Category Archives: Poetry

CLOUDBURST

26 Replies

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Curtains of rain
Sweeping across the bay,
The first tell-tale spots on the slate.
Then all in a rush
Cloudburst!
Mini water bombs hurtling against the roof
Snare drum on the windowpane.
Sixty seconds later
Nothing but drip, drip, drip.

 One of the first things that comes to mind when I think of Ireland is rain. It is after all what earns the country its distinctive reputation as a land of fifty shades of green. And there are nearly as many kinds of rain, from the “soft day” mizzle that gently coats you in a film of moisture, to the driving curtains of water that sweep across the landscape and drench you in seconds. While in November a wet day can be an unrelenting downpour, in July a cloudburst often lasts less than a minute. As the familiar saying in Ireland goes, If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.

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CONNEMARA

10 Replies

IMG_0129Who knew you could fall in love
All over again?
I’d gone my separate way
Without too many backward glances,
Just the odd intense
Pang in the gut
At the scent of seaweed on salt air,
Or the whiff of ladies bedstraw
Crushed underfoot.
And yet the sight of a stone wall curving over a hillock
Could trick the eye momentarily,
Sending memories coursing through the blood.

Who would have believed
A week in the coast guard station
Above Bun Owen pier
Would set the heart reeling with delight
At the soft haze of the Twelve Bens and Maumtrasna
Ringing the bay?

The wooing was gentle
As the rain.
Small things sent to delight me—
Posies of wild flowers,
The keening cry of oyster catchers
skimming the waves,
A pocketful of shells,
The sun setting in stunning bursts of light
Worthy of a baroque cathedral
Over Slyne head.
But there it was, rekindled again,
A love to end all seasons.

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BOG OAK

9 Replies

Maumtrasna Mountains, Co. Mayo. Ireland

The oak root
Stopped me in my tracks,
Rearing out of the bog,
A creature of fantasy.
Sentry from a long gone forest
Mowed down by ice-age
And time,
Buried under eons of sphagnum moss
Rush and sedge,
Silt from mountain streams—
sandstone, granite, the odd fleck of gold.
All these and more swaddled its limbs,
Blocking out oxygen
Bathing it in tannic acid,
Preserving it:
Six-limbed,
One-eyed,
Bog monster.

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Maumtrasna Mountains, Co. Mayo. Ireland

 

 

TO CAREFULLY CARRY WITH ME

15 Replies

DSCF5353I want to carefully carry with me—
This basket
Of precious eggs.
Every one has its own space
In my heart.
But sometimes
I worry
That my attention
Will slip,
I won’t give each
The time it deserves
To turn and caress
And be mindful of,
That I will jostle the basket
And let one slip.
I want to swaddle them
With soft grass and feathers,
Turn them in the direction of the sun,
Breathe love and understanding
Into their souls.
Hover over them,
Keep them safe.
But like the hen
Who leaves the nest
To stretch her legs
And scratch for worms,
Knowing there is always
The possibility of the sneaking weasel,
I too must learn to let go.

HAMMOCK

4 Replies

IMG_8743My foot rock, rock, rocking
Mimics the lift and drop of waves.
Breeze in the walnut leaves
Sounds like the hiss of surf,
And a car passing on the road—
Wind in the rigging.
Where is the keening of gulls
Tumbling through the salt air?
Replaced by a cricket in the stone wall
And a bullfrog over the road in the pond.

Sudden screech of blue jays
Sounds a false note,
Arresting my downward spiral.
A drama fit for a king plays out.
Ten seconds and the act is done.
Attack, plunder, infanticide,
Feathers.
Distraught phoebe’s screech
At the sight of their nest
Dislodged from the eaves.

My head sinks back down,
Eyelids grow heavy again.
Dip, dip, dip.
Consciousness hovers like the yellow
Swallowtail over the dame’s rocket.
Swing gently into sleep.

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BRING ON THE SUGAR

16 Replies

DSCF5033It’s a tough time of year for me as a writer. Yes, I have spring writer’s fever and  I’m itching to explore new projects, and eager to finish revisions.  But I have one big problem. My brain needs sugar! Like the hummingbird  who flits from flower to flower to satiate his unending need for nectar–they consume half their body weight in sugar each day– I too need to feed the receptor in my brain that’s drawn to nature. Here are a few of the things that keep me from putting my butt in my seat on an hourly basis.

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My garden is constantly beckoning through the window.

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And then there’s the woodland and the hedgerows . . .

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And the wildlife . . .

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What’s a writer to do, except–

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
–Robert Herrick (17th century)

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MOVING WATER

12 Replies

 IMG_9334Put me by
Moving water
When I’m old.
A lake, a sea, a stream—
any wet thing.
So long as I can watch
Light-play on the surface,
The membrane dappled by wind,
Hear the glug and gurgle of water pockets
slapping the hulls of moored boats,
And smell the tang of moisture in the air,
I will be happy.

CHILDHOOD WALK

4 Replies

melissa with flowersEarly sunlight seeping around the curtains.
Blackbird singing. Day beckoning.
Slip out of sleeping house.
Shimmering jewels of dew on the grass.
Wet ankles.
Air fragrant with spring.
Pass the Hawthorn tree dropping damp blossoms on the lawn.
Discover pale yellow primroses on the bank by the river.
Inhale sweet, honey scent.
Inspect the hollow in the willow—cushions of moss for fairies to dance on.
Watch small brown trout in the shallows.IMG_8292
Climb up through the woods.
Soft pine needles underfoot.
Breeze sowing in the tops of the trees.
Tip-toe into the wild garden.
Peonies buried in a tangle of long grass.
Irises blooming through clumps of stinging nettles.
Startle a heron at the overgrown pond.
Poke amongst the duckweed for fat, black tadpoles.
Jump and jump to snatch a branch off the cherry tree,
Laden with heavy pink flowers.
Add it to the posy of violets and primroses.
Home in time for breakfast.IMG_7955