Poetry, Real Toads

don’t mind if i do

Shay in the house at Toads with Fireblossom Friday.

Bang, you’re dead. Maybe that crazy kid driver ran you down, or maybe the aneurysm you didn’t know was in your head exploded. It could have been any of a thousand things, but no matter how you slice it, you won’t be participating in that charity run this afternoon. 

Still, this doesn’t have to be the end, despite what you might have heard. Don’t you feel like you still have something to say? Don’t be shy. After all, what can anyone do to you now? Presentation is strictly up to you. Automatic writing, poltergeist activity, dream messages from the great beyond. C’mon, get happy! You’re gonna slay ’em.

So. To whom may I direct your (phantom) call? What do you want, spirit? Time is money, chop chop, let’s go. You’re killing me here. Just write an original NEW poem and sign the linky. It never, uh, expires.


i roll me a slim tube of

tobacco and paper

spark it up and breathe

deep into the void


spill a generous dram of fire

into this bottomless glass

who cares now right?

Uisce Beatha’s irony burns


throw away the cork

night is endless  in the

Spirit World

theme park

for the dead drunk.


notes: Uisce Beatha, pronounced “ish-ka-ba-ha”, takes its name from the ancient Gaelic for “water of life”.








Love, Poetry

two days

Death came a calling after she had said she would pass over

and she lingered awhile

and then

my friend was gone

lamenting the loss of what could have been

wishing that she did not have to suffer as she did

her offspring spoke

words of truth

of humour even in this the darkest of moments

and of love

a strong love

one that is born and then nurtured




every eye in the crematorium moist

hearts pumping a spike of sadness to the throat

later we sat

in an old and ancient place

our old and ancient place

we burned wood

sang many a song

drank whisky

and talked and laughed and cried our sadness into a place that would live on

morning broke and a new day dawned

a journey North

a coming together of two tribes

a daughter of Erin

a son of Tili

here in the shadow of Death

life resurgent

joy and laughter

music and whisky

burning of wood

the throat swallowing a libation of love to the Heart

words of truth and beauty

their siblings offered

born of a deep love




life she danced a dance this day

and as she looked

deep into the marrow of it

she bowed to her sister

and smiled a smile of knowing


image credit




So today there was a minutes silence in remembrance of those that had fallen in wars gone by. I never signed up for a war. Never fought. Never wanted to. Always looking for the peaceful way through.

Every now and then though I wonder. What must it have been like? I can only hold out my hand and my heart to those that made these sacrifices, despite my not agreeing with the political machinery that sits behind most wars.

This is my prose for today.


Blinding flash and deafening roar. Earth and blood and human debris fall from the sky. Bits of human! Madness all around. Why? Why? Only death is our escape from this hell. Only death can bring us comfort. Screams come from  those who are close. Close to us and close to death. Hanging in purgatory with oblivion to one side and unending pain to the other. It’s a lose lose situation. Agony and torment is shrilled into our minds and twists itself there, turning our hearts to stone. All around the nightmare unfolds it’s grim reality. This can never end. Even if we survive. Why? Why? We are fighting for freedom. For tomorrow. Those who have sent us here sit safe and warm. They will see their children tomorrow. They will live to fight another day. Or to send someone to fight for them. Pawns in a deadly game of chess, we die so that others may not. We are the ultimate sacrifice. Paying the ultimate price. Some of us wish we were not here now. Some of us do not want to die. Many of us are scared. We want to see our loved ones. Just one more time. Please stop the war. Just for a moment. Just for a brief kiss. A touch that will carry me over the threshold and let me die with a lightness of heart. I will charge the machine gun nest. I will take on the marauding tanks. Just for that one moment. But no. Cold hard war takes life without compassion. We are dead. Why? Why?

death calls to all.

in this crucible

winter ends