Reflections

Reflections

I gaze at your reflection in the mirror of my mind.
If I could somehow travel through the mirror to your world, I wonder just what marvels I might find.
You seem too real to be an actress in imaginations play,
And though I know that I am sleeping, I am certain that this is no fantasy that withers at the dawning of the day.

If I could smash the mirror would you disappear, or would our worlds combine?
I wonder, can the magic of your vast, eternal world be squeezed into this tiny universe composed of space and time?
You are no simple human, with your pale blue skin and tranquil features touched by bliss.
Your deep and penetrating eyes can pierce the veil between our worlds and draw my soul to yours across the great abyss.

What mystery is yours that fills my soul with such an ardent thirst?
How can a single glance from those dark eyes enchant so deeply that my heart is fit to burst?
In daylights lonely hours I hear you whisper words that I can’t understand.
And yet, they make me long for restless dreams so I may try once more to reach across the void and touch your hand.

The flowers which surround your portal scarce do justice to the beauty seen within.
I marvel at the wondrous creatures which surround you and the pale blue lustre of your skin.
Each night I press against the glass just like a moth would beat his wings against the lantern as he reaches for the flame.
I spend each anxious day in brooding contemplation, – wondering if the dream will come again.

Patrick W Kavanagh
16/02/2018
Art by Bill Oliver

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A Polite Request to Parliament

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You bailed out the banks when they gambled and lost!
You sold off our assets at a fraction of cost.
You sent our young men out to bleed on the sand.
But, when a beggar is dying you won’t lend a hand.

We pay for your biscuits, your beer and your wine.
You squander our taxes and think life is fine.
You’re in with the money, – your future’s secured,
With a nice golden handshake and a few sinecures.

A job with a bank or a seat on the board.
You needn’t go often, – no need to get bored.
You meet at the club and we pay your expenses,
But you never once think of those sleeping on benches.

You don’t spare a thought for the ill or the poor,
But you hate to see homeless folk sleeping by doors.
So, you send out your lackeys to move them along.
They can starve, – they can freeze, just as long as they’re gone.

You must have a conscience somewhere deep inside,
Or you would not use lies or evasion to hide,
The truth, – that this nation is falling apart.
It has no compassion and you have no heart.

I would show you some pity, but you don’t yet deserve it.
You work for this country, – so go out and serve it!
Spend your day in the hostels, your night on the streets,
And listen to all the lost people you meet.

Patrick W Kavanagh
01/02/2018
Image by KylaBorg

Ship of Dreams.

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My ship of dreams lies torn and broken on this foreign shore.
How will I survive this strange new world if I can sail away no more?
My naked flesh was soothed by the mist while sailing through the clouds.
The sky was all the home I knew, – my ship flew fast and proud.

But now my tender feet are scratched and bruised by walking on this rocky strand.
The driftwood staff I found to help me has already raised a blister on my hand.
I struggle on with eyes set firmly on the distant shelter of a group of trees.
My unborn child is restless, and I soon must reach a place of shelter and of ease.

Oh! my son, what have I done to cast adrift on such a barren shore.
Our world lies many suns away and now there’s no way back to where we were before.
I curse the stupid pride that made me run away in anger on my lover’s wedding day.
Right from the start, he said he loved me, but he said he could not stay.

There were others who would gladly take us both to be their son and be their bride.
But wilfully and stubbornly I said that I would never grace another’s side.
I took my ship and sailed away to find a brave new world for us to stay.
But now our ship is gone and somehow, I must carry on and live another day.

The stars were mine, but now my life is ending as I shelter underneath these unfamiliar trees.
Swaddled in my robe, I rest my new-born son upon my knees.
My son is fine and strong but who will love and care for him when I am gone?
I cannot bear to take away his new-found life, but I am fading fast and I must act before too long.

I sing to him of all the worlds which stretch across the vast expanse of space.
I sing to him the birthing song which has been sung so long to all the children of our race.
I sing to him the song of death which must be sung to all before their final breath.
I tell him that I love him as I draw my blade and clutch him to my breast.

A strong pale arm has stopped the sweeping of my blade before the fatal cut is made.
Soft brown eyes are peering into mine. With gentle arms, he lifts us up and carries us away.
When I awaken I am lying by a fire and I can see you cradled in another’s arms.
Despite her strange appearance, I can sense that she would never mean you harm.

Many years have passed, and I have learned to call this world my home.
By some strange chance, you have a family with sisters and a brother of your own.
I have taught my tribe what little that I could of all I know and understand.
Now the time has come for me to let my spirit fly back home to my own land.

Patrick W Kavanagh
17/01/2018
Art by Bill Oliver

Winds of Change.

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It seemed as if the world was living on the streets.
Shuttered windows on the empty buildings rattled to the sound of marching feet.
In every doorway filled with sleeping bags and children crying with the cold.
The recently evicted huddled to protect the weakest and the old.
 
They shuddered as the screaming rang out from the empty store.
Batons were the punishment for squatters as they dragged them from the broken door.
In these Apocalyptic times, a broken limb could lead to death.
And crying out for mercy was a useless waste of breath.
 
Hospitals were for the rich and those who cleared the rabble from their path.
Simply being in the way was cause enough to suffer from their homicidal wrath.
Desperate to keep their kennels and their meagre rations for the day.
These dogs would kill and maim without regret to earn their paltry pay.
 
I was once a poet, but I choked one day on my own lies.
I thought the beauty of my words might soften hearts and lead to kinder skies.
But kicked and broken past repair, they threw my battered body here,
And left me bloodied on the street to die in poverty and dark despair.
 
Blinded by their studded boots I thought that I would die.
But gentle hands and gentle voices gave me shelter from the thundering skies.
The sewers were no longer safe, – but soon the rains would end.
And there were always rats enough to stay alive and shelter underground.
 
The sewers are my kingdom now, I navigate by memory and touch.
They see me as a prophet, – these kind beggars who I’ve come to love so much.
They gather weapons every day from careless troops who dare to stray.
We plan, and steal whatever food we can until the winds of change can blow our way.
 
Patrick W Kavanagh
21/01/2018
Art by Bill Oliver

Winter Fae

The Fellowship of The King

The winter has been long and cold, and springtime still seems very far away.
I sit here snuggled in the warmth and dream about my childhood, and the fae.
How I miss glowing embers, underneath the flaming sods of turf that fed our fire.
When I used to sit in quiet contemplation as the faeries fed my hearts desire.
 

Dancing gaily through the woodlands, mirrored in the phosphorescent world of smoke and flame.
Faerie troopers marched across the gleaming forests edged with crimson and with gold.
Carriages of purest white, and silver reins upon the coal black shires that proudly cantered by.
Horsemen dressed in silver armour, prancing as they raised their glistening lances to the sky.
 

Then the Faery Queen,- magnificent in sparkling gown, she turned and waved to me.
Her wings like delicate, translucent butterflies, that fluttered blue against the ruby trees.
I cannot think of…

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Home at Last 

patrickwilliamkavanagh

Source: Untitled

Home at Last

No more haunting memories, nor fruitless, futile dreaming of the past.
I reach those sparkling, sacred shores and I am home at last.
Those restless nights that brought such anxious misery are gone,
No more, that longing in my heart to live in that sweet place where I belong.

I’ll miss the early morning walks when all the world was dressed in dew,-
The sunlight shimmering on a spring-time morn when all was fresh and new.
The moonlit summers when the midnight air felt cool and clean against my skin.
In many ways my exile on the earth was joyful,- though I sorely missed my kin.

Then, deep within that vast kaleidoscope of dreams I found my ancient home.
The dreamer was awoken in the dream and somehow found the will to roam.
From the wispy web of thought, I spun a coracle of hope to fill my aching need.
As the acorn grows into a mighty oak, my restless longing for my home became the seed.

In my tiny boat of spider-web and springtime’s supple leaves, I headed west into the setting sun.
Scarcely did I know what would befall me, ere my desperate journey would be done.
Silver stars lit up the blackened sky to give a little comfort to my flight,
As cautiously and nervously, I sailed my little coracle into that deep, dark night.

But now, my journey ends at last,- the shores of my abode of aeons past are looming fast.
I leave my blessings with the world of men,- with all who were my kin, and all who called me friend.
I have found the Isle of dreams where Lugh still shines, and Brigid guides the poets in their dreams.
I must bid farewell to all the world of men, for I may never walk this earthly world again.

Patrick W Kavanagh 11/10/2015
Art by Bill Oliver boysoblue.com