Assume battle positions:
each gun states its conditions
for damning to perdition
those it slams with derision.
The war horns sound, confounding
the loud screams, so dumbfounding,
as drums and jackboots pounding
start death’s song wild resounding.
The chaos, so deceiving!
What valorous achieving
can come from man’s believing
that battle’s won by grieving.
1 FEB 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, casbairdne, futility, illusion, Irish verse forms, poetic forms, war
Let’s let go of sanity,
imagining the reason
appeals to our vanity
and falls in the right season;
making none too troubling
what chaos springs from hating,
from leaving at boil, bubbling,
desires left too long waiting.
Let’s imagine destiny
a mere self-serving conceit
to define the inanity
that leads on to our defeat.
Let’s wait, but not patiently;
why waste our time at resting?
Light spars shadows, blatantly;
likewise, our doubts need besting.
04 JAN 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, ae freislighe, Irish verse forms, Lewis Turco, poetic forms
The end nears: the sharp sword dulls.
Its slices seem less useful,
the elegant, diamond edged glance
of its dark dance less fancy.
Though its blue blade is well-scarred,
these wounds seem slight from afar;
there are just two that make it
useless, unfit for gambit.
Toward the tip, the first flaw:
result of a reckless draw;
the hilt, where some blood was spilt
has lost gilt and needs rebuilt.
But such a sword it once was,
for noble knights in the cause
of laws and learning, sacred stuff
that bade us bluff, in the rough
where blades meant business was done
by the strong and those who run
them, son. How soon we forget,
and quickly let a prize pet,
who we think so meek and mild,
assume control and loose wild
a chaos child that just kills
and cannot still its ire’s will.
We must end this mad worship:
the steel, the spoils and kingship;
to strip the sword of its might.
We start tonight, while there’s light.
13 DEC 2012
Posted in Poems
Tagged deibhidhe, history, Irish verse forms, paradigms, poetic forms, swords, violence, worship
Sad, the speech he could have given
for men dead and those living
might have meant more, if believing
destiny were a haven.
In the cadence of his speaking,
you could feel his heart breaking;
and his way seemed to be shaken
by the weight of great mistakes.
As he spoke his wisdom wandered
through one door, out the other,
sound and silence mixed together
in true and even measure.
What more words would you have spoken?
As lies go, the ones chosen
said those things they could, then closing,
flowed away free, unbroken.
12 DEC 2012
Posted in Poems
Tagged daily poems, deachnadh mor, Irish verse forms, poetic forms, speaking, speech, words
The news can be troubling:
there’s always some fresh unrest,
some great tension bubbling.
Each day, I hope for the best,
but still I keep wondering:
how wise is that course today?
Must we keep on blundering,
pretending to know the way?
04 NOV 2010
The gods may grant petitions
to endless years of prayer;
not lay too strict conditions;
in that granting, be fair;
but it is not sedition
to think them often cruel,
seeing naught but perdition
in their lessons and schools.
Think of it as remission,
when one’s blessings, like disease,
or shadows of suspicion,
do not fulfill, but tease.
13 OCT 2005
Posted in Poems
Tagged ae freislighe, daily poems, deities, fate, illusions, Irish verse forms, poetic forms, prayer
Most days I don’t mind the mess
that fills my fancy, doubtless
in its mad mire growing grand
plans my desires demand;
but today, the turmoil seeks
to wreck my poor reason’s speech
and turn to tares the flowers
where I’ve worked long hard spent hours.
Voices volley in my head;
oh, that order would instead
cast this chaos to the void
before this day is destroyed.
13 APR 2004
Posted in Poems
Tagged chaos, daily poems, deibhidhe, Irish verse forms, poetic forms, self-doubt, self-loathing, turmoil
