SOME CALL HER MOTHER (revised)

Some call her Mother. The Mistress of this land

Her body hidden haunts wild places for man

Whose calloused raw hands worked nippled

Cairns to stand proud on mountains

Hunted, fought bloodily among heathered tresses

Ploughed deeply her fertile plains to feed

Warrior lords, foreign, crippled with greed.

In Her a sea smooth cave, that once sheltered Fintan.

Crabs with dead mens fingers, sought a womb watery grave.

To rebirth rebellion - Freedom and the marrow

Of Her Favour!

She walks still this land breathing out love and inspiration

To those who seek justice for all of her people.

© MRL 1/2/16

last 2 lines added

My Journey

I took a walk along the road to see what I could see

wildflowers peeped out and wild bees sung too me

All the while the sun shone gently down over my head 

above it crows and small brown birds flew in warm air.

A hen cackled, a cock crowed in some small stone yard

in the distance a dog barked, I listened to natural sound

Delighted to be me and to stroll in harmony, stopping

here and there to rest or peer through hedgerows.

I saw through bright leaves two heavy horses grazing

one as black as turf, the other dune coloured sand.

I dreamed of a four wheeled bow-top on open road

the clop of hooves, the waft of a tail swinging gently.

A camp site by a slow stream with friends at a wood fire

black tea in my hand, the chatter and companionship.

Perfumed as we were by wild bright colourful woodbine

Lives now only in cherished memory, all gone now, gone.

Awake once more to reality, I turn find a place to sit

fill my old briar pipe to offer smoke as a tribute.

On rising the legs are renewed, the feet soothed

as I take the long road for my cottage home.

© MRL June 2015

The Tuareg Man

   This is a poem recently composed by an old friend of mine Lin Hennessy  who lives in Somerset UK. I slowly read it out loud to myself, twice and found it to be very soothing I hope it's images do the same for you.

TUAREG MAN

The spirit of a tuareg man

              came to me, 

                    dressed in the light, the blue of the sky,

...........................in the blue robes

     He danced for  me

            and for his land

                   so i could see,

   His bare feet touching, 

      gentle

         moving 

            on his beloved,

               The SAHARA.

Gentle,...... gentle,
         movement, his feet in tune with the land,
                 the shifting, golden sands
                            and the singing stars

He the axis.

            He wore the blue veil,

                   To hide his beauty

                        But,  I ,  can see his, beauty
                                and

                             The harmony of his land.

     So he taught,

           me how to dance again,

                 so i too, 

                

          am
                          dancing the light,

                           dancing the land.

I thank him, for holding the light

Valentines day 2015

© Lin Hennessy

CELEBRATING 72

Celebrating 72

Having now had a birthday and being undecided 

about my age. Am I twenty-seven or seventy-two 

because I only feel thirty-five inside ?

Site soothed eyes

How enticing looked
each side 
a mountain
green of smooth silk
ripe and lush
Tempted my eyes
lustily to roam
enjoy  savour
sweet freshness
beneath my tongue
to dance over 
swirl sip swallow 
deep inside 
a joy of wonder !

© MRL 11.01.15

GALE FORCE 12

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

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

THE VISITATION

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

10 - 2012

MAGICAL MUSIC

Magical music fosters

Heart minds to rise

In a yeast of bliss

On hearing long notes

Played slowly - crystal clear

Smooth haunting melodies

Awakens Celtic elements

Moves Sky and Sea to Land

Silken clouds float in west wind

Bring Atlantic waves to flow

Caress the shore with a Kiss

 Lingering close as lovers do.

©MRL 21st October 2012

08 - 2012

The island of Ireland

I walk on heather clad mountains

where deep peat blankets a secret

Supported by ancient rock

that was once a river bed in Africa

Sitting now in cold north atlantic 

children of Gondwanaland

Migrated to Ireland and feel at home !

© MRL   Sept 12th  2012

04 - 2012

Manannán and Maeve

Magical music of mountain mists

heard by attuned subtle ears

As swathes of vapour sing in high tone

to wash slow against jagged stone

Listen as deep bass notes enthrone

again old god Manannán whose feet

Chase and drum on hollowed cairn

awakening Maeve to link and dance 

Her gown rustles like wet leaves

in wind as a softly thumbed timbrel

Sings across fairy hill and dell

she their Queen and him the King

A royal couple in courtship hidden waltz

sheathed in opaque white glide serene

Through hazel woods to secret groves 

this ancient loving ritual ever continues.

© MRL 18th April 2012