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Many multitudes of time distilled,
Cruxes anew and reflected on the morning dew,
Dropping on a petal to bloom.
Óró, sé do bheatha bhaile,
Derry salt from sea swept to air,
A dusty reflection made to stare.
Forefather stitched such fabric bare,
Bow tap rhythm which rivers my blood fare,
Thus harvest grapes ferment to wine,
All is connected and all collides.
Windows forged and tempered of time,
Sculpted from this world and souls divine,
All generations and existence carried onto,
The carpenter nailed,
To a tree at nine.
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All time beautiful,
How the depths of our core,
Scattered,
A lifetime searching to piece it together.
May this soul spring,
Rise into the heat and light,
And fall crunch,
Into the soft cold.
As did ancestors before,
Shall descendants after,
Wear those thorns,
Where roses do bloom,
At the eternal gate.
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Gone to be with us forever,
Into the light of God,
Enteral love,
Blessed by your beautiful soul,
May I share that grace,
My gaelic angel.
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Only an amount of stones one man can carry,
Only a length of a wall one man can build,
May we forgive for the lack of given,
May we give for the lack of forgiving.
My apologies for every sin caused,
Seen the depths of a being torn,
From the light of an angel,
To the darkness of the devil.
Soul shaken to the core,
All the love,
All the sadness,
Born.
Only if I could run,
As the messenger did from the battle of Marathon,
Only if could be nailed,
As was the thief to his right at Calvary.
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Thief.
murderer.
Adulterer.
Three words written in the sand,
Scattered into dust again.
To save a life,
We are all sinners,
To be saved.
May we forgive,
As we need forgiveness,
May we love,
As we need to be loved.
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As we speak in drunken soberness,
Tongue-time-tied with the taste of bitter rye on the tip of lips,
From public houses under neon signs of prosaic times,
Conversations wondering fathom thoughts,
To our desires of wishful thinking whom we may be to self acquire,
Collectively stumbling unconsciously alone back to that womb which we all call home,
Undercover wrapped to recall on the red wine spill on the white sheets,
The bed of lovers that we once had and never once did.
Transcending viaducts of times that you tunnel in,
Cocooning moments to grow as to be whom you to wish to,
Be as one with all that’s fleeting and never one up yourself on others or you end up falling further than you aspired,
But do not blink a worry down that hallway of mirrors to reflect upon decisions not met,
As fine sitting on your stoop or plinth on which you step.
If life is one route a road that is ever that extra mile,
How many inches have I given to let you have that destined down highwayman’s transactions to keep you pleasant,
These are not whimpers or nervous whispers,
But silent screams telling you,
You should not of went there,
Do not condescend or belittle unless prepared to see it shrugged of shoulders and ricocheted right back at you,
Every action and thing was once a thought,
That begins with you to be or not being conscious of it.
To remember always,
As time echoes to bestow unto the fleeting non-present,
All is all,
Momently slice of heaven,
Light upon subconscious dreaming,
Abyss of shadows that beckon seeing,
Fleeting existence,
Granted us soul forever cosmic reaching,
All is king,
You are,
Being.
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Derry Green,
How do we cascade through-out sounds uttered along such walls,
Where only our mind can see a place described of once before,
A family sat around their stove to keep warm,
From the winters frost that chills the soul,
The women watched the bread rise like Christ on easter Sunday,
While the men went back to work,
Widening the cracks of their hands in such wood and clay.
Wind screaming at the timber door creaking,
The home shaken like a boat out far leaking,
Yet the children knew no more,
But only meekness,
So shall the world be theirs,
Inherited,
Tattered,
Torn.
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Remembered his name forgot what it meant,
Walks talks drink in his hand,
Smiling laughing grins arrogant man,
Staring strangers spit on the ground,
Cold piercing wind rosy hands.
Saints and martyred gave their lives,
Salvation for whom,
Trumpets and bells call,
Home for whom.
Infatuation made,
Kicking stopped,
Life decayed.
Lightning struck belly gazed upon sky,
Doves flew last Sabbath July,
Forever men marched bloody war,
Forever women wailed pity mourn,
Forever children stranded empty torn.
Worlds apart,
A crown of thorns,
Children are afraid of the dark,
Adults are afraid of the light.
Free will,
Man has sinned,
God forgive.
An autumn night.
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Rip open your soul and let it fly,
Forever over the setting sun,
Which we call life,
For a moments silence,
To hush the beating drums desires of night.
Be the sand that falls from fingertips,
To the tide that erodes bodies out,
Into the sea,
which we call time,
Thus a fossil to be found.
Yet somewhere else,
Praying branches,
Leaves on the ground,
Caesar’s coin,
An angel,
Fell.
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All matter being intrinsic potentiality,
Thus by the grace of pure actuality,
Doing what is good not whatever you can,
Thus flowing not fleeting the spirit of man.
Fluorescent icons on red stained streets,
Where temptation loiters and lurks the meek,
To be abound strong aplomb and stoic,
The light shall find you in any darkness,
Through-out forgiveness thou will be a king,
And heroic.
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Veins reaching towards heavenly light.
Within our such prosaic times,
Cell,
Nucleus,
Lighting,
Sparked.
Webbing in existence,
As I am as you,
As you as I am.
Thy mirror of thyself,
Forever rooted,
Thus benign.
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Biseach chun báis,
Before now always.
Biseach chun báis,
Family friends all
Biseach chun báis,
Fleeting static forever.
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Comment
Jeremy Stokes 