Driving left of logic

on that misty roundabout

leftover from the merry-go-rounds of before.

four-corpse fried breakfast

riding shotgun until tea.

It’s one regular Celt cult over here

splashed Eire green,

beaches of pebbled priorities.

Ages of breaths taken, then released along the boreen.


Blood rolling chimes off lips

brandished by the paths of armies

melting mythologies dispatched

by vigilant moss, glued to sea breezes.

Harbors cracked by crashing waves

judged too soon by Cranberry Druids,

land of emigrant departures.

Fenian convicts on the Celtic Sea.


Endless red columns

stopped in tight tracks

by angry fir with pikes,

potato plows and mad stars

against British artillery.


And the lough came into the sitting room

for his afternoon tea.


Boatloads of vanquished Blasket Islanders

swimmers in a fishless ocean

drift toward the rocky An Daingean

victims of the westerly isles.


Paddy’s last name is O’Flaherty

It’s common enough, not a rarity

His whiskey pot still a crisp parity.

A wee ‘nother shot gives it clarity.


Where they still speak it

in out of the rain

telling the tale

in careful ancient words.


Filed Under: Reflections on Disorder

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