Woken By Broken

I am awake
I should be sleeping
I am sat here writing
I should be dreaming

I am alone here
It is in keeping
I have been working
But mostly daydreaming

There is a spider
There on the ceiling
It does no harm now
That is my feeling

It is after midnight
This April evening
All is in darkness
A time for thieving

Doors are bolted
Locked from levering
Who prowls out there
Is it the Badgers breathing

I Looked Behind Me

Tom Carney
Where did you go to

After that great big build up
After you said in the pub
Christopher, you should call that
'The perfect poem'
For it has all of the elements
Nostalgia, loss, lament, longing
(my words not yours)
For myself I was entranced
What with your well told stories
Your intention to write a famous novel
Your already begun work; to be a benefactor
For Ireland's impoverished returning community

So I wonder Tom Carney
Where did we go to

Centre Line

There is a wide path, with trees and sunlight, it goes direct in line, to the spire of the town hall

There is a breeze, that turns to a wind through the park, it goes direct in line, to the core of the average man

In the daydreams, and in the daytime, he heard the library calling, he reads the poems, of the master poets passed.

In the future, as in the past-times, he will observe his inner vibrations, he will bless his soul, for being so full-on alive

Stretch

The infinite is finite
So strip away the debris
Find the salient sentient self
Bathe in shallow waters
Float on settled seas
The finite is infinite
So strip away the debris

From the salient sentient self
Tear those last few leaves
Scatter to find a path
Shuffle to make a journey
The finite infinite
Is finite, so
Strip away the debris

Early Viewing

Already; bright greens, soft pinks; light breezes, strong winds
Over and away, where there is no one already knowing
One to one and one to many, all for doubt and all for show

I engage in the anti-calm of memory
While listening to the mindfulness of breathing
What is the sense of the tree branches
Vibrantly and frantically waving
What is the sense of the wild, stirring whistle
Through the ill-fitting doors and windows

Already; lilacs, photographs; daffodils, enamel jugs
Under and near, where there is no one already deceiving
One to one and one many times over, all for love and all for show