Farewell the land

What is poetry?

It's the creative spark that lays within our soul, that seeks and needs its expression. It is how Humanity stays human, the key that bridges our hectic, oft times crazy world with those inner depths of peace and contentment. The word by itself is dead. It is the artist that brings the emotions to life and fills the word to the fire and passion of the mortal spirit and immortal Soul. "...Poets, writers, painters and musicians, all artists, all magicians.".. Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Thistles and gypsophilia

By Alisdaire O'Caoimph

On Leaving Scotland 1983

A Farewell Tear

The engines roar
Movement is thrust forward
shaking in the vibrations of its force.

Looking out of the small window
I see the Earth passing away beneath us
Those green green fields, that once held my dreams
Are fading into the distance
Those trees and hedges, that once echoed my soul
will become in time tender past memories.

Lines are crossing the land below
grey lines
Upon them matchbox replica's move to and fro.

Roof tops with chimneys bursting forth
this world looks so different from up here
Little villages and towns scatter the patch worked quilt
A domain of little people, Leprechauns
I see myself down there, staring up, the Soul
Waving farewell to its body.

deep inside
wells those tears of parting
saying farewell to the heart's final beat.

I lay back my head

close-to my eyes
feeling the parting of friends and family, the place
I shall always call my home
that land these hands have held, its texture
Like a woman's Lily soft skin
No soil on Earth clings stronger to the bone, no dream as bright
As dreams of journeys home.

In my silent thoughts
I hear the cries of friends
Echoing the haunting voice of home and place.

Yet I did leave her like an ungrateful lover
and how she has grieved for her wondering companions
clinging to her children with every essence of her form
But I shall always dream of her,
Of her tenderness and her warmth
Farewell my dearest Mistress, My aching heart.

Your Lover
Your child
now has left your womb.

But I shall return dear breath, back to you
As the western Winds return again upon the Firth
To lay but once more within your arms,
to feel your form beneath my flesh
And like the fragrance that flows gently from your image
My Soul and Body,
Together with yours,
Shall forever roam.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Mill window Shelbyville TN

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Before the Pain
Its a long, long walk
where yesterday's images trail the long winding roads of nowhere
Seem ajar to what ever mystery life once held and echoed
the silent slumber of faded promises and disillusioned ideals
Soak together in the oblivion of the abyss, and cries.
There's a spot, unpolluted by the lies and wrongs
Far away from that changing that consumed and diluted us,
Where still I behold your perfection ever anew, like a dream
That even in the wakened state I feel close to the bone.
Time doesn't change things, nor have we,
I still see the sparkle in your eyes
That silent want to be held again
kissed and loved so tender
Like in the day's before the pain.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Photo by Alisdaire O'Caoimph

The Day Her Tears Filled Heaven

When the night coughs lightly too
The misty, humid air
Between the dark harvest of shadows
And that long eerie croon
That rides upon the winds hollow flow
Filling the night to the desperate
The lonely, painful cry and tear
That still resides to the dream world
Half lost, half forgotten.

She sleeps her deep
Where once the lavender tones confided
And laid the will to blissful tones
In serenades of fancy and delight
That ravished her form
Teased each aching throb
And rested the deep metaphoric Ideal
Of crashing waves and the fireworks explosions.

Now she wanders these dark narrow paths
That daunts her horizons, entwine her thoughts
With that haunting image of her faded heart
That weeps upon the pools, midnight's facade
And pours down to empty upon those long lost seas of hope.
How far the soul travels in its long despair
Its desperate want to feel once again
The tranquil night of passions embrace.

How bitter the flow of the tyrants love
That wears the mask of truth
She hovered upon his every tale
Lingered her breath there to his
And danced the purple rays of dreams
Where love so opened her free
To dance, to dream and blindly see.

She sits alone in her tiny room
Fearing the images that fill her so
Tired for the want of blessed rest
Yet fearing where dreams shall carry her soul
To those old grounds of loves demise
The painful moments, silent cries
The day the world was torn and rendered barren
The day her tears filled heaven.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Women

What is it true
that makes a women so
gathers from all life's perfection
cleanses deep her soul
and forces the world to notice true
The image divine within her hue.

The crafting ---

Born they are
like little unpolished stones
that taken from life's domain
are structured to the fine
those rigorous hands of life and fate
that bears upon each gem its polished grain
bids upon the tears wherein the spark of life so grows
and fills this body of perfected grace
Till polished true from all life's turmoil and joy
Is crafted fine a Women's soul.

Reflection ---

I sit here in constant wonder
that such a prism of sheer bounty and fragrant delight
can exist within a world as we so behold - Yet
what a woe to be void of this, lost to the sight and touch of them
For truly these precious grains of life's sweetest bliss
Fills our veins to all that we as men could ever wish to be.
I lay, Humble to the abode of perfection's light
to hear their song fill fast and overcome
Till lost forever from life's bitter tears
I hold their image as my only goal
To know the truth of love.
What mortal man
can this deny
that upon the pain filled woes within
where his swollen tears rally and bear
the errors and all the wrongs of life in him
Finds not only the soothing comfort that bids him peace
or the tender dreams that fills his soul to rest
But also the passion which will fill all his needs.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

In the Attic

Sitting up in the attic room
with things forgotten, out of bloom
A china doll of antique grace
with porcelain cracked and dirty face
Ringlets of golden honey hair
in a velvet burgundy dress long past care
Little hands open in out stretched arms
Portraying all the grandeur of Victorian charms.
Sitting atop a wooden box
beside a clock that never tocks
Around her lays all that is forgotten
Pictures,Toys, wool and cotton.
Belongings to another time and place
things that once came please and grace
A painting that upon a wall did stand
A trumpet that once Jazzed a band.
Saddened all to the timeless lack
They fill the Attic, every nook and crack.

But!
On nights when the full Moon's light is there
when its magical rays through the attic's windows fare
The Little Doll's eyes do twinkle
where Moonbeams fall and sprinkle.
Granted if but for a moment
the doll that has long lain dormant
Awakens with a child like giggle
where memories within her tingle.
The Clock is given a moment in time
to tick a second, sound a chime
All the while people down stairs do talk
not knowing what above their heads walk
However, every now and then at the full Moon
A sound they'll hear in the Attic room
No sooner than they open the door
the magic ends what powers did soar
As they peer into what lays dead and still
a tingle up their spines does fill
For there Sitting upon her wooden seat
with arms out stretched and bare feet
Bella awaits the next full Moon's shine
When the clock shall tick and again shall chime.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

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