Walking Dublin

Iron and cobblestone forged and laid by hands of men centuries ago still form the shape of this city, call me back to my kind. 

Men and women with handsome faces and solid shoulders pass on the sidewalk....each with some kind of purpose and a quick smile or nod, distinguished in their own way.  No one seems ordinary.

Construction crews sing or yell, it doesn’t matter where or when you pass by- that’s what they do. 

You can sit on a street side stairway and eat your lunch while seagulls laugh and swoop down to steal a chip.  Or bask in the sun on Stephen's Green, if it’s out.

Corners are crowded after work, and pubs are full at game time, with the occasional roar from a goal or foul echoing through the streets.

My feet are tired from walking but I can’t get enough of this place.

Granny (Tribute to Lolita Suttle)

She was a mother to all of us from one time or another,
Regardless of blood relation or family.
She didn't care.
And, regardless of whether we understood what it meant
just to give what you had to give.
But that how she was.
She was there for us always with a chair at her table,
and usually pie in the fridge.
She was a good listener, and would always want to understand
your point of view.
With most conversations she would interrupt and pause the discussion..
"Well why in the world would they do that?"
She never didn't seem interested and never went without a comment
on some matter or another.
She was full of comments, as we all knew.
She kept count of all of us.
She had rows and rows of Christmas stockings lining the rafters
of her living room ceiling.
And, most notoriously, she had the bathroom sign...we all know what it said:
"No job is finished until the paperwork is done."
That was a special thing...why? Because she wrote all of our names on it,
all the way up until she couldn't remember to do it anymore,
and there was little room left to write more names.
She loved us all and counted us hers, making sure we knew it one way or another
We will need to count each other now.

Nets

Woven and meticulously placed,

We set out our nets.

To catch, trick, fool, hold, ensnare. 

And we set them out again and again.

Being There

A father is like a paper airplane. Where without him there, there would just be....paper. 

But folded, just right, it might just fly. 

Thrown into the air not knowing where it would go. Flying, nonetheless.

Whatever it Takes

For whatever it takes
To raise a child....
Whatever it takes.
So much pride, so much joy.
Now, It’s different than you thought
And you’ll need those old friends. 
They, like you, didn’t know what it would take...
Take from you...
But they knew it would, 
Just like they knew from before.
How glad are you that they are there, here.
So glad...
And how much didn't you care before.   
But they’re still here.
And your fears are hidden, though it’s not easy.
And their help, like medicine, is there.  
And shared...Like the joy you still have. 
You’re so glad.
And she’s a joy you want to share. 

Shrapnel in a Jar

In mornings I arise to fetch that thing that's needed. Could be coffee, could be milk, maybe to take out the dogs. An engine I am, with pistons in motion, Turning with the dawn.

Such little time is left for us- so called parents- for us to have our own. When... A little voice calls through the night, with little arms upraised...reach out. So instantly cancel our plans....so instantly cancels everything.

So much we focus on the hope that she’d listen, that she’d rest assured...So she’d sleep. So much we’d learn in patience, that mysterious wellspring discovered by a parent. You will never master it....but it will teach you- one way or another.

And then comes again the dawn, with the collateral damage of our adult needs blasted and strewn out into the night before like shrapnel, unsure when we’d be restored...Unsure of anything anymore.

But, the day comes and small, concentrated drops of joy, like a sweet and healing salve, descend from some unknown place.

And, then another night and another morning. And again we’re up with the dawn and I can’t remember yesterday morning, or the morning before. But here again my pistons turn and I’m making coffee. I’m taking out the dogs.

We’re picking up shrapnel for her to keep in a jar, our Love and sacrifice through ceaseless devotion.

Mr. Smiling Skinny Man

Buddy Buck knew that this could be the day.

The day he could meet the one all the other deer talked about. The does loved him and even the other Bucks admired him. The great white hunter legend, the one the Indians called “Smiling Skinny Man”, Troy Magers.

With nervous anticipation Buddy hid in the bushes in the cold grey light of dawn, way back on the 9th hole of the golf course. And all the sudden there he was. The rumors were true, he could see his white hair and skin glowing in the darkness like some kind of saintly but skinny angel. Overwhelmed with excitement Buddy leapt into the clearing toward the boxy little house on stilts, where all the others said the great Troy Magers always was. And lo with a great sound Troy came out to meet him. Buddy noticed that all the other deer ran away but he didn’t care.

All white and glowing Troy walked to Buddy, and Buddy was so nervous he dropped a few pellets right there on the green. Buddy snorted, “Mr Smiling Skinny Man, will you take a picture with me?”

“Well of course!” Replied Troy Magers, “but first you have to lay down right here like this...oh and I’ll need to hold your horns.” At once Buddy’s buddy Spike came out of the bushes with Buddy’s iPhone and said “OK, ready, say ‘Does in Heat’ and I’ll snap” One, two, three....”Does in heat!’.

Buddy was so glad he finally got his moment with Troy Magers. He handed Troy his deer tag and said “Would you mind signing this for me?” Troy was patient since he had been asked by so many other deer and signed his name by the little X on the tag. With glee, Buddy asked spike to tie his newly signed tag to his horns and they both hopped back into the woods. Spike asked Buddy, “You think he’ll come back soon?” Buddy looked at Spike with sadness...”I don’t think so, I have been hearing from other deer in the valley that the Great Marlene, also known as “Tall Wife” by the Indians, may take away the great Troy Magers”. “I sure hope not.”

A Man With No Friends (the Razas, from The Plane Thief)

Bitter and cold is a man with no friends.

He spends time with his ghosts,

Whatever kind they may be

And lives hardly, to no great ends. 

But full and unhurried is one with a friend.

No matter his age

The winds will blow,

Despite all, he will bend.

Time upon time a forest may grow,

And sprigs of saplings will grow very slow,

Once planted by chance…

Merely asking to know

How one could grow.

So truly, truly a root takes hold…

Among the trees,

Among the ghosts,

And lo, becomes like a tree, like a ghost….

Giving shade where shade could be had,

From roots so deep in common soil,

Ever present and tall,

With his friends to help him through it all.

Dread (from The Plane Thief)

Dread is hateful, 

Found in helplessness and defeat,

The resigned knowledge of inevitability.

A Raza Song (from The Plane Thief)

In dreams a soul cries out.

Apart from the present cares from being awake and aware….

A man sees a dimension, a world present
And invisible. 

A Raza Creed (from The Plane Thief) V2

Above a man the spirit dwells

Below a man is hell.

In death a man can know no bounds

A man must listen well.