Popping Candy

Your company is
Like popping candy
Fizzing in my head.

Your company is
Like deft acupuncture
Painlessly needling me.

You say something
So unexpectedly funny
That I almost snort.

How long does
Popping candy last?
Does anyone know?

This poem was first published on the Poethead blog.

For Heaney

30/08/2013

The sorrow's mine and yours
It's all of ours. We shake our heads.
Now, when we want words,
We will rifle and riffle 
Through pages printed.  
We will thumb-skim his volumes.
We will become accustomed,
And forget to mourn, as we do today,
For his bits of the world welded to
Bits of the meaning of the world,
With those new silvered weldings,
Hand-soldered together by him,
Scudding from him to us.
We will miss his missiles of insight.

This poem was first published on the Poethead blog.

Offering

I would bring you white roses

And mysterious irises 

And open sunflowers

If they would let me

I would bring you sweet port wine

And hoppy beers 

And tiny dry Champagne bubbles

If they would let me

I would bring you blissful heat

And cooling showers

And misty bridge fog hovering

If they would let me

I would bring you woven blankets

And intriguing ceramics

And all the treasures of this New World

If they would let me

But they won't let me

And I just can't choose

The right offering for you

So my lines will have to suffice. 

Please let my lines suffice.

Tír na nÓg

I saw Tír na nÓg  
For the first time 
Yesterday. 

From the car, before Thurles,
While driving on the M8.

All the plants, 
All the trees faced it, 
Pulled to it. 

I felt the pull myself. 
The draw.

And the island? 
A mossy green copse, 
Saturated in spring green. 

On this bright day, 
A wisp of mist hung 

There. Around. 
The rounded island 
Otherworldly. 

Ah, the longing. 
The longing for it lingers.

This poem was first published on the Poethead blog.

Poetry is

the zigzag free
fall
of a feather

an elegant
half
twirl
a darting dive

if you turn
away
before watching
it
fully
drop

it's only
a
thought

In Dublin Port

The masts in Poolbeg Yacht Club
Play a metallic symphony.
They sound like drunken tin cans.

The people frown and walk a-slant.
Some are carrying bikes.
One holds the rail of the bridge.

Storm Barney has come out to play.
We'll see his friends before year end,
My colleague wryly says.

Trees lean, unimpressed.
Flags demean themselves with flapping.
The leaves blow and wildly blow

As though they too have someplace to go,
But November leaves have no home.

Poemín

This poem
Will be
Exquisitely short

And

Dinkily dedicated
To you.

This poem was first published on the Poethead blog.