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Sunday, June 22, 2003

This is not a poem about religion.


"Low lie the Fields of Athenry,
Where once we watched the small free birds fly,
Our love was on the wing,
We had dreams and songs to sing,
It's so lonely 'round the fields of Athenry."



This is not a poem about
religion
or bigotry,
this is not a poem
about hatred
this is not a poem -
these are pieces of a jigsaw,
pieces of hours, minutes
and days spent
together.


Proddie bastard
you said, handing
over the cup of tea you'd made
me - laughing, you climbed
in bed and I sang softly -
I'm up to my eyes in fenian
cum.
We slept and fucked
the day away.


By lonely castle walls
I heard a young man calling,
"Nothing matters, Mary, when you're free.
Against the famine and the crown
I rebelled, they struck me down.
Now you must raise our child in dignity."



Ebony black beads
clung to your back,
thighs and buttocks - ran
across the sheet, like ants
chasing the last picnic
you gathered them up
and set them out
four, four, two -
laughed, when I asked why
there were only ten men -
Is a confirmation the same as
a communion?
I passed the church
and saw you leaving but...


By lonely prison walls,
She watched the last star falling
As the prison ship sailed out against the sky.
Sure she'll wait and hope and pray
For her love in Botany Bay
It's so lonely 'round the fields of Athenrye
.


I listened to the song
carefully - real carefully,
trying to understand why
her love was being sent to prison -
wondered who Treveleyn was
wondered why the world is
full of hatred
in the name of love.
Then I tried to write
a poem. But all that
happened was this.

SC. 2003.


The Fields of Athenry is a beautifully, haunting traditional Irish song written I think by Pete St John in 1979 - I heard it for the first time on saturday and decided to read up on it a bit. Here's one of the places my wee surf led me - http://www.nimrodel.com/aol/gallery/abbey_01.htm . Kinda beautiful - Im sure you'll agree. If this isn't suitable for posting feel free to delete, no offence will be taken. Dipps :^)



Saturday, June 21, 2003

Midsummer's Day, Cornwall

Wind-charged mist over the hunching land
birds riding the wet wave, paralysed trees
in right-angle agonies, green valleys
chastened by a hidden sun. Even the roses
have gone pale. The palm's long fingers
swing high and higher while the snails
in the garden eat on. Wait long and longer.
Now midday and the wind has blown out
to clear blue skies and sun and colour.
Beyond the mustard and wheat fields
St. Agnes Beacon shimmers faint and
beckoning. Tonight the fire will burn
on her crest and we will dance as the stars
wheel, laughing, at our small lives.


Saturday, June 14, 2003

Tourettes for Professionals
Rick G Walber


Don't ask for I cannot join your ganglia.
Refrain your waxing titrations.
Ghosting limbs reserve autonomous
Echopraxia to their own desultory devices.
Off shoots articulate, emulate.
Random is regular as anti clockwork when
Grunting inaudible utterances.
Expletives to a degree
Send me into isolation.
Grace your prognosis on a deserving mind.
In complete innocence I will motor on.
Leave me be to discover myself.
Lend a head when I need clemency and
Ease my unmerited affliction.
Defect; your deluded farce.
Ebb with time alone to
Loosen its grip.
Arithmomania is my security blanket,
Today counts as any other.
Onlookers grimace as I, yet they
Urge their premonitory swear box
Right under my nose in
Expectant chorea, don't insult me or
Tic me off for I am not yet consummate.
Till that day arrives
Each day I swear brings no remission.



© Rick G Walber, 6/06/2003

Thursday, June 12, 2003

thanks for the invitation Ossy, I will certainly post somethin' within the next few days. I am now busy with my literary review ( not in English).
see ya people later

Wednesday, June 11, 2003

wrap this around your wordmouth, part 6

Wrap this around your wordmouth and tell me what teethers.

You see I am terminal. Not in any worblesense that would cause long suffering to my progeny. But terminal in the realsense. Terminal in the quicksense. My eyesight was the first to go. Really. I can't tell if you are a piece of toilet pepper or Marie Antoinette biting her fingernails. Then the hearing, you know. Hear that? I don't.

Chauncy tasted leprosy when he was a budling. Then later in life he was chimpanzled by a coronaryman before his plugbucket became undoodled and his carrottack wedgewayed into the littlest primdot. It gave me some small sadisfaction.

I asked Chauncy if I could wedgeway his femprogeny. He said 'nah'. That Chauncy. I'm gonna wedgeway anyway.

Fibriomitiocondiopestatosis. ALSMRBAA Death Fever for short. That's the death-ease. A slow spreading of flylike baubles that live 3 dolotrics off the skinpreen. They can't be shoodled. Last week I tried to shoodle them but they trickuled like old moonbonnets re the an drop. It's terminal, you see. I wasn't kidding.

So I'm laying here and flipped through the buttribbons. Mixbot.

Two banditos were holed up in a half-way house on third street. They have fivespan, a skingirl, and one of toonhall's mixpreen grimfritters. Negotiations are

Gum death-ease. Don't be caddled in bingtoi. 3 out of 10 d

I can't hear anything, but it looked like some woman was nagging six men again.

Did I tell you about my hearing? It's proto-ick-ick. The nogginscan too. It goes. Let me tell you it goes. And when the nogginscan goes, libble ungrays flickle inouterspan bingtoi. Tell me I'm wrong.

Bye and the booby, I should inflict my goosemix now. Nuzzletime.

Saturday, June 07, 2003

In the Middle
Jan Harris


Standing on the bridge watching brown water
wash the past downstream.
A discarded letter read, re-read, red
words all soaked away,
a shoe that was once brand new and danced, dragged,
stopped and jumped right in,
a cacophony of being in its place
fish, water fleas, weed,
a place from the commotion of being.

Standing on the bridge watching empty sky.
The future all gone,
no starlight, no moon, no far galaxies
to cause reflections
or to reflect on. Waiting for resolve
to unlock the light
to shine anew, illuminating night,
to show the water wash the past downstream
and wait for today.



© Jan Harris May 2003

Thursday, June 05, 2003

She wasn't at the wedding
you said No
she was beautiful
eleven months old
testimony of our love
or so I thought
yet she wasn't at the wedding
carrying a posy in her
chubby brown fingers like
in my dream
the night before.
She'd toddled down the aisle
sticky fingers clasping
my train, her fragile wispy curls
bobbing up and down
as she tried catching the
mother of pearl sequins
she wasn't at the wedding, like -
she never existed
and I knew, even then
that the camera does lie.

©2003 sc.
They often wonder
when we pass your house
if you still live there
they laugh and smile
and say " maybe Dads moved"
but it's a cover up job
I know,
I know because sometimes
late at night
the wee one crawls under my quilt
and whispers
" why doesn't Dad answer my notes Mum"
or "why doesn't Dad ever phone me,
Sarahs' Dad phones every day"
sometimes I lie - cover for you, the way
I've always done, like when you never came
to parents night - or school plays - or birthday
partys. Sometimes I just hug her tight. It's easy
to make a ten year old forget, momentarily at least.
Making a thirteen year old forget is harder, especially
when they pretend they have a concrete heart
that being ignored doesn't affect them,
that they don't care or think about it

They often wonder if you've moved
I wonder if you were ever there at all.


©2003 sc.