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National Poetry Month Project

First of all, let me make something clear. I make no claims for any of these poems as great literature. This was an experiment that I conducted in April 2003. Why? Well because it was national poetry month and it seemed like the thing to do at the time I suppose. There was no agenda beyond writing a poem a day, no binding theme, just getting up (or sometimes before laying down) every morning and writing a poem on the fly as it were. No drafts, no revision, just sitting in front of a blank screen until the idea came and I wrote it.

It is logical that the majority of the poems would be about Kel, the sensual and highly attractive lady who has been my muse, mate, and companion for several years now. But there are also poems about family, about people seen on the street, about the weather, about poetry itself and about the past.

So, with only two corrections (both typos) they are presented here for your hmm..well entertainment one hopes, or perhaps to stir your own creativity. And perhaps we will see you again next year, perhaps with a new set of poems..perhaps with your own set of poems.

May 2003-05-02

Slan Aghat


A Poem A Day April 2003

Day One
For mattie and sean

Like any green thing
meant to be their
first brushes with
mutual realities
are tentative
left to grow the
becomes the greening
of their life
roots of embraces
and sharing cracking
through the concrete
of their distance and
allowing growth
into the moon and sun

Day Two

one strand
of your hair
comes loose
in the moonlight
it flows
toward your breast
like a warming thought

Day Three

life pushes in green urges
from grey bark under blue sky
love has such colour

Day Four

my father's dream
are they the memory
of soft arms
from dead lovers
or are they like
his waking life
full of the dry
sawdust of
scarecrow gods
pretending to
fill empty lives
but empty themselves

Day Five

There was a time
my life was spent
crossing borders
countries lives loves
leading me in time
to wish there were
oracles with the border guards
welcome to our country
and do we feel sorry for you

Day Six

car stacked with guitars
wheels crunching against
gravel the only
sound in the still air
over the hills as
music moves
toward being

Day Seven

soaking rain
that somehow
finds its way
through clothes
and skin until
it reaches bone

then you smile
and it all goes
back through all
and into the ground
flowers bursting
in gratitude

Day Eight

black is not
the colour of death
white is

glaring mountain
northern white
leaching souls
before it
chills the blood
and drags it to
cold eternity

Day Nine


Murphy moved behind the
long polished oak,burnished
with two centuries not of
blood but the thick grand
aftermath of Guiness

Liam tipped a Jameson back
while Keiran,foam hearted
drained his ale we

the second and third verses
of the song of the Wild Geese

Day Ten

A solitary crow
perches on the
still bare branches
the watchcorvid
for the rookery
as though he
were a poem
protecting hearts

Day Eleven

He tries to stay
away from the
amputation rooms.
The bed where she
does not lay
the kitchen where
she does not laugh
over morning coffee
the living room
where she would curl
in contentment
he feels the
phantom limb
that is the part of
him amputated by
her leaving
and tries to avoid
the rooms
the worlds
of being alone

Day Twelve

Winter,it is thought,
disappears,warm weather
clear skies bring the
world oh.

Winter has not disappeared
it had merely moved
grown inside left
me cold,cloud,dark
looking for the
warmth of your touch

Day Thirteen

the words
flit like duskshadows
or ferile cats
waiting to feed
from the memories
of you

Day Fourteen

Early but still
My Past
begins to

already parts of it
weave toward me
like party drunks

and then spread
the wings of what
has been
and,giant moths
flit off
toward the bright
lights of
should have been

Day Fifteen

I turn to
random theft
breaking and entering
into affairs of the heart
stealing old dreams

taking them to the
edge of the song
and prodding them
to go free

Day Sixteen

Gl?ire don Athair is don Mhac is don Spriod Naomh,
mar a bh? ar dt?is,
mar at? f?s,
is mar a bheidh tr? shaol na saol.

Is it?
In a world gone inconstant
is there a way of believing
that it shall be as it was be

Like a child I finger
the beads but cannot
be a child
must wonder why

and keep the anger
close lest it
boil like
a Horsemen's sky

Day Seventeen

the first drop
is fat
forcing its way through
the dark clouds
like a pioneer

There is a long
low rumble of

the drop is no
longer alone
as the sky becomes
dark and water

Day Eighteen

When the music ends
take the last note
and cherish it
feed it moonlight
and dreams
fears loves
and thunder

then set it loose
in the deep canyon
of being
and feed
from the echoes

Day Nineteen

is there a return
to the generation days?
when wishes
were stronger
than spring storms
and hid in the
tall grass
and the thick
syrupy brambles
of blackberry bushes?
Is there?

Day Twenty

half through
their annual
greening days
breezes touching
life under
the grey skies
like her
smile in
the early
before first coffee

Day Twenty One

windows within windows
doors within doors
until the words
are revealed
and escape
into the
wilder gardens
of poems

Day Twenty Two

There is a quiet
dribble of laughter
as he pauses to
talk to people
and then thumbs the
control as his
wheelchair moves
down the street.
The cockatiel
on his shoulder
his reminder
that the mind
and soul
run free

Day Twenty Three

in the deep but stirring
day as river fog swirls
across the ground
like hungry cats
the last dreams of
night move quietly
within each house
i watch them
dreams of love
of sex of hopes
and fears

sketch them for
my own stories
and try
very very hard
not to sleep

Day Twenty Four

Arena filled with the
rumbling Zamboni
clearing the dream ice
leading to the final period

Doesn't look good for the
good guys tonight.

Might Have Been 4
Might Yet Become 3

The period is rough but scoreless
the Might Have Been Wing
#23 too much creature fouls
slap fly the goalie
Despair misses and the

like dancers or leaf in
strong winds they fly
furious around each other

Then her smile swings
around launches the
puck across the
chopped ice
as the alarm clock
goes off
the good guys win

Day Twenty Five

The Gazebo stands
a sentry at the borders
where the shore blends
with the slow lap of water
fog blending them
the two,like shadows
move toward the gazebo
each othre.

A time of borders
the shore sharing
the border of space
with the water
out in the water
an invisible border
between countries

Day Twenty Six

He moves down
the street
in stages of
parts of him
shaking into
the next step
before the rest follows

later he will
have enough
for a
and his
youth again

Day Twenty Seven

the highway
a grey ribbon
in the headlights
as the darkness closes
over the hills
over me in
a journey
from nowhere
to nowhere

Day Twenty Eight

An old lady
with a paper necklace
and a shopping cart
festooned with
stops in front of
a window looking
at her reflection

I wonder what she sees..
the old woman
or a young one
waiting for a lover
back from the War
waiting for a future
that never

Day Twenty Nine

Once again
it is a 3AM I
walk to the closet
count her clothes
over and over
as if the sum
would have answers
as if the sum
were a spell
that would bring
her back

Day Thirty

word by
word I
the memories
and the dreams

word by
word I
and hope

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