Various Poems by Neil Doyle O'Donnell. Poems By A Brandywell Boy.

1. Neil Doyle O’Donnell’s August 2012 Poems.
POEMS BY A LONGTOWER BOY.
COMMON SENSE.
The blindness of early youthful days.
Continued through years sat on bar stools and endless empty conversations.
These eyes always to miss the penny dropping.
Events of life not seen until realization gained.
The veil that masks our eyes slow to lift.
Life’s transparency sleeping like a child.
Until awakened to a fellowship of friendship and understanding.
Where this chosen path takes me to is only for I to choose and understand.
Greeted by an awaiting door opened to a life of more gracious view.
Paths now offered with clear cut steps more transparent to allow others and I to come onboard
our personal ship of knowledge.
Other’s gained insights freely given by the experiences of many gifted views.
Our past journeys much the same with paths that collide with life pushing happiness to the side.
A quite illuminated assist shared over a welcomed cup of tea or coffee.
Simple important time so sublime and never to be taken for granted.
A door to a better life opened for all to see allowing understanding and helpful view.
Changed ways and cherish happiness there to greet one and all.
Our journeys’ wish for similar view much the same as we await a revealing insight.
This to be given freely by the shared past and present of others.
As we wait for truth and light that cannot come without shared common insight.
This gift to life given by a power greater than ourselves and we in hope wishfully to take
onboard and duly understand.
Neil Doyle O’Donnell 24th. August 2012.
1

2. PEADER’S BAR.
Watching the tides of time through glass of foaming ebbs and highs.
A black subtle sea of a palate’s delight coloured by aged hangings and pouring of smoke in a bar
with Peadar’s name.
You are not from this Town are yae son? Says he.
Go on do you not see me, not know who I am.
Naw son, don’t think I do, where’s that accent from.
It’s from the ‘Town’ same as you.
Get away with you, from the town no way; you’re not the same as me.
Good god son you’re not a bloody a bloody soldier, are yae son.
No, I’m not are you a bloody nutter.
I’m gone more than twenty years, long time ago.
Go far did you.
Not that far you know ’The Town’, always calling me.
Aye, I know that well a couple of times Across the Water it was for me son, let’s have another
jar.
SPACESHIP EXPATRIA.
Days pass so quickly here on Spaceship Expatria.
As it winds slowly away from planet Home.
Through opaque veils of days, weeks and nights.
Becoming years, memories first created by honest priorities now gradually decrease in clarity.
Time in my mind warped to ease these journeys away from my island home.
These silent honeycombs of present and past subconsciously relegated to the mind’s baggage
compartment.
To be replaced by the need for relationships due to the demise of loved ones feelings and
thoughts.
Priorities driven by an increasing amount of self.
Love for loved ones on planet home now less in vogue.
Not caused by an uncaring heartlessness but by troubled sprite.
Goodness leaking away to be dissipated as memories.
As stardust in ‘Mind Space’.
MY DYNAMIC.
I will seek wings again to find my place away from confused memories of the past.
A freedom to spread these once again but with no wish to fly.
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3. This empowering dynamic helping me to find trust within each day.
My eyes now to view clearly a bright start to every way.
This is not just a gift of the mind but realization of a comforted soul.
Lessons learnt on journeyed tales.
Life’s baggage compartment cleared of sponsored grasp.
Without any burdened past I now free to find the heartbeat within.
This needed by me throughout my new found way.
Awake yes! Though still aware to cherish this each and every day.
TREASURED ISLE.
Hello ‘Old Friend’ may I rest beneath this shaded bough.
Have you travelled far for my journey has taken many days.
Yes, I have journeyed a lifetime to this day.
It’s beautiful so restful a magic secret you have found.
A magical place in deed but only if you wish to find kind embrace.
Many stories told by they who ponder much in a needless search for a far flung view.
May they now search and ponder less.
For the sought for treasured grail we find.
It is within our own earth borne soul safe from all that’s harm.
Rest thy mind from searching for this our now found treasured isle.
A fairy charm children’s minds it pleases well.
To men so gullible this mantle urging wild dreams and follies.
This need for light so bright that time has lost in warm dark hollows.
Untold answers sought for ages speak.
Blinded men so wrong in where they madly seek.
For we who searched for the hidden Shangri-La.
It hidden within our hearts and minds?
We now to look and see to allow cold hearts run free.
As we who view each morning the glorious light in varied skies.
This that surrenders gently to the evening at the end of each and every day
BLOOD STREAMS.
Dreams raised in clouds in sun blessed days.
Some of merriment and sometimes grey.
These are the bloodstreams of my life.
Traveling rivers that keep me sane.
Remember young boy before turning teen.
Colours, tin soldiers, bright with light time to play.
Memories of times that must not fade.
From here to look back so sweet those days.
Perfidious I view this present age.
As I reflect on memories of childhood ways.
Long before a mother's cold sad grave.
A BAR IN DERRY.
Back home for a pint and no one knows.
Last night an Arabian airport, gun totting guards and flowing robes.
Back in my dear old city and once more on my own.
A quiet bar early morning no questions asked.
3

4. I look like a tourist, have the tan no tales to tell.
The pint quietly pulled I sit down to take in the past.
Across the room three men, two of them plain clothes officialdom, look so bored.
The third man to them a pain.
Nervous twitching, chattering antics falling on ears so deaf.
The companion’s thick shouldered, heavy browed small talk just between two.
Peed off their look that could turn milk sour with a single glance.
The third man now familiar his Fatwa a curse in Persian verse.
Thick brows even more peeved look at watches to check the time.
Bar door opens to the skies; a shift change time occurs for a heavy to make his escape.
This man finally smiles relieved of his burden of the little man and his bloody
‘Satanic Verse’.
REALIZATION.
This moment in life to awaken.
Understanding the needs to endure.
With realization gained curing me of doubts and fears.
Fears from the politics and ways of childhood.
Fearful clubfooted monsters and government bogeymen that cast dark shadows so unreal.
Now cast aside allowing doors to open to the world and its realities.
Windows viewed by many but never really understood.
However to another as simple as A.B.C.
No longer to adhere to the dictates of self.
I free to follow the steps to guide me on my chosen path.
So sensible as yet not understood by me.
PRAYER FOR THE TUBE.
Campfire prayers and poetic dreams.
From the spit of old men's blunted sharpened tongues.
Reciting long lost stories of poetic victories.
Men washed on prayer but misled to worship.
Watched over by the bearded greyhound face reflected on campfire flames.
Young men now filled with complex hate listen in awe.
The words of home lost in fervour.
So cold here in the stone heart of this distant madrasa.
This world so removed from the poetic mosque.
Where the words of 'The Holy Book' are turned to stone.
AIRPORT LOUNGE.
A book for the train is what I need.
Onto my knees on Heathrow's floor to find a book for journeys end.
That's a good one I heard her say.
Raising my eyes I view an angel.
"Hi" she said," Hello" said I.
"I've read it", this girl her skin as soft as peaches and cream.
We stand and talk for that moment in time.
Then she turns for journeys end, turns once more and smiles goodbye.
I watch as if in a film from long before.
Years have passed I still think of that pretty blonde girl.
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5. My beautiful American: Pretty Blonde, Peaches and Cream.
CRAMPING MY STYLE.
Passion mounts.
Waiting for the earth to shudder.
Breathless poundings in the heart.
Movements all a flutter.
Onwards rising to reach the pinnacle.
Legs so lilt, so long and slender strike out to me.
"Darling was that a pleasure so sublime”.
The reply to suit the words of the strong women of ‘Merriman’s Midnight Court’.
“No! It was Bloody Cramp.”
CORK.
Cork old girl with your constant rain.
Washing away times of history on cobbled stones.
Small streets wind away to smaller ones.
The second city only in size.
In the heart of your own dear people you are the first.
Cork girls shinning in the rain, flower petals reflecting the sun.
Warm in winter the people your fire.
Spring is the clash of ash and sporting youth.
Summer is radiant with glorious hope.
DESERT HEDGEHOG.
Useless it sits without flight rejected in the sand on a cold hard runway.
Dormant brimming with teeth and iron.
Wings sadly droop in the early morning sun.
Gone that arrogant pride as you sit so forlorn.
Filled with anger your lungs choked with sand and stone.
Ha! Your rider lost his way or so he says.
Later his king will give him a medal to cover his loss of face.
Young men from the desert fear in their eyes, fingers tight on triggers.
Stand and wait for me to fill your belly with power.
A hunger for flight a famine in your entrails.
This power needed to fill your carnivorous stomach for war.
To bear gifts of destruction to wide eyed children far below.
TUNNEL FOUR.
Television useless and foul.
Content nil but violent thrills.
Lions and Christians replaced by Trolls.
Cringing Celebes slaves to egos.
Offered onto the alter of modern day Caesars.
Attracted by lights as moths to bright staged delights.
By a plundering partnership of suits and secret orders.
Masons who lay building blocks of decrepit soulless kingdoms.
A partnership of ‘Tory and Born Again Ruthless Core’.
Firing the pyres of modern nonsense.
Bloodless culture and gangster rap.
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6. Attempting to rebuild the Coliseum and it's jaded past.
Hailed as jumped up Nero's by fawning hordes.
In the hope of replacing long cherished culture with instant thrills.
By fitting something so vile in a screen so small.
Apart from Bart, Lisa, Frazier and one or two more.
MEMORY POND.
On meadows bank in the peacefulness of a shadowed afternoon.
A line cast on a pond’s surface recreates the rippling waves of life.
It whips as it dances to pull a wished for token once more to shore.
Dancing light reflecting to gleam on water’s edge.
A memory pool shimmering back and forth bringing sough after memories home once more.
Thoughts of long lost loves and innocent days come to mind.
So important all consuming never really understood.
Suddenly a blue-black monster goes rushing by.
A crash of metal and hissing steam on a line by Foyle’s shore.
This black oiled spectre of clattering steel and wonderful speed.
At the head of the beast it’s driver ‘Big Bill Barton’ waving his shinny black cap high in the air.
Off to a place called Portadown crashing up the line to some far off land.
I cast my line once more so simple those days.
As I reflect on memories before my journey from this dear and bitter shore.
OCTOBER 5.
The son of a woman a wonderful, wonderful woman.
I suppose I’m the son of not a bad dad too.
I wished someday to reach above the clouds to a bright blue sky, but poor old me I had to climb
and slip every step of the way.
The glue on my shoes laid by an insidious Tory flock.
Stormont with its schemes trying each day to stop the sun reaching my spot.
Trapped in a school system and asked what your father would do.
"He’s a docker sir."
"A doctor, Hmmm! I’ve never heard of Doctor O’ D".
"No sir, he’s a docker".
The look of interest now none gone from this teachers face.
We sons of Dockers and fathers on the dole pushed to the back.
To allow country boys and others to walk on grass.
Little ‘Neil Farran’ in his palace his plan an aspiration for a catholic middle class.
We would laugh "Aspiration don’t you get that in a bottle to cure a headache".
October on the bridge we stood together docker’s sons, fathers on the dole, country boys and
others.
Battered by ‘Orwellian Thugs’ dressed as cops clubbing us to vent 'Old Brookeborough's' spleen.
On this bridge I view these thugs my fathers, father’s father was once one of them an old ‘RIC’
where am I from.
I must have had heroes from those days as I climbed the metaphorical barrackcades in my teens.
Yes I do the men and women, the ‘Teachers’ from my old school.
The two big Bills: Connaghan and Sharkey.
Miss Burns who made certain that we learnt to read and write.
Kelly with his math’s, Mc Laughlin, Harkin, Paddy Doherty and the lovely Mrs. Carson to name
6

7. a few.
Let’s not forget the great 'Donaldson’ who taught us to believe in ourselves and win a medal or
two.
He believing that inspiration wasn't to be found in a bar or bottle but in a book, or even in a bit of
badly attempted verse or two.
A GENTLE SHORE.
New tide washing gently on a shore.
Pictures ebb and flow into the mind's colourful memory picture book.
The fall of evening with its dropping sun waving goodbye to the hills and tiring day.
The darkness of greens and wind bush set deep within those dark and silent highs.
A beautiful land blessed each day on its Atlantic shore.
I feel a wish to walk again that special place.
A gift of soft gentle lapping waters washing on a young boy's feet as he carries his bucket and
spade.
His trusty friend his brother in tow to search for the perfect elusive deepest rock pool and its tiny
creatures.
Not knowing that one day they would wear another’s uniform and not come home.
Let this place so precious never to be spoiled by the hungry hounds of progress and stealth.
For they will surly steal it away.
BLUE SKIES.
I loved you then I lost you.
She sat in silent profile so pretty beside a desert compound pool.
In a haughty mood I dictating the importance of security to a couple of drunken ex-patriot fools.
This pretty girl under the stars by the silvered moon pool.
Later to become the beautiful barb in my heart one day soon.
A number of years together that I will never regret.
Remembering the blue skies of the days to the cool soft breezes of the nights.
Heartbreak was in our parting and you had to fly home.
I knew you were leaving as we would all one day soon.
Time has passed I know you were right.
Life forever turning to another stage.
Not all players on life’s stage can play a part in ‘Blue Skies and Gentle Breezes’.
I played to skies, gentle breezes and to the beauty of the nights.
Today I turn to another role on this forever revolving stage.
Alas! This scenery not as sweet as the one we played
SHARK ATTACK FROM DESERT SKY.
Mary, Mary never contrary fear from her eyes as the crescendo of the sirens grows.
The unearthly wailing Banshee sounded alert invades every cell of our brains.
I view again this old photograph from January ‘Ninety One’.
Mary the girl from Carrigferrgus, eyes shine bright peering back with a worried smile.
Dear friend never usually bothered now looks slightly stirred.
Mary and her nursing friends who never faltered.
With friends like this who could ask for more.
Then the blast from the falling warhead causing a massive, brilliant radiant rainbow glow that
ends our nervous laughs to fill the air with stifled screams.
Doors blow open and plate glass rattles to bellow; stopped from breaking by masses of
7

8. crisscrossed tape or was it ‘God's Own Hand’.
The unending silence as we wait for the all clear to go.
Area declared free of particles and gas helping to ease our nerves.
Time for breakfast and lots of coffee and off to work we go.
To relieve friends and colleagues from a nightshifts of horrid fear.
THE RELUCTANT AIRMAN.
An escape route offered from ‘Derry Dole’.
Fancy uniform; sport, some adventure and a life of your own.
Just leave the love for your country and values behind.
Never a normal return to your land and add a new word to your life book, such as pariah.
Controlled leaves, precious holiday times spent in ‘Ebrington Barracks’, sometimes a laundry
van for a taxi.
Live in a world controlled by racist right wing idiots, disliked: the reason that your people
protested wishing for their ‘Civil Rights’.
Murdered like dogs in the street by red-capped uniformed killers from a gene pool found swilling
in the bottom of a bucket of brock.
I this joke trained to fight the ‘Russian Might’, whilst a school friend Jim Wray lies dying in the
street.
A best friend’s brother ‘Paddy Doherty’ shot twice in the back.
Jim, Paddy and others lie dead and dying to satisfy a ‘Vicious Tory Spleen’.
Allowing the ‘Masters of Deceit’ to quench and sup at their evil feasts as they feed scraps to the
‘Horsemen’ to fuel never ending evil deeds.
WORDS SOUND SO SIMPLE.
Things seem crazy and you think you are going mad so just stop thinking.
If life is bad and sometimes mad, stop thinking.
Life can be bright so let’s start from here.
It’s just as well as we need to renew our thinking.
Our world ruled by consumer gods, we pushed through doors to suit others plans and thinking.
Days brushed aside by soft rough hands of smooth collared stinkers.
Life bound by consumer choice, stealth and meaningless thinking.
Let’s rise each morning with no cross to bear to believe we can achieve our own horizons.
As we reach out to touch life with the powerhouse we find within us.
SPURIOUS THINKING.
Can the poet really describe what the artist will see?
Capturing beauty within a drawing or painting with such ease.
They look to see a tree, flower or a hidden face.
Can I do that, “never in a month of Sundays”?
Now there’s a saying for you.
Hidden in its lyrical frame is thinking as clear as day.
Euphemisms such wonderful tools.
Helping to explain our day and many a situation.
Sometimes used to belittle a foe with a stinging hidden attack.
“He’s a right tight arse he wouldn’t give you the wind of his fart”
As a child my son in tears, overhearing that a friend had gotten ‘The Sack’.
In his young mind a vision of a dear friend carried away on the back of a giant or some dark and
evil freak.
8

9. Other times the quaint use of words can make the day.
This in a greeting accompanied with a bright smile from a stranger when met on a morning walk.
“Hi! Great to see again, you Old Goat”.
As you reply to this greeting, searching your memory to think, “Who the Hell was that”.
What I must watch is not to mix my metaphors and euphemisms.
So please forgive if I do.
Let’s not forget my problem with descriptive thoughts maybe.
A title for this poem.
Poems by a Pi** Poor Poet, slightly rude but understood.
THERMAL RUNAWAY.
The enigma of events told in ultra speaks.
From the sky great nimrod’s soaring comet falling to the harsh lands of poppy fields.
Fine blue men cut down and laid to sleep.
A mysterious hot spot resigns them to this everlasting deep.
This aging eye soaring in the sky, spraying aerial life blood through bulkhead leaks.
Misting cloud falling on charging glow on life’s battery they normally depend, now to become
their foe.
This vicious cycle starts again, heroes never to return to the glens.
Over looked once more in blue skies above the searing heat of hot desert lands and poppy fields.
PEOPLE AND THOUGHTS.
People, places and things as the words of the song go.
My words, your words and everyone else’s, do they matter.
All words matter but mostly it’s how they are said.
Words are sounds created by others thinking, carrying other’s thoughts.
It is the power of the spoken word and what it can do.
The power to move mountains and topple the foundations of the once great and mighty.
Through the dust of fallen cities come other words, some good and others not so good.
The latter usually from the hand that wields the sword.
They who shout from loud brazen emboldened mouth.
To force tyranny on the helpless women and child.
This evil of men high and mighty incredulous to their own selfish thoughts and beliefs.
To feed to fuel many an ignoble deed.
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10. CORPORATE SCHEMES.
Colourful palette of memories of summers and wholesome days.
Retained treasures filled with thoughtful views and life shared in many ways.
Love returned through trust and caring minds.
Partnerships of friendship and those who wish to walk a common path.
Hands locked to steady one another on the way.
A gift to follow this vision of love and understanding.
Relationship guided by sprite and one another.
Not by addled brain and youthful foolish balls.
In contemporary times life bludgeoned by corporate sting and over swing.
Overblown view to manacle us to a dearth of spin and political ways.
Trumpeted by they who wish to bow to the scatology of decisions blown to fill our ears.
Common sense overlooked to suit the cosmetics of demigods to fulfill boasting egos and
corporate dreams.
This new ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’ or is ‘Sod Them for Tomorrow’.
The people no longer interested in a choice slumber in a media trance, sleepwalking to the next
available mall.
Tasked to build new mountains wrapped in gloss as they tread and stumble along this carbon
path.
CALL BACK.
Reject my writing if you wish for this is a welcome porthole to life and its ways.
In a world with its dictates in common to allow the enforcement of all important consuming
ways.
I require an escape to many varied paths of flight as I run to hold life at bay.
Not too far must I gallop as there is a need to return to the reality of each day.
Reality a place I am told; I must return to therefore the need not to rebel too much.
As I am sometimes called by fate to pay my way.
FLOODED FIELDS.
Flowers so blue from the golden pool not by man’s hand.
We unable to view where this eyes delight comes from and whose hand created its first seed.
A secret lost to modern man, blinkered by his vain supercilious mind and madcap plans.
Structured, complex, beautiful, and so blue.
Delicate to the touch a magical presence season upon season on shore, hill, lane and glen
allowing us to view its rebirth
Appearing each spring to bring forth beauty time and time again.
Depending on the cycles and the secrets of ‘Mother Nature’.
She so kind with understanding changing often to undo the follies of her sons.
In modern time short of patience frustrated by her stupid foolish child.
They not able to tend the land and understand its water flow.
Gone those days when men dug around fields to allow trapped water its voice.
Trench to trench it would travel escaping from field to field.
Channeling water to reach again river’s mouth and freedom flow.
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11. THOUGHT CANAL.
I sometimes walk in misty fields.
Through blue grey trees, shadowed by hidden silent hills.
Dreams, maybe, maybe not, have I walked these in times before.
Memory curtain falling, masking once lost times to ignore.
Are they realities, subliminal imaginary or fleeting daydreams?
Times that may have gone, but never really seen.
Experienced one time in memory lore.
Within a circle I stand to face my hidden peers accused of falling short.
My failures they dictate to me.
I beg them to understand that I am just a mortal man.
No! They cry, have not I broken trust and failed to understand.
My fate they ponder as I await the destiny of this outcome.
One more chance I cry! An inborn fear to fall.
Pondering on another plain does modern man carry into time and gene some memories of once
before.
Or this a fear of ‘Hell’, church lore brainstormed into child’s mind’s eye.
Memory now felt as pain as I travel a dark warm canal to find the bright light of day
BROKEN HEARTED AUNT.
A brokenhearted lady dear old soul.
Memories of her sitting sadly sipping sherry in the old fashioned way.
Whispers around the table in case young years may hear.
“She died of a broken heart, it’s said”.
A heart split in two by some condition or mysterious fall.
To die of a broken heart what a fearful end, I hope that never happens to me.
What a way to go, surely the doctors will have a cure.
This to look forward to when I grow old is; this part of life to come!
Contemporary days and I’ve grown in most ways.
Experienced the symptoms and survived.
So relieved it doesn’t tear your heart in two.
As I’m still alive and kicking and living this life each day.
JOURNEY TO THE BRIDGE.
A life’s journey when I was quite young.
In the past with family and friends.
A travel in time with many highs and a few times low.
In early days easier with the love of a mother and father who wished for me the best.
Finding my way through life and its tumbles not always knowing the way.
Chased up ‘Hogg’s Folly’ to get to school.
A young mind sensitive to the political follies of the day.
Asking why I didn’t get to the ‘Brothers’ the school of my father.
The teachers at the ‘Tower’ the best, crippled by the antics of church and state.
Stormont controlling creating insidious divides as they played with people’s minds.
Using the now discarded dull boring testaments of extreme mentality, set in the cesspool of
archaic reactionary philosophies
The incredulous antics of politicians and perfidious ways.
I then wishing one day to reach above the clouds to a bright blue sky.
11

12. This sky hidden from me by a mindset of dubious evil political ways.
The monsters as vile as any of their ‘Cold War’ chums.
Political highwaymen with schemes trying each day to stop the suns’ rays reaching my spot.
GARRISTOWN TIME.
This is not a poetry page but an inability to describe what I may have seen.
One Sunday past in Garristown time lost in Barbara’s bar with nothing on my mind.
I watch as light reflects off mirrors, bottle top glass as the sun dips behind the hill.
Where Mèabh’s fort stands high amongst the centuries of Celtic Gaelic lore.
The old graveyard and ruined church these post card pictures views.
Battle graves from times of Celtic kingship infighting spreading myths
over hills and shadowed lanes.
Stones circles, megalithic tombs attracting gatherings at ‘Winter Solstice’.
An explosion of light to my right as I nurse a pint in the eve of this late summer afternoon.
Clouds and mysterious white light billowing beauty from another world.
Tall white radiant visitor, wonderful this magnificent visible porthole view.
He taller and more graceful than anyone I’ve ever seen.
I stand to greet the vision in wondrous light.
Four others from the bar watching I now conscious of their viewing.
Allowing the doubt within me to pretend this visitor imaginary and not there.
Today in another world memory reawakened.
Remembering the phantasmagorical view that redirected truth and personal light.
THE FISHER KING.
Forgiveness is a gift of the heart, mind, and soul.
The supposed vision of time to come.
Imagined water bursting from a mountain stream.
The sound of ‘Mother Nature’s’ wonders she so generous in her giving.
Flowers found between desert stone.
The gift of times to come.
Memories of bells heard in the late of an afternoon.
Thoughts of yesteryear and journeys away from home.
Ringing laughter amongst flowers in a meadow.
Simple happy memories of salad days.
Allowing words said in hast to be wrapped in cotton wool.
Personal thoughts and a need to try to understand.
Past events to be laid aside with honest heart for us to hear again.
Life's truths and the many sided views of double speak.
As we listen to the sound of water from a mountain stream.
Symphonies heard again in the late of an afternoon.
Memories to pull on heartstrings.
Bird song from a summer’s meadow.
Heartfelt thanks to smile again.
Allowing the angry child within once more to clasp the wonder of a flower found between desert
stone.
What rubbish it’s dangerous to be too nice.
It will only open the door again to Albion’s perfidious ways.
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13. WALKS IN SECRET WOODS.
Remembering walks in secret woods.
Days of amber light and dreamtime filled days.
To dwell with memories of kindness and secret ways.
You so pretty beautiful and sublime.
Time together so important, distant priorities never defined.
Behold that is life as such it is, wonderful, wonderful times.
When in dreams to savour that so missed in life these days.
A wish to visit the secret fairy grove again.
The spot where we found such delights.
Bright blonde meadow so refined this well kept grove.
There to lie below blue-black starry skies.
Alas! My wish to visit the perfumed secret garden once more.
WORK THIS ONE OUT.
Close my eyes to greet the silent dark.
Many dimensions await me in deep filled journeyed sleep.
Covert messages guiding with steady wings.
This sprite carried off in dreamtime to a place without time or space.
Faces new and old set many their varied puzzles in slumbering dimensioned space.
Proposed actions to change unraveled thoughts and collusions never reached in endless tunneled
dreams.
Sought after footsteps still not found in sand with paths with no end.
Slumbering steps tread each evening seeking wished for insight.
Journeys too far as they twist and turn on dream filled tales.
Still seeking the wished for key to open doors to enlightened self.
This needed to view an ‘Aladdin’s Cave’ containing the grandiose plans of mice and men.
I now to awake from dreamtime tales to inhale the fresh breeze of day to enhance a simplistic
life.
Our time sponsored driven days so mundane and complex these sprung from the minds of
devious market schemes and television screens.
HIGHER PLANE.
My foolish private ego, easy on paper but not for Joe Public’s view.
This kettle of babble I write to control and keep it from over spilling.
The world, this world that I never really touch.
Views out of step with the norm but still within the pale.
Radical thought for others but I follow this line of fate.
In love with the day but to renege on proposed thoughts and called for actions.
Rejected by my island born and cast aside by the other.
Snubbed by perfidious Albion’s ways.
Swimming in dreams to find again an island shore.
In and out of step to keep on side and skip out on the next.
Well that’s me, the more I write the more I understand myself.
On life’s plane travelling onwards to crash every so often.
Each morning my Phoenix arises to meet again a brand new day.
13

14. HIDDEN SECRET PLANS.
Hi! To you my fellow man.
Why doth thee smirk and conceal thy hidden past.
The path of usurper’s cruel and merchant’s disingenuous plans.
This cruel and wanton journey by ancestor’s man.
An unwelcome plague on people’s lands forever repeated to this present day.
The people of the land kind to the traveller but not to view his devious plans.
Welcomed to the hearth and offered the hand with friendship in its palm.
Then to suck the lifeblood from the land.
Hidden depths masked by merchant’s guile and beaming smile.
Gentle minds’ blocked by devil’s brew and opium.
The gifts of the merchant wizards mind this pot of empowering corrosive plans.
This no God given enlightened path but from the depths of darkness.
Pulled from the bowls of infernal Saxon’s Teutonic cauldrons deepest boiling pans.
HAIL TO THE USERPERS.
Hail to the usurpers triumphant in their killing and stealing.
No need for stealth someone else’s land up for grabs in full media glare to snatch with both
hands.
The new Nazis Order, no gas chambers these days they just deliver high tech phosphorous
bombs.
Who plays the sad farewell violin while boasting of murder?
Triumphant to the world as people fall.
Hail to the good and great new order, ‘George W. their dear and vile subservient brother.
Under cruel Zion’s thin veneer they trumpet loudly of self centred hurt.
Wringing blood stained hands in front of full blown media stare.
Comforted by their friend ‘Old Albion’ who drew their boundary lines in blood and sand.
To allow the false tribe wish’s for other people’s lands.
RUNNING WILD.
Imagine running for life, love and hope.
Jogging in step with friends stepping through the yards of time.
Outdoor life with its shades and different lights.
There the horizon in front to meter the joyful feeling of being free.
Through country lane, urban streets or desert hills.
Merging into other memories of lanes and glens.
Past memories of many varied hues to comfort the sprite of the mind.
Driving tonight I noticed this dreamlike lass, water bottle in hand striding out the miles.
With her radiant smile running in glorious time.
A determined goddess, face shinning through enamored running sprite.
This that resides in tireless attitude with endeavour to fulfill a wish for health and happiness.
It made me think again, why I give this up for pints of the black delight.
Now that resolved, I will kick start my own plans to tread those paths again.
To grab those early morning and evenings that people sometimes call salad days.
Take me back to a younger me, quite a few kilos ago.
They had to be wonderful days, for my fateful memory tells me so.
No barrier big enough to hinder me,
Those days not so bad when I lived in Peter Pan’s land.
14

15. I suppose with highs must come the fall to leave Pan’s World and return to earth with a bump.
I’ve quenched my thirst now to seek the real pleasure of life.
Finally to find the personal powerhouse from within, this which we all possess.
To allow peace to cover the miles in our personal race in life.
OSBOURNE’S WAYS.
Self shorn of personable responsibilities to others
They the few and the others the great in number never to be truly answered to.
Their own cherished thoughts driven by greed and cold calculating.
The sole priority of an Osborne’s polarized selfish mind.
Spinning webs of corrupted pandering ways.
Please spare me from my own perceived misguided views.
The winding roads of a worried mind.
Least I dictate thought from borrowed media mind.
Driven views channelled through sponsored political anticipated views.
Spurious media though of ways to control the masses but not the few.
I must spare myself of other’s paths to find my own enlightened self.
Not that which can be placed surreptitiously in the mind.
To suit the spurious plans of the rampant fourth estate controlled by others.
In its endeavours to suit the divisive class and its media assassins.
With no thought for tomorrow but their own.
BLINKERED VIEW.
Sing the words of life’s songs.
To allow us the ability to see through customised days.
Forget our spurious toils in these merchant driven earmarked driven paths.
Focus light on the simple small things of our everyday life.
Behold your spirited self, no need to follow in the belief of others.
Who cares if we lay down silly paths of words and innocent smiles.
They who frown on cheerful face, their eyes closed to the day and its many varied skies.
As they sit in worried anticipation of the looming coming of a ‘Planet X’.
Tell these sad souls to forsake their texting machines.
Using fingers instead as arrows to point towards the sky.
To cast media tired eyes to view the many varied hues.
We no longer blind to the multitude of shades waiting in the mystery of multicoloured days.
Rather than bowing to Mandy, his Kings and Queens without resort to clear cut thought of
mind.
This gleeful magician and his gesturing fools and us the supporting ensemble.
Allowing he and supplicating kind to claim egoistic victory without egalitarian view.
LOSS AT TEA TIME.
Confused plans dashed off by government driven scientists.
Our honey bees to die in their millions by the plagues of man.
The loss that sweetens my dark imported tea and to cover my morning toast.
As well the many delights and other sweets of life.
All thanks to farmer’s spray’s and mad science and its plans.
Let not forget politician’s destroying waves.
I am the lost troubadour as I rest in common contemporary time.
Collecting words and meanings to string together to my heart’s desire.
15

16. Long lost in a memory when love was sublime and she so near and by my side.
I now invisible in this frayed modern space, controlled by smooth collared robber barons.
Answering to synthetic merchant’s guile and politician’s media creepy smiles.
HIGH HALLED CEILINGS.
Thoughts from up high,
High hall ceilings of the mind.
Fleeting memories to grasp of days gone by.
These veins of yesteryear forever prevalent sometimes to merge with the clear light of day.
This usurper controlled by the projectionist of the mind.
That must be tamed before it becomes the perfect tool of other's control.
Monitored by the silent witness in the sky viewing from up high.
To see our days of toil, recreation and frivolous ways.
Bright blue heavens the ceilings in the distant sky.
Alas! To we poor mortals a mystery of why and who am I.
THE HILL ABOVE DREAMING SPIRES.
The Carmelites on the hill where once wild boars roamed.
On this rise above the city’s dreaming spires.
True and gentle men who sought the secrets of enlightened belief.
Father Victor, Matthew and the others.
In the garden amongst the good fine earth John the novelist and writer breaking from the starlight
way.
To find himself amongst fine friends these enlightened souls who shone the brilliance of the
mind.
Each morning to walk a civilised and endearing path to welcome the morning light and the
coming day
Friendship and honest endeavour far removed from the grasping clamour of the material mind.
I remember so well my visits to this peaceful paradise of gentle vibrant souls.
My children now have grown remembering the tall trees on the hill.
This little bit on earth’s heaven we experienced and our wish to find another.
16

17. CONNOLY.
Shylock the carrier of the key and his friend Sherlock its finder.
Trails of life laid down and ours to find.
Set by the many actions of others mostly by the ruling kind.
We to walk many a well worn path on various journeys far.
I as a boy of wishful dreams of blazing heights and never ending plains.
Living in a world of cinematic views for a shilling in the
Odeon’s and Palaces of the day.
We: always Americans against their foes but never played or adopted Kaki Tommy.
The air force welcomed as well the navy blue; they part of our geography from up the River
Foyle.
Now a changed and still changing world as we fought a real battle in more modern days for our
denied civil rights.
The prize a vote the norm today so taken for granted as well as the stolen land.
Grasped from us by the usurper’s view and their flag waving chauvinistic ways.
I will forever retain my island identity theirs never to subdue.
The path of peace still important remembering the statement of logic by Connelly.
“Chauvinism is the scourge of the earth”.
http://www.wpclipart.com/
TWO BLUE SKIES.
In a haughty mood I dictating the importance of security to a couple of drunken ex-patriot fools.
When concluded I turned to see a dream sat near.
She sat in silent profile so pretty beside a desert compound pool.
This pretty girl under the stars reflected in the rays of a silvered moon.
To become the beautiful barb in my heart one day soon.
A number of years together that I will never regret.
Remembering the blue skies of the days to the cool soft breezes of the nights.
Heartbreak was in our parting and she had to fly home.
I knew you were leaving as we would all one day soon.
Time has passed I know she was right.
Life forever turning to other plays to stage our own existing ways.
Not all players on this stage experienced a part in ‘Blue Skies and Soft Gentle Breezes’.
I played to skies, gentle breezes and to the beauty of the nights.
Today I turn to another role in life’s forever changing ways.
Alas! This scenery not as sweet as the one we played.
My mind sometimes dreams of walks in secret woods.
Days of amber light and dreamtime filled days.
There I still dwell in memories of kindness and secret ways.
She so pretty beautiful and sublime.
Time together so important, distant priorities never defined.
Behold that is life as such it is wonderful, wonderful times.
17

18. In dreams to savour that so missed in life these days.
To journey to love’s fairy story grove once more.
Where I found such delight.
Bright blonde meadow so refined this well kept grove.
To lie again beneath blue-black starry skies.
Alas! My wish to visit the perfumed secret garden that my time has not forgot.
TARGETS.
Charity of the mind to enhance the giving of a generous mankind.
Reflecting thoughts of enlightened ways to shine within the soul of man and women kind.
Caring minds enhanced to bring forth goodness and a positive day.
Will this lead the way with hand on heart to thinking of more positive ways?
Or this to be undermined by commercial interests of this present day.
They the dancing fools of media centred minds.
Alas! Not as foolish as they act and pretend.
For a corrupted view is their only end.
Grabbing demigods who kiss the backsides of bankers and jumped up Nero’s and fools.
Dominating and conflicting views to answer the questions posed by anxious minds.
So called choice and managed dictates supplied in Gregorian or Aligarh chant.
These mind grasping cultures without limits never to be satisfied.
People trampled into the dust by reactionary sponsored cloak and daggers
Plunged into the backs of many enlighten and innocent views.
They now powerful who sit on thrones, parliaments and rasping synods of many shaded hidden
choice.
HELL’S REPORT.
As young Dave bends over to kiss the devil’s arse.
‘Old Nick’ farts in his face.
Little Boy Blue says “Thank you great one for this gift of wonderful perfume”.
The Devil next to follow through and sprays him with a great huge dump.
Youthful Dave thanks the great one once again for sharing his gifts with him.
Promising to pass on this essence of his master’s being to the good and the unwitting mass
above.
This gift of scatology given together with his customized tan gained from the reflective fires of
visits to his master’s hearth.
18

19. THE BRANDYWELL
Born dead and wrapped in brown paper placed beside an open fire by the hearth to warm this
silent child: So they said.
Next a memory in my dear mother’s arms and a neighbor to ask “How is he now”.
A first day at school puzzled: Why the headmaster didn’t have hat and gown.
First year in class not too bad Mrs. Carson so kind and bright.
Our next ‘Mrs. Dolly Burns’ serious stuff she made sure we learnt to read and write.
This great serious lady so determined that we got it right.
Then the maelstrom appearing startling us with dread our little world changed by young male
teachers who ruled with the cane.
I now a six or seven year old deemed a little rebel by refusing to take their cane.
“If you hit me, I’m going to tell my mammy”.
My dear mum called to the school and a meeting between three.
My mother with sadness in her eyes said I would have to take the cane as this was the norm for
the other boys.
I agreed to the deal and the headmaster thinking what kind of child do we have here?
I’m glad I nearly stuck to my guns at such an early age: Well! I had to give in as my mother
looked so sad.
My father’s workshop in the old ‘Quarry Street’s back yard at my happiest sat amongst the wood
shavings to spark off my plans.
The first a projector to show my penny film strips from the little shop
down from ‘The Wee Nuns School’.
Using an old discarded Brownie camera, a battery and a torch bulb; but my great plan didn’t
really work.
Mad about aero planes and attempted model building and then for Christmas, a model Hurricane
to build and fly.
Vinnie Kelly a big boy from the ‘Redrow’; the local genius to build it for me.
I then to crash land it on its maiden flight the control wire too much for me to handle.
19

20. I overdid the looping and daredevil diving in the madness of this first and last flight.
Little boy mad as a hatter with daydreams mixed with a furious imagination.
This checked when sharing my childhood wish for a glorious life with ambitions checked by
being told my father don’t be stupid as if wishing to kill my dreams.
Next was to play soccer for the school; lots of poseurs there wanting to be a Bobby Charlton and
play for United or the Green and Whites.
I took to the real game, and joined the Gaelic team, now there’s a game for you lots of effort and
not so many poseurs apart from William Carlin.
My father encouraged me to join the boxing club a great way to stop the bullies but always to
remember that thing called responsibility.
Jim Harrigan and Mickey Deaken the two best boxers; now sadly gone.
My old man with an assist for me to join the Wolfe Tone Silver Band; now there’s a happy
marker in my life.
This great hobby enabled me later in life to take part in another band in London’s Lord Mayor’s
Show.
This great hobby enabled me to play minor parts in other far off fields.
Yes! The parts were minor but a gift to play, thanks to Willie and Todd the leaders of the Wolf
Tone Silver Band.
Next a wished for apprenticeship to take me through teenage years.
Then the heralding calls for our denied civil rights joining the marches which endeavoured a
history change.
My sea change in life the ‘Air force’ sometimes a journey too far and to be titled ‘Current
Condition Nil’.
Told you are forbidden to travel back to your Ireland Home.
On many an occasion this ‘Pen Pusher’s’ dictated order I ignored to return for
a pint: ‘Back Home in Derry’.
TALES OF THE SCOTCH BOAT.
In early days man proud to tread this Earth’s path in sand.
These golden ways washed each day by roaring tides crowned with blue white silver crowns.
Waters’ rushing waves roaring home to soar on high to crash upon our shores.
Times gone by and man carried far and wide by the crashing of these many waves.
Magnificent beauty of coastal land and far off fields to find.
This partnership of sea and man much told in myth in ports and from many quayside bar room
tales.
Jesting sea fables sometimes much muddled but others so sublime to a young boy’s mind.
20

21. THAT TIME TO ACT.
Solving life’s little problems these blips that constantly rock my boat.
Putting things to the side by pushing them away with the long finger.
That’s me one of life’s true procrastinators.
One day soon; maybe I will get it right and come back home.
That no longer true as life takes its own destinations and turns and has placed me where I truly
need to be.
I now no longer ill at ease with the people of my heart around me.
A LOOK AT THE DARK SIDE.
If I could conjure up a spell what would I inspire myself to do?
I would love to send little Mr. George Osborne to savour the delights of Hell.
There he would be welcomed home by his kith and kin for them to frolic to and fro to their cold
heart’s content.
Until I surprise them by turning out the lights and up the heating high leaving this evil core with
no place to go.
My mad bad wish therefore to leave them to bloody fry.
PEOPLE OF THE TWO ISLANDS.
The Islands of mist and mystic blend of time.
Torn by a bloodlust for religious power.
Power wedded by traders and their warrior hordes.
A dance set in new time to ease their desires.
Footsteps a heavy thud upon our graves.
These islands held in imagination’s dream trampled by the leaded heels of malice themes.
The wish for enlightened paths hampered for we to find these driven and hoped for markers lost
within the dream.
Overtaken by others’ priorities so different in so many ways.
Fate decided not by where we are born but by the shabby empire served.
The die caste hand of fate leads in its own cold way.
Allowing others reason to comply.
Honour blinded by prejudices carried by small large hurts of desire.
Therefore indifference must occur.
A crazy world of rights and wrongs.
Dictates of families, politics for empires to endure.
Allowing the theory of chaos to assist the 'Horsemen' in their everlasting brooding tasks.
Time to awaken to witness what has gone.
Sorrowful events and history have passed replaced with stepping-stones and wished for bridges
to pave the way.
The people of the Islands still different in many ways ponder to find understanding to their own
thoughts and ways.
They with gracious intent lead with honest hearts.
Undermined by a vicious belief dressed as sheep in wolfs clothing.
The lust for power and blood salivating from its carnivorous graven mouth.
Hidden under the mask of righteousness as from times before.
This evil just as cruel with intent as any.
Veiled under false modesty and purchased brotherhood collar dictate from the sands of time.
21

22. Determined in their will to destroy and undermine goodness and free will.
Dormant it lays as we the distracted listen to the smooth cosmetic empty songs of media political
views.
Please let us not fail to embrace our destiny less us the people of the Islands fall to the
machinations of the masons of mistruth.
Allowing corrupted views to visit the future and cloud dreams of hopeful peace.
FESTIVE MEMORIES.
Festive time and the run up to the marathon that is Christmas.
That time that promises so much cheer.
Memories as a wee small boy anticipation was the name of the game cheering me through the
Advent nights.
This descriptive word I too young to spell but gloriously felt.
My dear darling mother there to plan the Christmas fare.
Those days so bright with light but with less commercial glare and clutter that we experience
today.
I did my part, hands well washed to stir the cake mixture in the big ceramic bowl.
I still to this day experience the texture of it in the memory of my hands.
The day I found hidden treasures on top of the wardrobe a trove of sparkling toys.
Then in trouble for telling my little brother that Santa didn’t bring the toys it were mums and
dads.
I got a right telling off for spoiling his dream of Santa and the Reindeer.
If we meet up again when he returns from his overseas chores; I will ask him if remembers and
did he know.
In those days the cold shock of the turkey behind cupboard door waiting to be drawn.
It’s insides a shock to view when drawn out and gutted then it to be washed stuffed and cooked
for the big day coming.
I wasn’t much a hero as I went a gagging to run off not to view this vivid chore.
No longer a cowboy hero as up to then my every day dream to be.
Christmas morning my brother and I waiting for a movement in the front room.
To hear the call for the Christmas Day and the wished for Triang Train Set.
There it was and much more a dream comes true a little boy happy and mad as a hatter.
With cheer and happiness galore a grownup breakfast and a mad rush to play.
Never to be disappointed my parents working so hard to achieve the day.
As many parents over other years strive to pull the fairy from the cracker to release the magic
that is children’s’ Christmas Cheer.
A LOOK AT THE DARK SIDE.
If I could conjure up a spell what would I inspire myself to do?
I would love to send little Mr. George Osborne to savour the delights of Hell.
There he would be welcomed home by his kith and kin for them to frolic to and fro to their cold
heart’s content.
Until I surprise them by turning out the lights and up the heating high leaving this evil core with
no place to go.
My mad bad wish therefore to leave them to bloody fry.
22

23. MANY A DUBIOUS GAME TO PLAY.
My heart falls upon the many graves of the needless fallen and innocent brave.
The dear souls of the brave and good.
Here lays the cream of our earth to reside.
Butchered, so men of power and greed can lust to satisfy an appetite of screaming delight.
The craven soulless creatures who quaff the champagne of other’s blood.
The plots of Emperors’ East and West, who deal in craven skullduggery this an endless ancient
game.
The game masters who create the nightmares of Rothschild and Osborne ways.
MY TIME.
I spy a clock upon a wall this old friend who guides me through the day.
Kindly allowing me to plan my days as I glance towards the wall to where I should and should
not be.
It has been with me from my first heart first beat and continues with me up until this day.
Dictating plans of mice and men and calls for action for me not to delay.
The time clock of life that guides me through its little trials and tribulations.
I so pleased to have such a friend who is always there to guide and maybe sometimes to dictate
to me.
WHAT IS THAT I SAID.
A shouted question from a Dipstick hidden in a corner of crowded room.
Where doth you skip and slide off to Horatio.
Do you hide within the pink folds of summer clouds.
Within the trimmings of scumbag banker’s ways.
As you cover your steps so that common man may not see your plans.
Are you the original money lender chased from the temple because of your devious ways?
The lord will have known that you and your kind would never change.
I am told that amongst you there are some who strive to create this change.
Will they succeed in this alas no, to you they are laughable clowns.
They who hear the heartbeat in their souls must strive and find their way.
To conquer the steep incline to a fairer way.
It is a hard and troubled path but must be covered.
To allow the time and place were the grasping few will hand over their grubby crown.
They who believe so wrongly that they are the chosen inner collared tribal few.
TOO MUCH TELEVISION.
Pleasure, pleasure but it’s all over in a whim.
Memories of the dawn of darkness and its memory driven ways.
Those bright lights no longer shine.
The starlight in the sky not there to grab.
Normal is my norm but sometimes I still search for that unused path.
Triggered more by daydreams as I reach out to seek my escape.
Sometimes blind not seeing my clear light of day.
Until finally I to hear a passing clear cut whisper in my ear.
A message from a friend inside this I listen to.
Somewhere from my inner core to help me through my days and the welcome miles of life.
My daytime television friend perfectly in control as I find its glue binding me to
23

24. STEP FORWARD OR NOT.
Paths of life to walk through the door of daily journeys.
Footsteps sure and clearly forward until I meet pavement’s lines.
Will I allow my footfall on these lines or stride bravely across them.
This indecision not to tread upon these boundaries coming somewhere from within.
I‘m sure I heard of people as mad as me oh dear! This is so sad.
Next to conjure in the mind the need for a black cat to come and cross my path.
As I continue on this way I come to another turn.
My journey blocked by bollards that have come to greet me to retard my way.
Will I stride between the first or maybe three and four or should I use the narrowest two.
Then a voice from within to call “For God’s sake catch yourself on and get on your bloody way.”
LIFE’S MASKED VIEW.
What we need so much today is a sense of loving care.
A door to self awareness without result to mendacious thoughts and plans.
Be a rose bud awaiting bloom to savour the morning dew and the first crystal light of our day.
Recognize the guiding hand and ask the reason not to care or crave the material needs of the
awaking day.
Let’s tread the path of our good sound days.
This made much better for we to walk our day hand in hand without resort to carless plans.
Although how often in our furious life time do we experience the true kiss of life.
That so deep inside our heart to spark feelings so sublime.
This feeling felt within earth bound being.
The dream of love finally accomplished deep within an inner soul.
I must be day dreaming again as life is not like this,
It is a host of kaleidoscopic patterns projected into our lives by scripted tales of other days.
ACTING OUT.
Two people with their guide in a club full of madness noise and contemptuous thought.
Wild and spurious antics all around incorporating manic laughter and mental voids.
These induced jolly scenes fired by the massaging of egos and white powder trains.
Normal mind and time totally enhanced by powered up media video view as if there was no
tomorrow to come.
The three confused by this torrent of sound crashing upon brightly painted walls.
Mad romance dancing on the floor as if tomorrow is just another dream.
These friends viewing this wondrous mad life but fully aware of reality, depart to go their own
determined way.
They believing this really not their world but a place of grab and gain so reflects the one called
‘Enlightenment’.
“Let’s go friends and feel the clear cut of day and taste the sweet air of night”.
His friend Mr. Common Thought agrees even though he did enjoy a few moments of abandoned
thoughtless cheer.
Smiling; thinking it was fine for awhile but imagines a life of continuous rant and rave.
“Yes! Thank you”, says he; “There has to be some other way, very well! Let’s get out of here”.
As they walk along their path Mr. Enlightenment asks where next to go.
“To reality”! I hope retorts the guide: “You left me here to view this strange and crazy world and
now I’m very lost”.
“Oh! Stop moaning and let’s get on our way as there are other things to do less you think this is
24

25. someone else’s dream; it surly does not belong to me; I think?” replies ‘Enlightenment’.
A decision now taken to continue on by they who view life and search for something perfect in
the night.
Their guide inwardly thinks; “Surely this is all in vain as I’ve seen all before”.
Our viewers always learning of others’ ways ponder and hope that there may be more to life than
gratuitous grasping fear.
As they proceed down neon lit streets they spot a comedy club: Ah! A hopeful chance to enjoy a
final call.
The show still in progress allowing time to grab a cozy table.
On the stage a mad comedian shouts obscenities at a crowd and them loving every mad moment
of his time.
As the visitors sit he calls to them: “Glad to see you folks again the last time I saw you we had a
flood”.
“Before we start I have a present for your guide, it is a free express ticket straight out of here”.
“Oh well! As this is now the end of my act: I won’t be far behind you”.
STAGED PLAY.
Long journey in convoy style and not knowing where we were going.
A secret in far of hills hidden away from other men’s prying eyes.
An exercise in control this scenario known to us but not to public men.
We keen to do this job well even though we complain of grown up government war games for
they are such a pain.
On boring transport travelling on.
Lots of fags smoked as we continue into the beautiful English hills and countryside on which
many a poetry page its wonders praised.
Arriving at the final spot we recognize this as serious shit.
Armed marines now by our side to guide us on the remaining hidden way.
Billeted under canvas and dressed in roughie toughie camouflage gear no longer in our blue.
Next called to view the scene of a staged scenario worst than all disaster movies ever seen.
To our eyes this looked like hell on earth so blackened and burnt destroyed with massive
destructive view.
Tented stark white tunnels to allow travel to the inner way to view this carnage sore in majestic
hidden hills.
Underneath secret voids to hide deadly stores.
These cold war troves and hidden crèche for politicians use no longer the myths of men and wide
eyed boys.
Next to dress in space like suits three layers thick.
Encapsulating strange garments to make our bodies safe.
Bodies encased masked and gloved and on our hidden way to carry out our chores.
Costumed ghosts to stage this play that would be any little boy’s adventure dream.
Instead it belongs to conjuring politicians dreamed up nightmare minds to stage such damming
ways and free vasectomies.
25

26. MAGGIE.
Dear Darling Mam.I left this my land for work and boyhood adventure.I now stand here by your
sad graveside a spot I was stopped from returning to.My cloak and uniform cast aside so that no
more would I be forbidden to be here with you at this sad green plot.Remembering your lovely
smile which graced our world and all of those around you.We who miss you know we were
blessed by a precious gift of time spent in your loving heart.A realization in our soul that you to
always be the birdsong on our wing wherever we would go.Your endearing love and prayers
each day always to reside within us.Reminding us your children to be safe and gracious with our
lives where ever we may go.Dear person of kindness and never ending mother’s endeavoured
love.Our dearest mum missed from afar and desert lands your heart and soul forever with us.I
now stand here at this place one time forbidden to me by the dictate called ‘Current Condition
Nil’.I so glad that is all so far behind me.I kiss your memory and wipe a tear to thank the many
who allowed this child now a man to kneel beside this earth bound plot to visit you.BLIND BY
MIND.
It is said they walked on waters in many the stories told in days from distant pass.
Glorious tales inherited by us over eons of their many creative ways.
Vast mountains to climb and they it said did swim the creations called oceans in this many varied
world.
Sometimes hindered by the minds of men, his foibles and many grasping ways.
These towering giants still resides and stride across the land even to this very modern day.
Creative abilities so varied and pragmatic to the core.
Gifts passed over and missed by man in the turmoil of his greedy ways.
How can such wondrous creatures tower above us and still not be recognized.
Pure and simple as we are the product of stupid man and muddled in our minds.
They! The powerful beings we fail to recognize; As Womankind.
EYES TO THE HEAVENS.
Eyes shine through bright blue haze and hoped for sight.
Where to look for a porthole view is where we may discover the hidden view.
In the mind and soul we seek the place for a sought after answer in our search for insight.
Is it true or a dictated lore but hopefully the sprite may tell us more.
We the searcher asking the unknown high for an answer to be given.
Our choice to follow thought and believe in a believed heralded call.
A distant signal from afar sometimes felt for an instant as if this near to our earthly bond.
We who stand here to experience an insight that we as yet do not fully understand.
PLACE THE SWORD ASIDE.
Let us cast aside the sword of forced debate and cherish the positive ideals of others.
Allowing our fractured politically induced minds to meet with common reality.
Using the power of reason to enhance our spring and the flavour of the day.
This endeavoured whim so easily said but the reality of our days so different.
As we by norm made to sing in tune as this so demanded by the controlling number who will
strive to reject our many inspired and varied thought.
Let’s try not to fill our day with their dictated cumbersome plans as always by rule they turn
around to bite us in the bum by induced managed cosmetics traits.
We sad men of fault and ego who always willingly surrender to the vicious grasping empowering
few.
THE MIKE REMOVED FROM ME.
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27. They may have removed the mike from me but not my inner voice.
This that I wish to relay to others in tune with the written word.
I this earth borne soul have a cherished need to use exercise of the mind to release thought from
daily regime and pleasure.
The inner self seeking inspiration by events even so mundane to help the cleansing of the soul.
To hell with lateral thinking let’s allow confused thought its path out on paper.
I’d rather see it freed than to be held and stored within.
The mind to be awakened by the gift of the spoken and written word received from other’s
inspired kind mannered souls.
Clear paths and inspiring views created by the imagination of others to enhance the day.
The sharing of thought to radiate through from the minds’ of man and woman.
Thank you kind hearts for this your creative stance, allowing light to shine from within you.
ME & THEE.
Wished for needs that we crave so much today only to be lost upon the wind of spurious material
driven mind.
Lost common sense needed to feel and care so often thrown to the corridors of fire and flame.
Mind displaced to allow the door to self awareness left wide open resulting in mendacious
thoughts and pandering mind.
We then to wait in vain for a rose bud to bloom allowing ourselves to savour the morning dew
and the crystal light of day.
As we seek the guiding hand and ask no reason not to care or crave the material needs of this our
newly awakened day.
So friends let’s tread wisely the path of good found sound days.
Made much better for you and I to walk our gifted path in harmony hand in hand without resort
to carless plans.
LUCY’S WAY. Theatre Workshop Nottingham.
Her wonderful smile to beam a path to stage our dream filled days.
Lucy with us to allow us never to fade or even to runaway.
There to humour and support rather than bums to kick on stage.
Lovely ‘Darling Lucy’ and her magnificent friend Angela our creative guides who mould a
mindset to see us through our acting ways.
With us at every nervous step this dynamic duo’s charmed assist to we grown up children to
have this chance to deliver our wished for say.
There we stand in spotlight gaze with hoped for lines to be sublime to do you and ourselves so
proud.
We nervous souls who tread the boards of actor’s wishful mind are we who stand upon this
stage.
Excited hearts in our hands so lost in minutes gone await the cue to have our memorized
moment’s say.
These moments a time rush carried to the wind or where ever they may go: Alas!
That is for our audience to so decide and say.
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28. GROWING WITH TIME.
Sparkle of vibrant light in eyes of glorious gazing colour.
Is how most I remember the beautiful charm of the soul within you.
Mind’s eye reflecting caring thought thro’ light radiant within your being.
These memories no longer sad with learned realization gained from earth time.
This world much different in daylight hours my heart no longer yearning.
A gift to again see flowers on the hills and busy streams along varied walks and climbs.
Journeys much different now today but fond memories still a gift to view along various different
paths.
Difficult to see at first but ‘Life’ my caring tutor has been kind to me.
Mind’s eye now to cherish that time with you and the beauty today may bring to me.
WHERE DOES IT ALL BEGIN?
We boys and men who lived in dick heaven with rants and raves generated by our numerous
ploys.
Controlled by thought patterns surreptitiously hosted by controlling media driven minds.
Life manipulate by these actions from the mindset of ‘Balls for Brains’.
I have to admit I was once one of them and now look to tomorrow and not self centred induced
will.
These insights to a settled mind a feeling of contentment to greet the rising day and not the beast
of prey.
FAIT ACCOMPLI.
I today see that not so long ago it was for me difficult to pretend which path to tread on this the
larger isle.
My world today very much aligned with steps of everyday reality.
My imagination still with me but put to a much better plan.
Years of pretend toil which in fact made this person a better earth borne man.
Now just for me to bemoan that my true dark hair that has turned to different shades of grey.
Not much has changed since the G.W. One: As the silent few still conspire with much more ease.
At least I now able to perceive my own creative mind and individual way.
I am doer and as well as the true procrastinator of things still in hand.
As is everyone called to play their part in life’s deemed fait accompli this always to our own
inherent game.
In the skip, hop and jump that is life; sometimes to hear quotations in my inner silent ear for
decisions to be made.
This questioning from somewhere deep inside.
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29. The answers to hidden questions only for me to decide for which presented answer I must give.
At last a visit to a mother’s grave once forbidden by government dictate to take my past and
uniform aside.
The reality of her wish has taken me to far more pleasant days.
This gift of simple thought I now hope to be always resident in my soul.
I still to be a doer not only for today; so there for now I rest my case.
I to continue on my journey on this earth borne cycle we call life and hopefully: Not too much
procrastination left behind for me to follow up to do.
THEY WHO CONTROL WHAT WE VIEW AND SEE.
When tasked in life of times gone by I view emerging thoughts from a sought after inner hillside.
I to ponder upon self cluttered poignant quests somewhere deep inside silent valleys hidden
where my spiritual heart and mind resides.
Silent memories once more a call for I to adapt and change by placing on paper sought for view
to unanswered questions.
These again to surface to demand personal resolve ushering deep from a place they call the soul.
There I stand and view from this inner hillside my life’s past and present decline and recovered
insight.
This I wish to hide or fit to suit my story scene as I ponder to decide.
Then awakened to realize to gladly cherish what I see and kiss today this air freely given to me
upon the hillside of the mind.
I must protect what I have found from the ‘Puppet Masters’ who strive so hard to control any
enlightened minded view.
Mastered from the University of the Illuminati of political stealth and control directed by the
selfish governing few who will always argue against what is fair and true.
REALITY.
Dear heart allow me to continue to grasp the thrill of melting glorious days.
Resident within me to request the colour of wonderful times so sublime of days gone by.
Give to me what I seek or I will stamp my feet until I get what I frivolously childishly wish to
greet.
It is said that the truth of life should be centered on an earth borne needed core but I want more.
The visions of past life sometime figured in three dimensional wished for view holding my heart
and soul in imagined fairyland’s dreams.
Where has my reality gone?
Next I will be on a trail for a fairy glade and a full three wishes to demand.
Unfulfilled ways and wants helpful as I drive through the roads of work filled days.
Journeys set amongst the English countryside filled with greens and sky blues.
Allowing time for me to check and view reality.
I graciously thankful for these views and my days.
WHAT IS THAT I SAID.
A shouted question from a Dipstick hidden in a corner of crowded room.
Where doth you skip and slide off to Horatio says he.
Do you hide within the pink folds of summer clouds.
Concealed within the trimmings of scumbag banker’s ways.
As you cover your steps so that common man may not see your plans.
Or are you the original money lender chased from the temple because of your devious ways?
The lord will have known that you and your kind would never change.
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30. I am told that amongst you there are some who strive to create this change.
Will they succeed in this modern world alas no! To you they are laughable clowns.
They who hear the heartbeat in their souls must strive and find their way.
To conquer the steep incline to a fairer way.
It is a hard and troubled path but must be covered.
To allow the time and place were the grasping few will hand over their grubby crown.
They who believe so wrongly that they are the chosen inner collared tribal few.
PEADER’S REVISITED.
My life restricted and curtailed within the title ‘Current Condition Nil’. As I watch the tides of
time through glass of foaming ebbs and highs. A black subtle sea of a palate’s delight coloured
by aged hangings and pouring of smoke in a bar with Pleader’s name. You are not from this
Town are yae son? Says he. Go on do you not see me, not know who I am. Naw son don’t think I
do, where’s that accent from. It’s from the ‘Town’: The same as you. Get away with you; from
the town no way, you’re not the same as me. Good god son you’re not a bloody a bloody soldier,
are yae son. No I’m not, are you a bloody Nutter. I’m gone more than twenty years a long time
ago. Go far did you. Not that far you know •The Town•, always calling me. Aye, I know that
well a couple of times across the water it was for me son. Let’s have another jar.
Good God Son! You’re back again how many years is it since we threw back a pint. How’s it
going with you? Ah! Not too bad how are you? It’s good to be back home I can’t complain
things are as good as can be. There’s been a big change in the Town and things are looking good.
Are you still away and working in that old job of yours? No! Left it years ago couldn’t stand the
continuous reactionary insults against my land. It is amazing what you will do for the great God
Mortgage, until you can no longer tolerate being kicked in the balls. I’ve come back for the
music and the craigh, this I’ve missed for so many years. No more wants of missing home, “I’m
Back Home in Derry”.
http://www.youtube.com/user/izdahar
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