Nessun Cancelli, Solo Ponte
(for Brian and Sinead on their wedding day)

February 9, 2013  :: 0 comments

‘Who, being loved, is poor?’ Oscar Wilde

There is an un-mined treasure pit
where Hammurabi’s scribes bend hourly
to tablet-etch the lush of their oneness;
it has no gates, just bridges.

Where he surfs every heart-filled wish
he dares to daily permit himself to dream
and she is a Picasso paintbrush
he lovingly paints his world with.

Where she is a Freudian archaeologist
delicately digging in the aftermath
of every unspoken mote her lover
has yet to broadcast.

Where they are a team of pit horses,
unselfishly delivering cargo after cargo
they willingly shovel out,
to stoke this world they love.

There is a precision in their loving
that requires no maintenance.

© 2013

Narcoleptic Fodder

July 23, 2008  :: 0 comments

The winding completed and given up through
inhalations of new-born that these euphoric days
seem to grace each corner of our house infused
by your love through its umbilical broadcasts,

I rewind and rewind as I kiss and kiss again your
tiny floppy frame now resting on a dedicated
mould on a shoulder built for taking tackles
and breathe you into my future as I hear you

ask for your bath; and I answer in a whisper, yes.
My boy and I we dance through the instinctual
before we swim with you in sudsy bubbled
dreams and douse you with our love. O to run

the softest cotton over your un-boned knuckles,
through the neck tracks collecting angel remnants
that invitingly give themselves up, yielding to the
pleasure of a moment that is mine and yours,

to lift you from your soaking manger and swaddle you
in my arms and after drying to hold you naked to my
skin and fill the dotted lines. To spray your grotto
with blankets of white clouds before I dress you.

And bonding in the aftermath my adult returns to
whisper in an ear that seems to hear without listening
a host of promises and confessions, my votive
deposit decorating the foot of your basket.

Tactile Memories
For my father Micheal Barry

July 23, 2008  :: 0 comments

How do I know your
drive to run these teeth
over the inviting dead
what torc to chose
when indicating

and yet I rub the
chiromantic map with
unromantic oils and
smooth each surface
without life

dress the contrasting
donors with shavings
toiled and blindly
undressed in lonely
un-hugged trances

why do I hold this
whistle in your
clasped hand
Spear’s index
at the ready

with the open snuff box
in distracted thought
see to your nails
massage your waiting
mound of Venus

un-gloved you gave
to give me life
beyond our clasped
audience of DNA
I applaud you.

Aldebaran Appointment
For Stef

July 23, 2008  :: 0 comments

When you hit the Bull’s Eye
Apgar checked her watch
and smiled as she listened
to your perinatal soliloquy.
The delivery room announcing

just another arrival

to the working audience,

but I’d swear

my eye’s corner witnessed Zeus
blow a kiss to the blind usurpers;
both Gods and men awakened.
I viewed you first from a fascia of
relief and loved you instantly.