts
your hair. You smell autumn,
fall: an old sweater
you wear once a year, kept in a cedar chest,
the fading perfume of a her sex
from a full night lying
in an apple orchard. Cores
of your appetite brown
in the dark, scattered with dried leaves
and the backs of your heads damp
and pillowed on roots and clumps
of meadow. The air is musky and prickly
with yarn, sweet
and tart as warm cider and cinnamon
and cold as a brook’s stone plucked
from coursing black water. It is the air
of cyclical death on your face,
everything seems to fall
into place within the commingling
of white and yellow lines,
have reason.

Poem

' Above Vitebsk,' Marc Chagall

Illumination

My breath
cannot expand my exterior
so you attach the hose of your Think-Tank
to my mouth, block all exit holes,
smooth loose skin and turn on
the illuminating gas.
You fill me completely – fingernails
pop off – and you free my ties to the Earth.
Light-headed and giddy
I inch away from the experimental
platform and begin to see things in ways
that you do. Tops of trees are eye-level. Baby birds
smile, are fed in nests of twigs, grass, hair.
The ends of oak branches are caught in the web
of caterpillar silk and a lone Peregrine hawk clings to one
branch blinking some teary-eyed message in the wind
to me. I look down, a small pond tattoos
an open field near a dairy farm, the twin blue
silos like a pair of child’s eyes. Chimneys
of a mill town exhale soot into storm
clouds, hanging over the brick homes
and tarred roads that connect in blocks
and ovals like a massive fishing net,
ripped and frayed, restrung
and stitched. Nothing can hold
me, I drift higher
and float along a map
of rivers and lakes. Everything
is microscopic and demands my attention;
objects miles away appear to rest in my hands
when I hold them out before me. Lightning pricks
the ground like injections. Satellites glide and orbit in homage
to the stars. I trust the Man on the Moon when he winks
to me. Clouds shadow my flight, try to learn the way
to the ocean which suddenly lies before me
like a blue Easter egg
in my palms.

Poem

my love

my love has two eyes to see my smile
and my eyes reflect unconditional love.
my love has one heart to record
and exhibit the truth of my being.
my love has one soul to know
the depth and trials of my soul.
my love has two lips to kiss
me to feel the passion of my blood.
my love has one body to cry
from in pleasure or pain.
my love has two ears to hear
my pledges of fidelity and eternity.
my love has one sense of mystery
to torture me with her sensuality.
my love has one mind to create
the world in which I exist.

Poem

The Sky in Ireland
(climbing Croagh Patrick)

By the statue of St. Patrick
the old man sleeps, head back, mouth
open, swallowing the sky. Soundless.
Ewes graze or sleep in the open fields
in the beginnings of Croagh Patrick.
A crow rests in the last tree
to the summit. Soundless. You recognize
the shape of sanity against the pale
backdrop of your friend the sky:
the fullness of joy and agony
waiting for roadkill.

Do not open any letter
that will break your heart. Offer your blue
friend salt with her Blue Curaçao
margarita. A beautiful woman once said,
‘A drunk is a better lover than the poet’ –
it is why the sky drinks
and I exist.

Rivers and oceans always reflect the sky
but the sky reveals all color
in rainbows and the spiritual remains
of water in clouds. Expect nothing
from clouds, though, or crows
except to pick the remains of your existence
and your soul.

Croagh Patrick

Poem

The Gaol

In the chambers
of my heart
I imprison my desire
to take part in the execution
of the moon.
It’s only crime
relates to the passage
of time and the length
to heal and how I became
a guard to the prison
of my heart,
awaiting the pardon
and release delivered by
my new love.

Kilmainham Gaol - Dublin

Poem

The Cliffs of More

The ocean wind
unleashes a torrent of tears
from my eyes
that fall beyond the edge
of the cliff
and are caught up in the currents
of the air,
up into the currents of the sky
where the clouds
possess them for their own

and many days
from now as thunder and lightning
clouds collect,
you will run outside to spin and dance
beneath darkened
skies and catch my September tears
with your tongue.

Cliffs of Moher

Poem

Clifden

Right now is night
and a deep black night along Clifden,
beneath a full moon: a fortune in silver
clouds and linings within blackened water.

Small village doesn’t speak nor do I,
the air speaks:
a rustle of sycamore leaves,
clanging bells from sailboats
in the harbor, a hard gust
that warns of the coming silence.

Any word from me and the small village
would float away
as the horizon does as you fall away
from it on a hillside

onto your back and meet the moon
and a zillion stars with your eyes,
and thoughts of them meaning less than
those stars right now
if you were here with me.

The village of Clifden and harbor in Connemara

Poem

Loop Head

Edge of country: rock. Green
West meets Atlantic. Whoever
finds beauty here
loves dangerous beauty.

Moon pull
and tidal surges
over the edge
and onto our legs
and shoes. You
pull closer and pull
the moon’s white
blanket over us
as if we can hide
from the pull
of what brought
us here.

vacation is over

I will try and do a travelog when I catch up on my life and work.

Poem

In One Place

By the bridge of the seven arches
my reflection in the River Nore
showed many faces of myself
before I laid your picture
in the wake of ducks and geese and watched
your picture float away,
your eyes full of tears
for my delay in meeting
you in our secret place near the beach
where you live,
and dance in the veranda
that resembles a music box
where my heart is a key
and your lips a lock.