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Creative Writing: My Other Poetry

The Power of Now: A New Poem

The Power of Now With thanks to Eckhart Tolle. The talkers talk of leaving or remaining who should go, what cannot stay who’s right, what’s wrong where’s goodness gone. Too many old, the lawless young we’re bound to pay, we’ll come undone the planet’s doomed, the coming bomb. But yet the young never brought forth more than now the old never garnered more than now peace was never planted more than now goodness has never grown more than now and goodness knows we are as welcome as we ever were here in the presence of now And so rocked in…

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Creating Happy Holidays: A New Poem

After we’ve taken to the shops, the public houses, the clamour and glitz, we come home, step out of the swell, hole up with our howl, cradle it close, hold it still, until we can let it go out with us again, out into the cold and the frozen. Until we can let it show us how to love glamour: only as tinsel, as topping. The promise of Christmas was never a treasury. Frankinsense and myrrh came later. And as gifts. Brought to a child, into a manger, by the wise.

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Two Mary Oliver Poems

I have two Mary Oliver poems I keep coming back to. Here’s one I sent to my daughter Treasure, who has a tendency to be hard on herself, and loves inspirational poetry. I dedicate it to her and all the women who do too much. That used to be me.  Not so much now.   Wild Geese by Mary Oliver Wild Geese by Mary Oliver You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love…

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A Poem For Brigid’s Day

My mother’s name is Brigid, though everyone knows her as Ida, named as almost every Irish person used to be, after a saint. St Brigid, one of the patron saints of Ireland, whose feast day is today, the old Irish imbolc, the first day of spring. Much to my own surprise I found a poem about Brigid rising a while ago. I saved it for today. It’s in the style of the old Irish poetry, the oldest vernacular poetry in Europe. ~~~~~ Queen of queens, they called her in the old books, the Irish Mary. Never washed her hands nor her head in sight…

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The Writer’s Call: A Film Poem About Why I Write

The Writer’s Call: A Poem Your words must wash the floor for love, I heard it all declare. I kissed my pen, swore this decree to air. Then set to work on bended knee, a childlike creep through house and street, to clean through what’s encrusted there. It’s done for you, kind reader, dear, who walks my words across the page, who seeks clear ground in marks I make: that glisten in your gleaning eye, that shines with mine, us both to see how in the clearing, all can be.

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Time Out At Glendalough

I consider Glendalough, Co Wicklow, Ireland, to be one of the most inspiring places on earth.  It’s where Iseult Gonne is buried and where some chapters of But A Dream, the third book in my WB Yeats trilogy are set. I spent as much time as possible there when I lived in Ireland, especially while researching  that novel. This poem is a tribute to all that was given to me there. Time Out At Glendalough After you have walked the ruins of seven churches, tilted back your head to seek the top of the tower that took the rounded point of Kevin’s steeple…

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