the fireflies

the heart of the city is ablaze
with the light of a million fireflies
electronic music clarions
a million heartless melodies
for youth to get old by

they have come
from hostelry or home
to prove they exist
as more than passing ornament
to the concrete where they kiss
but they don't

carefree cocksure cool they die
pledged in troth to a quick eternal
drunk with the glory of shining eyes
that waft a spell a touch infernal
from off the shores of paradise

the cops the mob the broads

Police checkpoint close to home tonight.
I've spent the past few months vowing to be a lot less polite to the cops after my encounter with the corrupt thuggish ones back in July.
Now I wound down my window.
A buxom blonde policewoman of the female sexual gender with sensual mouth and breasts sort of thing, leaned towards me.
"Where are you going sir?" she said.
"Just heading home Garda," I replied.
"Thank you sir. Goodnight."
"Thank you Garda. Good to know you're here."
As if butter wouldn't melt in my mouth.
I have no honour.

the good the bad and the hoddly

There she sits.
It is...
It is she who knows not kismet. It is she who knows not fate. It is Richard. It is Raymond. It is Hoddlebun at the gate.
Well you know what I mean.
So there she sits.
Across from me in the window seat.
Big hair shining in the clear Autumn light of a Dublin evening.
I'm safe enough.
She can't try anything in the Stephens Green cafe. Not with all these people around.
We're quaffing coffees.
Nothing bad can happen.
"Jamie," murmurs the unquiet American. "I've got to ask you a favour. Just for a few weeks. Not a large amount."
And from somewhere, not too far away, the ghost of Sergio Leone went: "Aieeeeaieeeeaaaaa!"

the sage of kildare

Many happy years ago of an Autumn evening at the Chateau de Healy in the peaceful Celtic hamlet of Kilcullen, a great man was enjoying some quiet time by his fireside.
He was a gentle soul, beloved of the people of that place, renowned indeed far and wide for his sagacity and wit.
The noble Heelers (for it was he) was watching Live And Let Die on the box with a cup of coffee near his hand and a sheep dog lying at his feet.
All seemed right with the world.
Abruptly the front door of the chateau burst inwards, and moments later the door of the television room did likewise, revealing to our peaceloving sage, a pair of little girls not more than twelve years old.
The children, cousins of the great man, entered in the manner of whirling dervishes all scarves and pig tails and profound upset.
"What's wrong?" said the noble Heelers.
His voice was calm but you might have detected an anxious note, because the bit of the film was coming up where Mr Big partially slits James Bond's wrists and says: "I'm sure you'll find those wounds quite fatal Mr Bond," and Rodge replies: "Couldn't we have tried something on a different vein," and Heelers, who is much amused by such things, didn't want to miss it.
Cousin Emma all of twelve years old piped up: "We've been talking about God."
Heelers noble brow furrowed nobly.
He was indicating puzzlement.
Emma's friend Lavinia explained further: "We were wondering what we'd do if God asked us to kill someone."
Heelers noble eyes widened nobly.
He was indicating mild alarm.
Emma said: "Oh James, if God asked you to do something you'd have to do it."
Heelers sat back in his chair.
"And if God asked you to become nuns?" he enquired gently.
"Oh I couldn't be a nun," shot back Emma without hesitation.
"Me neither," said Lavinia. "No way."
Heelers' question seemed to have put things in perspective somewhat.
There was no more talk of committing culpable homicide on behalf of the Deity after that.

A BIT IRISH (by Medbh Gillard and James Healy)

Ireland's greatest living poet working late at the Leinster Lootheramawn on Halloween

into the great wide open

the sky is an ocean