An Séipéal Glas

I am lost in forest—

Yew and oak deliver me from the world.

Shades of green, grey, brown,

Smells of earth and rain,

Friendly discourse of the ravens,

Spy red deer grazing behind rhododendrons,

Fish flash through brooks, pools, lakes,

The song of water presses close—

Heaven’s tears wash clean my soul.


I am no longer dead and dreaming.


Foliage yields to ancient stones,

Grey stones, flecked with moss:

A roofless abbey under greying skies.

Courtyard rings a solitary yew

Stretching up beyond the limits of man.

Flowers blaze amidst gravestones—

Monuments to poets and patriots,

Names lost to the endless crusade

For Kingdom and for Cross.


I am an architect of dreamers and kings.


All this and heaven too—

Verdant bastion of repose

Sates this wanderer’s hungry heart,

Stokes the fires of imagination.

An unshakeable feeling in the blood:

This is home.


I am a son of the Kingdom of Kerry.

Blue and Gold

Cold the color of the chill

Out the window

Two dark fluffy Blues

Surrounds a peach like Gold

That is separated once more

By a light Blue


Blue Blue always cold

But no, this time Gold

Stands clear

Bright, welcoming

Shows a heat, warmth

Lost to that of the Blue clouds


Neither Snow nor rain would fall

Fall through that Golden light

But it fades away

Days light setting in the evening

Now the color of the cold takes the night


A sound of concentration and the fast pace of the beating of the needle on fabric.  A silent sound of wants and accomplishments.

How eerie the thump thump thump can be when knowing the diligent seamstress pours her heart out onto the fabric, in colors that bleed into the seems like paint. Such a hard task. Laboring away.

No one knows the pain of heart beats. No one can hear the throb of the machine and the body. No one but the seamstress.

Midnight Sessions

Long nights

Converse over hard work

In small kitchen

Concrete lined ceiling

Linoleum floors of white




No fake food or cook utensils

Small width tables

Made of plastic and metal

Long enough for all

When pushed together





Easily filled

Friends pile in

Spread out with labor

Sit next to helpers

Online and written work




Play Disney music

Blare as we sing

“Be Prepared”

Advice unheeded

Distract from the important




Yet we rage quite

Pour our frustrations into

Detailed heartfelt conversations

We fight back rage and sorrow

Another road block hit



Sex Ed

Desperate to finish

We wait till its midnight

Till sleep filled eyes

Says enough for one day

Complete the Midnight Session


Oh meatball,

how you disappoint

those who think you are meat!

How could you deceive such

innocent youth who await your savior?

No instead they find green slime

inside, reveal pieces that are not red meat.

The ooze drips in slow motion

mimicking drips of maple syrup.

Your outside, meatball, is too dark.

Six on a plate imitates charcoal for fires.

I bet you would work well for a fire.


As you get pushed to the side, oh meatball,

how do you feel uneaten on the plate.

But you are a trickster aren’t you

holding fast to the fork when almost tossed,

your unsuspecting victim panic’s.

Forced to stuff such vile creation in their mouth.

How indigestible you are,

prey keeps mouth shut in struggle

not daring to swallow.

Fear Is…

Fear is his hand around my neck,

a five-fingered noose choking out my innocence.

His fingers in my cunt,

His words penetrating my eardrums as he whispers, “Are you ready?”

Someone is crying.

Someone is crying.

Please, someone, get this woman to stop crying, I’m trying to breathe to tell him no.

No. Please.

But his lust is a disease and no amount of pleading will stop this bleeding from between my knees,

I swear it’s my broken heart that has stained the sheets.

Fear is seeing him in the grocery store, halfway down the freezer isle between the pizza and the peas.

Hiding my face behind a single pane of foggy glass,

Praying to the god I don’t know if I believe in to deliver me from the hell that exists.

Fear is my face pressed against the tile of my bathroom floor,

Staring at an empty prescription bottle.

My pulse doesn’t pound like drums of war,

It shakes.

Like my hands when the doctor asked me if I did it for attention.

And did I mention that I don’t want to die?

I want to know what it’s like to live.

Fear is rain patter against a windshield,

A confession of depression but my mother insists it was my fault.

I could have made it stop,

I was dating him, after all.

Fear is the silence that every rape victim embraces,

Seeing their shame in the faces of the people they call friends,

Swallowing their agitation for the frustration of society telling them to

Get over it.

But the weight of my blankets still feels like his body and I wake up screaming under their pressure.

I wish that my pores were made of eyeballs so I could sleep with one thousand eyes open.

I wish my pores were made of eyeballs so I could sleep with one thousand eyes open.

So I could sleep with one thousand eyes open.

So I could sleep.


I stretch a leg


On the inside

Of the front window

Chevy Silverado


Timber’s tavern

Sparse parking lot

Sober going in

Drunk coming out


Air turns icy

But we wait

Glad he’s there

Not with us


Little brother and I

Not yet puberty

Fog on the windows

From voices unheard


Entrance opens

Stare at the door

Wide eyes

Quick pulse


Finally he emerges

Clock says one

Pulse quickens

Unlocks driver’s door


Face red yet relaxed

Waft of spirits

Hum of the engine

Seatbelt clicks


Driving is different

Peaceful in his weaving

A silver snake

Heading home


We go to sleep

Safe in our rooms

Tonight he wasn’t angry

Tonight he is sated


Trudge through drifts of snow,

I manage to find home.

Space enough for a mouse.

Beer and mayonnaise in

small fridge, hand-me-down

rocking chair for furniture.

My breath, like a wanton spirit,

rises from my mouth, entwines

with the frigid air. Heat off.

I go to check the breaker: broken

for some time.


Pain swells in my stomach, coiled and venomous.

I check the bills in my wallet, tattered, old. Enough

for two more days: if I skip today,

two days of meals afterwards, then

my next check.


I surrender as my knees buckle.

Air becomes motionless, cold wraps around me, an old friend

comforting me. I sink to the floor, beaten. My back curves in

like a hag’s. On my knees, my head bows, no strength to stand,

and my body turns to gelatin.


A picture on the fridge

vision of a past life,

a glance at ghosts, smiles forgotten

by all but the framed


memory speaks to me:

two smiling faces

badly tuned guitars

fingers blur

class rings

backs against fence


scenes beyond the picture

grass, fence, trampoline

characters in the play

who never walk on stage

friends from forever ago

caught forever

memory laughs with them

holds the camera steady


young legs wearied

jump in rhythm

nearly fall from trampoline


memory tires

youthful energy

gives way to rest

the scene quiets


memory gives a final embrace

sends this moment to its grave


memory stops talking today


each scene set to rest

with a colorful gravestone:

a photograph,

a glimpse of what was

a speck of mortal dust



it’s alive

in motion

I’m Somebody

I’m Somebody! Who are you?

Are you – Somebody – too?

Then I’m no longer alone!

Shh! Don’t tell the nobodies – Jealous, you know!


How boring – to be – nobody!

How pointless – like a bug –

No one knows your name – crunch

Under somebody’s boot!