October 25, 2014
In a world driven faster by minds made too small
No rest for the weary the dreary banal
It’s no wonder we tremble, resigned to our fate
Walking in circles no time for debate
But love lives in nature, our true clarion call
Through the trees is a light that shines above all
October 18, 2014
Paint me a picture, weathered and wise
today not tomorrow, leave the disguise
It’s not hard to see faces, worn and weary cases
drifting between shadows and the silence between spaces
No, paint me a picture as tall as the moon
show us some wisdom, say now never soon
October 4, 2014
“Why do you insist on acting like a tourist?”
Weary with frustration, she often tired of his social experiments. Relaxing at the pub on a Saturday night, Flaithbertach believed it simpler to pose as an outsider than explain his tedious Irish name.
“Where in Ireland are you from?”
“No kidding, we have a Dartmouth here too, just across the harbour.”
At least the Irish sounding answer enjoyed the advantage of being true. To seal the deal, he always drank Harp, even though his budget in truth obliged a Keith’s. His conspicuous journal, he thought, gave the impression of someone recording experiences for friends ‘back home’. To his chagrin, he was more often perceived as an undercover narc secretly taking notes, and not a good-looking grockle. But to his credit, he never attempted a plausible accent. He never once tried to order a hearty helping of colcannon.
“That’s it”, she conceded with a grin, “I’ll talk to you later.”
Gracious in defeat and despite a stubborn allergy concerning change, Flaithbertach ordered a pitcher of Keith’s, one glass.