THREE MORE

NA CARRAIGREACHA CEOLMHAR

Trid na sean-carraigreacha ceólmhar,

San seachtain fíor-stoirmeach sin,

Chualamid i namhrán na naingil

Go mbeadh ár Donnchadha díreach linn.

Na tonnta ag bualadh go beómhar,

In éineacht lena guthanna binn

béim milis a chur ar an cheangail

A choinnódh e chun tosaigh 'nár gcinn

Anois i ngach seomra sa chaisleán

Ritheann gáire an ghasúir mar abhann;

Gach duine in a chlannsa ag éisteacht

Le Donnchadha, Claidheamh Mór, MacGabhann.

's go mbeadh a ghloinne go deo lán

Ar a eachtraí timpeall an domhain

'se bhúachaill a dheinfimid réiteach

Do gach rud a feicfidh sé ann

Na tonnta ag bualadh go beómhar,

In éineacht lena guthanna binn

Chualamid i namhrán na naingil

Go mbeadh ár Donnchadha díreach linn.

(c) B. Hickey 1997

The Day She Died.

Sleek Mercedes Seine-side speeding,

         drunken driver shielding lovers new

from prying lenses, so unheeding

        of all her pleas to stay unviewed.

Twisting road to tunnel leading,

        papparazzi in pursuit.

Their quest for fame-frames superceding

        her right to do what lovers do.

Mangled metal.......bodies bleeding;

        two hours vain toil for rescue crews,

and now the media monster's feeding

        on this world's heart-breaking news.

And sat amidst this global grieving,

        something's slowly seeping through,

the Queen of Hearts' no longer breathing

        and in some strange way, I'll miss her too.

© B. Hickey 28/9/97 (Sunday Independent)

                     Fare From Hell.

High-strung out, once more,

he lurched through the door

        of his mind's-eyes soft cell.

Decorum ignored

he clutched his short sword

        and then spat in the well.

He'd come here before

and vowed to adore

        this blue passion's sweet smell.

His knees were then floored

but he could afford

        the high prayer fare from Hell

And the gods he's implored,

to have peace restored,

        have now aided faith's swell.

© B.Hickey 1989

Some more Alphabetically

    Brighten Blacks.

On these strange days,

since odds are stacked

against displays

of what attracts,

we’ll choose new ways

and not look back

at the venomous greys

of guilt attacks,

from pleasures made

outside sins’ sack.

Yet I must state

This true blue fact;

I will still replay

my favourite tracks

from the bonding days,

with sacred pacts,

that love would stay

to heal heart cracks

and caring rays

will brighten blacks.

© Brendan Hickey 2001

The Butterfly Beamed

Things are never what they seem,

      they never are,

                   the butterfly beamed

beneath a Pankhurst hat

        and ever still we sat,

      as hazelled star

         enveloped car,

en route

to a Yeatsian dream.

Could we sever a spidery stream

      and leave no scar

                  on the delicate seam

of warm and textured chat,

        while ever still we sat,

    through soft guitar,

          with doors ajar

to futures

     of hazy esteem.

© B. Hickey 1997

CAN A TREE BELIEVE?

I hope you'll believe

just what Christmas Eve

has done for me.

Y'see, my shoulder's free,

now, if that's your need,

ah, but you'll succeed

without more tears.

As clinging fears

became foreplay,

we blew away

the cobwebbed guilt,

that our pasts had built

And I could feel

old love wounds heal

beneath your touch.

We've lost too much

in battles past,

to believe at last

in some life-long thing

but a missing ring,

on a new-friend night,

has shown Fate might

have lent a hand

and let me stand

beside a tree                    

...........................indefinitely.

And you could feel

old love wounds heal

beneath my touch.

Let's still be friends

when your heart mends.

CONNEMARA  SUNDOWN.

A one-green horned ram

     with wild fleece splattered

            by some carefree splashes

            from Pollack's passing paint pot,

                                       hill-posed himself

                                    against the evening sky,

                                      and my upturned eyes

                             drank in Nature's wealth

            in slow-sip, sun-moon snapshots

                  while tangerine flashes

             were loosely scattered

from His out-turned palms.

         An ancient fisherman,

        with visage weather-battered

                       when Atlantic lashes

                whipped in at gale-force knots,

                                 still composed himself

                                         for those passers-by,

                                           whose camera eyes

                                 displayed no stealth,

                         in stealing all he'd got

                 in those wild wisdom'd gashes.

        And somehow, all that mattered

    lay in that face......so calm !