Irish Poetry Added too

Its only now I ask

As we walk along through paths of rock and shale

the slender grass biting gently at our heal s,

I long that my eyes would be truly opened

to the beauty of this world.

From the radiant colours of a single butterfly

too dreams of summer scenes,

carried on fragrance clean from every flower I’ve seen.

With wild heather gently soothing my mind

My worries and thoughts fade with each step

the cares and needs for future things seem to vanish

white petals of the camomile brighten our faces

like rays of light circling an orange sun.

I long for time my ears would hear the rush of frothing sea she knows

and hold interest to understand the thrashing waves on jagged rocky coves,

that shelter cracks host to muscle shells holding strong

where winkles cling in well of water trapped, in pools just for tidal spells.

Gathered seaweed red and brown floating ankle deep abound

And in the rhythmic motion of the tide lifeless shells of crabs alone downed

a carpet skirting nettles green and pollen cups the insects reap

with sand so flat except for little mounds of wormlike heaps.

So smooth so new untouched it seems to me a sin to walk within

or be the one to step within or footprints leave within.

A crime to mare such perfect skin that caps this beach

or leave a trail to show a teach a passer buy of where we sot to reach.

For what is more a miracle for eyes, the sky?

Standing there with wind in hair and tears that fill each eye

to look above the shore for mine and yours I’m sure

its contrast is so opposite to all beneath and more.

Tranquil of the deepest blue, so clear of cloud nor shroud of hue

A sheet of perfect linen seamless made each morning crafted new

and then my eyes are cast upon a single bird, a gull like heavens wonder swan!

Wings outstretched so long, sleek pure white, unbroken but for a beak of orange strong

It sharpened for A cillowet against the morning light

Laughing drifting left then right

dropping dipping diving swift

then upward flight would lift

floating soft as if to say whiteout a shackled worry

“This is how to live each day”.

And as he swoops close by in flight his eyes seem full and rip

as glistening elderberries might along this path I walk with pure delight

(hand in mine you hold me tight).

And as the sun heats the day we stop a bit and rest our feet.

My partner sits alive revived at home with natures foods to eat

Yes, for now that’s it. I’ll take the time to sit a while and find

A place without a cost not bought but free to keep its mine

I watch her face its not like mine its happy full of life’s revive

I wish to be like this inside its now I realise all I miss I’ll learn to smile

or maybe even find a hidden hive for butterflies

Like her I want to be and understand just what it is to be alive

Yet even now a single walk it seems, can open doors

and lead the way by streams of crystal dreams to hidden emerald shores

of consciousness, awareness, yes and more, to living life full each days

or going places that I never could esteem or ever hoped would be my way

Love does make a difference to my life and shows me now

A frame of mind creates our world from thought by viewing now.

A way of life a constant state not past or future dreams

But taking time to listen, look and appreciate were we’ve been

I never took the time to truly see and hold the hand

That delivered me with soft caressing fingers to this land,

I like to think, for me it was a plan of fate

sent from a angel that I’d be carried held and safe

.

21/08/2009 Colin T Mercer

The Irish American

Gael-Mheiriceánach

The hills seem endless to me

As I pass these roads once more,

I see rusted iron gates

Wooden posts and dry stone walls.

And set within the hillside

Just the angle that’s right for south

Rests the old man’s cottage.

With craggy, flaking, whitewashed walls

Bleached whiter still like snow.

Topped with a faded yellow thatch

I take the time to stop my car

And sit a while with him,

Each breath is a prize for me

The trophy of the whin.

The hills of tiny lambs are calling,

Blackthorn holds the wind.

Themes where ancient bog land slumber

Rocky boats in ocean pastures

Where the dandelion fishes swim.

The fields lay quilted yellow and green

Stitched with whitethorn rows

Potato drills like brown corduroy,

And on the brae old Massy sits

Catching the sun and feeding crows.

The old man has known many like me

His script now part of the borough.

Stories rolled in fine tobacco leaves

Popped into his clay pipe, inhaled

Then spoken in words of brogue.

His way is contentment of soul

An Irish father of Boston

His eyes bare the twinkle I’ve seen

Across the western seas of green

Gael-Mheiriceánach in God’s country.

This next poem is a new line of work I am traveling on i feel is directed by Edgar Allan Poe 

Forgive the spelling and miss prints its not fully edited but i would like an feed back. many thanks enjoy..

The door

Rusting metal old the skeleton keys that slips in deep to fit the hole

Almost down to cuff on wrist ,and with a click unlocks the door.

Held behind and more

That dreaded door to the abyss

a tome and mausoleum

death at rest a mist the dust of silence

repress and showed to eyes deprived of natural light, or things alive,

For depths we pier of hidden gloom.

Unmeasured fathom’s shows reflected hidden chasms, be it just by single flame casts of dripping candle our only light from tinkered copper handle held

shaking clutched with fingers tight and knuckles white a lantern bright.

Our minds that conjure up such dread that home

for death and dead alike of they

that rest beneath the dust to dance reflected in the musk

there within a room on walls, befallen scratched from what may be held

of human finger nails that bleed

a long since battle lost for fight to life! Etched and screeched relentless

in the dead of night

All to on flaking moulded walls.

And that door is

held behind and more

That dreaded door to the abyss

A tomb and mausoleum

Of heavy weight the creaking hinge relates to us the seal and door

a gate where sat behind, waiting us to meet our fate

 squatting there and plotting, rotting into nothing!

at last from deep within this gap where once was trapped 600 years or more

are we about to earn the plea the ones who would unleash its from its ghastly trap

escaped its time elapse.

Frozen to the spot  we stand afraid to move

and what is more to feel the hair upon our necks begin to stir akin to hellish hounds of darken fur.

Yet even though we wish to flee for me it has to be

the truth be know that it must be and so it is our destiny to go.

 For I, yes I alone must look and see within a little more

a tiny push with I thrust and pust the door with God I trust

I dare to look my eyes are waxed

afraid to blink with pupils black as ink like stalking cat at night I glare.. and their

I stir to what seems dank and rotted floor amidst the centred hoard of grave

side by side each are caskets made of broken wood and darkened lead

I dare to take a step inside and turning head the candle light revives a little more

of such the dreaded broken seal of lead are bare with crumbling handle cast of ancient brass

The cracked and wooded boxes stacked, up ended, stood upon there heads

What evils dwell of dread has host to dammed and ancient bones

To desecrate this place and this our final lot in life’s abode.

A crypt now striped of flesh all be it bones flat laid on slabs no more  

the dust of death the air is laced of full decay where never sun lights ray would stay

Then sudden with a rush of air a hellish hand with nails that tir

and in an instant lost my soul in darkness taken

Grabbed with muffled cries beneath its blacked hand

where from it stood to left in form of man with sickle left in shrouded hood.

With shouts a squeals like scattered sheep those with me run and tomb stones leap

To leave me there alone no more

Held behind and more

That dreaded door to the abyss

a tome and mausoleum

forever more and never missed.

Copyright © 2009

All rights reserved by Colin T Mercer