Listen to Finbar perform his tribute to murdered Irish journalist Veronica Guerin
Four Seasons of the Tree
|
The hungry tree
of Spring pushing a shiny bud tempting a warm kiss stretching to be closer |
The charming tree
of Summer nestles with the flirting bee whispers to the lady bird shimmies with the wind |
The potent tree
of Autumn draping a splendid hue popping to the fickle womb wishing a strong child |
The honest tree
of Winter strutted naked model brazen wooden hanger ragging mother for new couture |
THE MUSE
|
1.A muse sat down inside my head
and made himself at home: he gathered up some choice grey cells And cooked himself a poem! |
2.This entrée was so tasty,
such spicy rhyme and zing, that once the muse reached full and stop; -he started off again! |
3.The first it was a stirring tale
of I can, you can, do! The heroes danced with flashing swords, -piercing evil through |
4.The second was a lullaby
of feathers soft and deep; amidst a verse where cherubs sang -the muse fell fast asleep! |
Aleppo Ad Mortem 2016
The cat lay in the arms of the Syrian sun
maternal flame of this unfriendly sky
withered prayers
mute this market day
when scraps should fall
and carefree laughter
should flirt and sparkle
like coloured notes of spice
faded colours
scorn the call
to hot tea,
warm bread,
and gossip,
the whisperings
of ragged bodies
bloat the midday heat
hearthstones
their rubble graves
deep in the olive grove
red devils
bathe elbows
in warm blood,
and smile as it dries cold
undisturbed
they admire
their reflections
in a smeared shard of glass,
brutal as basher dogs
licking
eviscerated innards of a child,
while the world crafts its concern
on the road to Damascus
where no light shines
and rats drink blood from the stones.
The cat lay in the arms of the Syrian sun
maternal flame of this unfriendly sky
withered prayers
mute this market day
when scraps should fall
and carefree laughter
should flirt and sparkle
like coloured notes of spice
faded colours
scorn the call
to hot tea,
warm bread,
and gossip,
the whisperings
of ragged bodies
bloat the midday heat
hearthstones
their rubble graves
deep in the olive grove
red devils
bathe elbows
in warm blood,
and smile as it dries cold
undisturbed
they admire
their reflections
in a smeared shard of glass,
brutal as basher dogs
licking
eviscerated innards of a child,
while the world crafts its concern
on the road to Damascus
where no light shines
and rats drink blood from the stones.