Published Poems

"March is a silversmith," I thought on Friday,
As I looked in a jeweller's window at the bright
Cups for horse-show and football prizes - 
What once was foggy metal.

All Fool's Day
I met a fool upon the way,
I said: You're Everyman to-day,
He said: I'm everyman alway.

Not as Fluther Good or Joxer,
Or even as King Lear - 
I think of you as the man who made
An honest woman out of the jade
Whose name is Stage Career.

Consider the grass growing
As it grew last year and the year before,
Cool about the ankles like summer rivers
When we walked on a May evening through the meadows
To watch the mare that was going [to] foal.

We then were fed
On stars, not bread,
And when we stepped
From hill to hill
'Twas logic - 
Not a miracle,
For we were fed
On stars, not bread.

She looked as though she didn't see,
He looked as though he didn't care;
Yet I heard by telepathy
The story of a love as rare
As ever trembled in the air.

The Twelfth of July, the voice of Ulster speaking,
Tart as week-old buttermilk from a churn,
Surprising the tired palates of the South.

G. B. S. 87
O, G. B. S.
I a XX - 
R 2 - 
2 U!

A little man with a little heart
And a little talent for the poet's art,
And a little idea cramped in his mind
Where the jealousy-hatred snakes are twined,
With their tetanus toxins that strangle the song
Of the generous, exalted, rash and and [sic] strong.

By Killarney's lakes and walls
That shut out the common man,
Mountain paths where you pay tolls,
Would that I could Killarney plan!