Horizons

Shadowlands

The mist

I saw the mist gather
thick to the sea's soft breeze
haunting to the shore line it flooded
filled the echoing water to it's eerie chill
and creep'd upon the form of gentle earth
Till engulfed to it's being
the world awakened to the phantom'd state
And arroused the drifting calls of time.
Till between every shadow
each half spun tale
the entities of the ancient realms
here came flooding through
And danced for a moment a breath of life
sang their old songs of want
And hushed the world to their being.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Kitty hawk

The Kittyhawk to spring

The wind's brisk to the summits peak
Gathers firm beneath these feathered plums
to bask me within the Sun's sweet rays
and whisk my journey on
I flutter my expanse and spread
upon the morn's blazon sky's
To dance the jingle of life's sweet fair
I swoop and hover, soar and dive
given to the springs momentous air
That fills me so to life.
I see the world awakening
The valleys spread in pastoral shades
that rich in texture illuminates
I feel the breath of life awaken
to cast its domain across the planes
Flowers wild grasp too, the vision
Where birthed anew the world transpires
To all the sacred dreams of time.
I seek my ridge top abode
Viewing the splendors around excite
Feel the call of frolics fancy
From brood to flight the moments call
How well this place springs eternal
When nature fills to the hunt
That life begets life in cycled metaphors
That fill the fragrance of time.
I stand regal upon the pine's thick perch
peering with my keen eyes
Each jumping hare, nibbling rodent
Every sparrows song and ravens cry
That filters in life's lullaby
But here majestic to the song
My heart pumps the pulsing flow
Of every day, each night's foray
That bids and binds my way.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

thistles an gypsophilia

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Eoghan O'Caoimh

Irish poet Eoghan O'Caoimh 1656-1726 Upon the death of his Wife in 1707 and two years later his Son Art. Eoghan joined the Priesthood and was ordained 1717. he was to become one of Erin's best writers not only of the bardic traditions from which he was raised, but also for his deep writing on the ancestry of the Irish High Kings and the family names and places of the clans. He died in his 66th year.

When tears bitterly lay the trace
of the image of her loving face
that dropped away sudden as a dream
Into world of deaths silent stream.

His love, light gone upon the breeze
no moment holds where now his memories freeze
the banshee cries her wicked drone upon the night
To gather his son Art, to his mothers sight.

Born dead to the day, His life in such disarray
wife and son prisms of the fragile clay
he wanders lonely to the call, banished far
Like the shooting light of a falling star.

Ah! Old mother sod, how bear you the soul
to stock the fires of hell like burning coal
You waste of life, the perpetual dream
To bring poetic beauty to such an ending scream.

God the father, God the son
Deliver Eoghan from fates bitter run
Fill him to verse, the dialect of tone
To fill his soul to bardic Bone.

Let words of love fill his lips full
the promise of the heavens, become his tool
Priest now Eoghan walks the path
far, far from the rages of death's wrath.

He spins the tales of ancient times
the history of the people, their grace, their crimes
The High Kings of Erin, Tara's sweet fertile ground
Brought upon play of lip and vibrating sound.

Behold the host that here foregather
The souls soft whisper, the spread of matter
Equations all by barrier and sound
All that holds Erin's soil as sacred ground.

He passes on traditions old and deep
the world of the Fay's that within this land do sweep
The heritage of people, a story old and worn
The battle of the weary, the visions torn.

Parish priest Eoghan O'Caoimh has become
the thundering voice of the heavens to some
A gentle man, that so loves rich and full
The stories of his people, the history of you.

Beget the dream that rides the clouds
fancies far that herein enshrouds
The dialect of peoples, places, things
The beat of a heart, the love that stings.

All riches, all profound
Intoned in the glory that poetry passes round
To love and be, as the stories that flee
The symmetry of the garden, Life's eternal tree.

Sixty years to fill the fields
Love to love and the child it yields
Fill the vision to God's sweet face
And here in death rejoin your race.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Did she feel

when the lips hunger brushed to hers

the heart danced a merry tune

hovered here with her

In a dance that held the night captive

awakened the soft sighs, delicate moans

That quivered out from her throat

and sighed upon the nights air

Her want.

Did she feel

The tight embrace

the holding balance that was her soul

that cried out to him its lonely want

To be consumed within his arms

take the pain of the day away

and drift as one by his side

To make such a scared statement

What came from deep in her soul.

Did she feel

When her hands held his head eager

Pulled it into her wanting breasts

Knew the hunger that filled his veins

and rushed across his mind

the perfection of pleasing her

Wanting to cap her soul in its bloom

And dress her the fragrance of love.

Did she feel

When his lips and tongue drenched deep

the delicate bulb of her bloom

laid it heavy upon his breath

and aroused within her the fire of desire

Did she know that this moment truly lived

held its all, awe

Where her heart filled the passage of love.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

A poet sings

How does one tell a story
to fill a heart bright and full
or sing the sweetest love songs
that a Soul may know what's true?

I hear them all question, argue
the rights and wrongs of love
But all in their own misguided folly
failed to embrace themselves true love.
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The poet sings......

I a poet must disagree
for I am bound to life to set truth free
and if I speak wrongly do tell
and cast me and my words into hell.
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Love is crafted finely, divinely
and God inspires in truth the way
We cannot hold back what the Heavens will
nor should any mortal withstand it, it's day.

There is no wrongs that ever played
when two hearts mingled and save
each tender moment as a day of praise
To a God that to them together gave.
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The poet sings.....

A poet spends his day
in words that encircle but mortal clay
His truth, it rings bright and clear
for any open heart and given ear
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But now I tither all aside
gather fast the winds that sing and sail
For Love it is but as a coming tide
That humbles the strong and heals the frail.

And I know my Love neither fades nor dies
but fills the starlight's and the gardens bright
blooming to all that within love sighs
Acknowledged by my God's great sight.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Wren

Battle cry of the Wren

The Wren gathers fast her form
flirts the wind amongst the bitter storm
To head inland where sanctuary beckons
The harbored forms of comfort, warmth.

There in her Royal seat
Meath beholds her mighty court
The Clans arrayed from Tara's crown
floods the domains around.
Raven's squawk to the talk
Of battle placements, trace and stalk
The formidable rush of the winds bitter cold
Fills the flesh of young and old
To these days of weary saddened ways
Where brother's shall wage where sword but slays
The same blood, the same soul that together drew
In youth the pleasures few.

When Kite to air, the prophet seer'd
The morrows bounty in fate so peered
Cried to the King his Bardic song
of deaths demented far gotten wrong
that this day would fill old Erin's shore
To Deaths own engulfing whore.

When sun light broke the heads of time
the mornings advancement began it's climb
and all the earth's foundations shock
fair rigid by cleft and hook
Till blood poured deep into the earth
And vanished in man his sacred worth.
Tales gleam deep upon old pages
of Fables folly throughout the ages
In truth here we see the fill
Of mans own passion outward spill.
Old Ireland, ever the bitter times
has touched your form, played the chimes
That sound upon the Sidhes of old
Where lay the Heroes dead and bold.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Ring of Brodgar

A story, A tale

A story, a tale
A dream that once upon a time
filled these fields from shore to shore
bid the world upon its fragile breath
and cooed upon the morning
The intoxicating whisper of their thoughts.

These ancient souls that walk
between the fine lines of reason and thought
gather here before us, with the tips of the quill
to drown us deep into the oblivion of time
And mark well the soft scented jab of their ink.

The world spins, round and round
so fast it seems that mortals lose
the depth of the moment that hush of life
that flashes out its incoherence
and leaves the world dry to the bone
Worn to the moments bliss.

Yet,Those that stem from the soul
the ancient bards that inward flow
holds too, the depth of the mornings dew
cast upon the dreams that fill
from horizon to horizon the promise
that life echoes out upon the dark night
in a homage for the eternal embrace of love
and all that's born, all that die
live in the clutch of that mortal cry
To know that dream, the taste of love.

It is these long faded cloaks of bards
that fill our world to the drenching word
Holds us upon the last gasp of life
And rivets our souls eternal to their dreams.
That Yeats, Keats, they all for sure delighted
held the ransom of life to love
and gave their all, that zest of being
upon the pages that fates bestows, shows
mortal man the meaning of life.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

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