Sunday, December 29, 2013


A Wind as sharp as a surgeons scalpel scythed

cylindrical things trees and wires to fall 

dumb on damned storm sodden ground.

Twenty-three hours of south Atlantic gale blew

A thousand banshees to scream. Howl, hanging

on corners of houses, old hags un-prettily dressed.

Merciless waves pounded hard faced cliffs, sentinels

standing doggedly against dull drumbeats of death.

In retrospect. Sense soldiers stories from the Front

of continuous bombardment and lulls of silence 

that heralded the wailing of Moaning Minnies.

No War now. Just an atmospheric battle, a hurricane

that a modern God cannot prevent.    We rely upon

ancient gods of this island Anu, Bríd, Daghda and Lugh

to intercept on our behalf with their mighty wisdom.

These guardians of animals, crops, fields and rivers

ever alive these proud providers of their people.

Over whose sleeping lands of winter they walk 

treading old paths from stone forts to raths.

© MRL 29-12-13

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Into the Heart of Isis

‘Into the Heart of Isis’

On a gibbous november moon she flew
leaving her earthly body
The last breath exhaled returned to source.
Olivia Melian Durdin-Robertson gave
one final act of farewell. 
Provided from a secret source 
she sprinkled Rosa Mystica on her friends.

A priestess high among many, a pacifist
an artist, an author and a scholar.
She served her dedicated mistress Isis
A life giving service.
Their teachings like stones combined
as mixed marbles of colour
will weather all storms.

Olivia a woman who enjoyed life
who knew heaven was happiness.
Her aristocracy melded well with socialism
giving a generous sincerity to all.
Convivial in company of quiet humour
she enjoyed a glass of port by the fire
As this poor poet and others know.

So do not mourn. 
Olivia is not gone from us
for she flew fully alive 
to the heart of Isis.
Rather rejoice in all that she taught 
in her life’s work of ninety six years. 

© MRL 17th Nov 2013

Thursday, October 31, 2013


To the door 
no child has come
No joy,
No trick or treat
No chocolate given
For the dead 
Alone is

©MRL 31st Oct 2013

Friday, September 27, 2013

September's Sun

September's lowering sun shines

Through old green sculpted leaves

Cascading as diamonds bright

A mesmeric tattoo of light

Forms dappled patterns

A moving beauty that creeps

Beneath ancient trees

© MRL Sept 2013

Friday, August 30, 2013


A congregation of vapours, a visit
by Manannán in mist fog laden
shapeless he sweeps slowly engulfing all.
Horizon gone in creeping whiteness, contains
a purity of souls whose feet tread again.

Follow old paths to hills and hollows
onwards to forts and raths, these wraiths
commune; live a mere whisper away
they share a cool serenity in silence.
to dance in half light, wildly swirl about

Their energy a chill damp that clings
clammily to the Living! 

© MRL 30th August 2013

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

03- 2013 A Tribute

A tribute to Dónall Ó Conchúir 1847-1930
& his poem 
'Dhá Chích Danann'

At a monastery kitchen table I sat
Listening to old Irish being translated
Clear distinct verse with hidden meanings
Spoken in soft tone like a blended prayer

Lulled, my mind by rhythm travelled
As this other language unravelled
So leaving a rich cream behind I flew
To a land where dreams weave anew

To sit with my back against She - Rowan
Who was clothed in milky lace so delicate
I inhaled deeply her fragrant blossom
A vapour that transmuted me to spirit

A wave that kisses the shores of Erin
The song of Amergin
A breath of hot air that ripens corn
Dew on Bealtaine's morn

A mist that caressed Anu's Paps

©MRL 05 - 03 - 2013

An excerpt from 'Dhá Chích Danann' 
by Dónall Ó Conchúir 1847-1930

"Maidin bhreá Fhómair dom cops mórshruth na méithbhreac
I gcoill chluthair cheolmhair is gan leoithne sna spéarthaibh, 
An lon dubh is an smóilín go beolbhinn ar séideadh,
Gach fás crainn go leor ann is cnó buí in a slaodaibh.
Ag dearcadh whom tharam ba thaitneamhach limo
Ar Dhá Chích Danann ag amharc anon
Is síbhrat na maidne leabhar leata os a gcionn,
Chomh bleachmhar buan bláfar, chomh hálainn in ógchruth"
(Is bhíodar an lá tar éis lámh an Chrúthóra.)

"One beautiful autumn morning beside the great stream of the fertile plain
In a cosy musical wood not a breeze in the sky,
The blackbird and the thrush piping sweetly,
Every growing tree there hanging with ripe nuts.
Looking around me it delighted me
The two breasts of Danann
The mysterious fairy mist spread over them,
As beautiful as the top of the milk that nurtures the child"
(As if they were that day created by God.) ?

Prose translation by Seámus Ó Ceallaháin

Saturday, March 2, 2013

02 - 2013

My Being Over Seventy

The joys of being over seventy are plentiful

a Forgetful memory is a boon at times
for I can claim to have done what 
I might have done or even did not.

the Hearing is another one won no need
to obey every request - formal or not
I can go on my way in merry innocence.

lack of Strength is another I can use
if an item has to be lifted or moved, then 
to every end I shall abuse.

None of the above is actually true
other than the first line.

My appreciations are simple: a fondness
of Beauty naked or clothed, 
Luscious lips
on which to give a fond kiss, 

Full moons
when I pretend to be demented and get 
away with naughty things. 

finally a Glass of fruity brandy because it makes
me R . . . y!

© MRL 02 - 03 - 13

Thursday, January 3, 2013

01 -2013


I emit now and then a sigh! 
It rises from deep inside
A listener will ask ‘Why ?’
‘Nothing’ I reply adding 
‘Am just expressing an internal movement'

I travel often to my interior space
to examine what matters most.
In the silence of my mind
to reflect on past events and probe
future projects - the how’s and why’s

At other times grasping at the riches
of other peoples thoughts, fleetingly 
shared voluntary and stored on nano particles 
in my brain some good, some uncomfortable. 

That if spoken out loud 
I would run and hide 
Beneath the skin of my mind 
sharing nothing but deep sighs.

©MRL 01-01-2013