in me·mo·ri·am

I.
If I’m to know your heart,
why must I first experience your pain?
Why must the depth of your emotions be
vaguely equivelant to the height of my patience,
the might of my will,
the force of my heart? 

II.
What is this I’m feeling?
An emotion totally out of
focus and place with what
we’ve known so far?

I know that I’m falling
too fast, too far into
a space closely guarded
by your cautious mind. 

What to do but pull my heart
up by its somewhat stretched
cords and remind it of the pain
it has so recently known.

I’m not a prophet,
nor a seer. And I do
not want to cause myself
pain over wanting you.

So I will seek the safe
place, the firmer ground
and enclose me heart
yet again in wax.

III.
This is the end,
of a thing that’s never begun
except in the sphere that
is my heart.

A POEM

When your emotions flow in verse,
With vivid image to converse.
Your thoughts take on eternal scope,
To raise in others, thoughts and hope.
To be of influence, though you die,
The breath of life will cast a sigh.

Pikey.

Wanton Irish Faerie

I see people encased in fearful shells
living lives of tripping-tedium,
embedded in the ordinary.
Mine, however, is the vast, dark sky
and the spaces between the stars.
Unencumbered by riches or materialism:
Mine is the promise of Magic.

I see no reason to live
other than to be free.
Not caged by any loyalty
to political or national affiliations,
my life is only one facet of
a mystery much larger than
self or country.

Disappointments in love, loyalty, and trust
are merely a crucible
wherein I crush the herbs of ego
into the fine dust of transformation,
creating the alchemical elixir of the Soul.

Now is the time to dance
naked and laughing and wild as a
wanton Irish faerie
in a jasmine sunbeam.

Flowing Through the Unicorn’s Horn

Angels sigh with dewy breath
the scent of jasmine
as I surrender to this quasi-death
and ritual resurrection.

As I lay me down to sleep
reality melts away,
and flames in my soul do leap
while breathing into the cauldron of my womb.

Behind closed lids,
the third eye perceives
a milk-white light;
a swirling vortex.
A mini-galaxy
spirals out from between my brows,
flowing through the unicorn’s horn,
tenneling through time and space.
Eventually my pure essence emerges,
straddling a comet of quartz:

amplifying my desire to see
through the eyes of divinity.

A WORTHY TYPE.

It’s not in churchly polished pews that character is hewn;
Nor in the cloistered confessional that refection takes its toll.
It’s at the burning forge of life, where no one is immune,
From the anguish of temtation thus laying bare his soul.

When the strident carefree youth, sets out to make his mark;
From this day on he’ll be adjudged by self and friends alike.
The challenges he tops or fails and every chance remark,
Will rest in virtual evidence, was he a worthy type?

Of all the folk that I have met, of every faith and rank,
There’s a man that I’ll remember until my final breath.
From Grandkids to the Bishop, they called him Pa or Frank.
The impact that he had on folk, will last beyond his death.

He was a true blue farming man, mighty hands like the vice.
Could strain a fence, milk a cow and till the soil with plow.
Through drought, flood and years a plush his labour did suffice,
To nurture family, his greatest prize, of that I can avow.

This humble man with sparkeling eye and comely, wistful grin;
With unpretentious decency and humour most contagious.
Showed us how to smile at life and build the strength within,
To be the best and recognise, that all of life is precious.

This man my friend, this son, the husband, Dad and Pa,
Will need no stone engraved in gold, to laud his name with hype.
His achievements stand for all to see, the family that they are.
This is your measure Frank my mate, you were a worthy type.

Pikey.