Poetry
The Irish have a fatalistic, morbid streak to which I occasionally succumb to...
Tis not ours to know beyond
“Es regnet!” we called
our bellies full of German laughter,
“It is raining!” we called
like impish stewards.
Bare we knew the trouble ahead,
the horizon fixed at twenty blessed miles.
***
Survey of Stones
the sunny hill brought forth
a bitter fruit –
a hailstone of tombstones
grey with eager miens and jaunty minders
from thick tree roots gestated.
I looked upon the sober dates they cried
‘what have you to show! I lived far less than you!”
'Are you like me?' asked the Federalist
gowned in Resurrection palms
and atrophied script.
'Are you like me?' asked the Victorian
draped in frank and maudlin prose:
"as you are now, I was once."
'Are you like me?' asked the Modern
impersonal as marbled ice
giving nothing but emptiness.
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