EV's Eyes
a shimmering saline sea
sustains the orbital equilibrium
of the thoughtful eye

periodically in different hemispheres
storms can and do tend to strike
the melancholy mind

it serves to mention in the deep waters of contemplation
some colorful flower of life constricts
how gossamer the iris

millennia of philosophical debate concludes the wise concede to ignorance
only out of darkness
can the pupil see

you, and your ignorance peering into mine
four unruly pupils ganging up against each other to fight
the love

two eyes, forming in a saline sea
awake for a few seasons in darkness, await
the birth

Peace
what does it look like?
How is it attained?
Is it a bridge built or a wall knocked down?
What is the distance between confusion and understanding?
How far must I travel?
How much of myself must I lose?
What will be left after it's gone?
Who will I be?
In my mind, I continue the only paths I know 
and end up sometimes where I started
and sometimes lost
and sometimes at my destination
and always
exhausted.
So I sleep,
but then
I dream

Perhaps - part 2

Perhaps we just have a part to play.
Perhaps we are attached to our stage names
Perhaps our souls have off-stage names.
Perhaps we forget them when we are awake.
Perhaps closed eyelids is the beginning of consciousness.
Perhaps the prison was made to escape from...
and Freedom means nothing without chains
-feeling the weight of them and imagining the lightness
of a dance unrestricted.
Perhaps.

Pottery
Everyone changes
our piece in the puzzle
is made of clay.
In places it can dry,
But the Potter comes with water
and removes us to another spot.
We mold and dry.
The Potter strikes again.
Each time adding a new edge unevenly shaped.
Sometimes the places that we used to fit in
Are not equipped for the newness of shape we have become.
But the puzzle contains every piece,
there is a spot for each one.

something I despise

people without a sense of humour

Honesty

is easy to ask for,

but hard to give,

and even harder to find.

Wild

To be home
with nowhere to rest my head,
how is it?

The old house has new people,

the old people have new ideas,
the old ideas have new names;
like me, and my new name.
What has really managed to change?

The splattered shades of blue array themselves;
protective clouds hiding the secrets
of County Down.
Each hill adorned with green hair
rolling into another,
and again

The first timid droplets caress my hair,
 then bathe me shamelessly
my ears fill with their cleansing symphony
my old chums, the cows
still munching around
the many holy stone vacation homes
of God


Rubbish is recycled now,
and still littered freely on the green
O my land
it is in the bones,
before the showers come, just after summer,
where the essence of Blackberries flow
in the air, from the ground
penetrating me

They grow wild
on quiet country roads
like me

I have grown very wild 

on quiet country roads, I have grown
across the world, I have gone,
to somewhere new, always moving
onwards - the vagabond
is all that is left

like a feather
long lost from a bird,

I have drifted, 

no goals, 

no more
no destination,
no lower than
a feather
Tumbling and twirling and floating from home
from this place to that
from that place to this, along…


A long way
I have come, to arrive
where I began
where everything is different,
but never stopped making sense,
and memories flood in with the scents
of the only place I've ever returned to
where part of me belongs,
in these mountains of Mourne
where was once my home
where was once my family


Home is like family
except it never dies
or away on air planes flies