They say it is finished
they say they will do us well
more than the colonial masters
of the past
that we don’t need to worry about anything
but learn how to be slaves.
They say it is finished
they made us believe
the things for the deaf people
they say we don’t need to worry about anything
but learn how to be deaf.
They say it is finished
they put us here in this paradise
which prison is better of
they say we don’t need to worry about anything
but learn how to be prisoners
hoping to be free someday.
Beneath the broad columns of Herculean Pillar,
Weeps the springtime feather dance
Of freezing frothing blanket.
He lies on Irving’s rocks across the Henry,
Painting words of Freedom’s March across a furrowed brow,
Till tiredness creeps it’s feet on lonely eyes,
Counting mountains
As they frown down from above.
On the first crack of the distant Bell
A teary head raises from a bloody pillow,
And sings out the count, to defiant beats.
Flakes drift softly round a faraway moon,
As drizzle melts the lines of morning strollers,
With the hoofs their companions, embossed upon the heather.
His eyes close as he settles to dreams of futures possible,
Picturing rows of steaming turrets, sharpened blades
And crumbling fear, as they draw known faces on fancy paper.
He hears whispered talk of sagging brows and lobbing smiles,
Scribbling and Scripting our morning news where
New artisans paint Headlines in his head,
“Work, save, and Beg.
Make ends meet,
Work those streets,
Bare them writers, debaters,
Leaders, loiters,
Teeming with poor lice“.
Upset now, he straightens, filled with sculpted fear,
And flagging hope,
Devouring ideals of painful labour,
Darkened evenings and prose.
The Narrow Alleys echo his comrades screams,
‘They are Flogging the undesirables‘.
Cries of the deserted ring out
As sweat now pores on dirtied boots.
On A One page of women Jubilant,
Black Coffins swim across the oceans, and the Singing corpses chant the Voters Slogan
‘The great appear great,
Only because we are on our Knees’
The Parisians have embraced the soul of his youth, stole his heart,
Hardened his resolve,
And emancipated the print of the newest chapters.
He’ll fall upon the lords great will,
The ‘Singers’ and ‘Wobblies’ will call and cheer,
While unrest leaves lanes of torn and listed books.
It’s a world only make believe could make so real.
Locked in, Locked out,
Fattened Guerrillas stalking shadows,
In concrete jungles of law and lands.
Their people Long since, Ner’ forgotten,
For He hears their whispers in his sleep.
This Farmers land, had workers lead their kin to the gates of Slaughter,
Then scavenged, begged and stowed to the cloudy Hill
Of Overlooking
To remorse or return, is a question beyond the door of the living.
He must Shed not for the defiant butcher,
But more for the life now gone,
Since sold to an aging critic.
He was Born in to the Poor mans world,
But now freed from it’s chains,
Must help make what‘s fallow ripen.
On the streets where rubble were once great walls,
Where mounted high, the heavenly stag did Breed,
In fields where blight had starved their plates,
He would toil and drive and Dig and Build.
That day, That day in May,
Upon a hazy heather pillow,
A life of history filled a lonely man.
As He lay and held the hand of glories past,
He raised a fist to salute the one which had just begun.
He shakes hands in his dreams with the men of the mist,
Along hills,
And at the edge of great towns.
James Fitzpatrick
Seamus Mac Giolla Phadraig
James Fitzpatrick is an Irish Poet based in Dublin.
I wrote what I felt would encourage anyone experiencing dark times.
How long have you been writing poetry?
Over 10 years and I’m still learning every day.
If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?
Maya Angelou. I would thank her for continuing to teach me how to make myself heard using the eloquence of simple words.
What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?
I dislike public performance. So your platform is the right place for me to co-share the skill of writing and performing with someone else.
Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?
I have published books on fantasy/adventure/educational tales with moral lessons. In the published portfolio is also a novella and anthology of thoughts. For anyone interested to know more, I am giving free books to visitors on my website.
What is your passion in life?
Inspire and invoke positive changes with my writing.
Empowering individuals to take control of themselves, to accomplish their goals. We all have that power, but unlike the simplest toy or device that we buy, WE do not come with an ‘Operators Manual’! This poem IS one, it reveals the simplicity of changing conciousness!
What motivated you to write this poem?
We have developed a powerful Smartphone Biofeedback instrument and I wrote the poem to explain how it can empower YOU!
How long have you been writing poetry?
Since 1972 – Forty-five years!
If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?
William Shakespeare
What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?
While I can read my own poetry, I wondered what an actor could bring to it with their own interpretation of it!
Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?
Yes, I wrote a Children’s Book – “Jacque the Lumberjack”, I wrote decades ago and is about to be published!
I have just started to Write a Book on Elite Sport Psychology, and my Forty Three Years Work with Olympic and Professional Athletes with the Mind Over Muscle Program I co-authored with Major Nory Laderoute, former Athletic Director of the Canadian Armed Forces Combat Training Center. It reveals the Power of Your Mind, to every individual – and how you can simply “Take Charge of Yourself”!
What is your passion in life?
Skiing, Consciousness, Self-Realization and Family
Forever is a long time. Yet still I’m here, simply yours.
I belong to you, I am forever linked to you, all yours.
You created something special between us, forever yours.
Through trial and error, the learning curve, u raised me forever yours.
In sickness and in health, yes like matrimony, I am forever yours.
When I got on your nerves as I grew from infancy to adulthood, still I remained forever yours.
Shameful that only one day has been chosen for you, it’s still forever yours.
Even on the days that perhaps you didn’t feel your best, I came first, forever yours.
Feeding me, healing me, teaching me, how can I be anything else, forever yours.
When I began writing my own life chapters, lest we forget, I am still forever yours.
As short as this message may be, the meaning is clear, this day and eternity are forever yours.
Happy Mother’s Day to you these women I can’t say enough about, the world is yours.
I said it before that forever is a long time, but so too are you.
Be all that you know yourself to be, fore as long as you do these things forever will live within you.
You have the patience of a saint. Through your grace and kind nature, I have come to understand and believe that true love exists for some who seek it in their hearts….
I yield to thy heart
So pure and sincere
Who sacrificed all for love
Filled with awe filled with fear…
My soul thee broughtest back
From the clutches of despair…
Reminiscent I of Anna karenina:
“every heart has its own skeleton…”
In reverence…..in prayer
I seek peace….
I seek solace…
From the perils of my anguished soul….
Distant thoughts, heavy heart, deep sigh lingering…
Frightened..desolate…cold..
But thy words of strength
Reached out and released the shackles from my heart tis’ pained….
tiny flakes, noise, echoes
you touch as if
and hymns disturb
as bells wake up gods.
it is you in you
and it walks inside and unconsciousness sticks to keep you buried
a lifetime you waste, somewhere without
an idea
that you carried the burden of nothingness in apparent objective.
it is an artistic scramble to paint an image in darkness
of vacuum
you love to cherish and so indulge in nakedness of words runny.
incessant contest somewhere
a fluky dispersal
of emotions
carries
burden of age you know not and still cry meaning
and boast of scribbling an epitaph on stones half chiseled
a great effort to see light at a burial ground
the testimonial of infinity
calling man to hug.
you are not seen here, not at this moment, and maybe it is not in future
forever it is a struggle to exist in non-entity
you sit and tell.
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