Small days lift in the big world. Little thoughts in the evening the people coming home. The eyes looking out at the layers of light and the stories down below. Down there through the clouds, light caresses the beautiful. The cream, the blue, the jet streams behind. Drinking coffee in the sky and artists looking out. All up there in the high, it’s cold and it’s cool and clear with the sun. Flight FR509 took off and leveled in the blue, blue above and black. There’s dog hill road below and people playing ball. The work men laying roads and sheep and birds and all. Flies sleep in the cold air, frozen like their friends and the warm sun thaws them as fall like leaves to the ground. Days of walking, walking with no destinations. Walking through town and back again and not knowing where you were. Up there in the clouds there’s people, cloud people crossing and going over head. Through the night they travel and head the east or west. Sun follower leave in the mornings and black birds sing them their way. The seagulls sit on the wings of the planes and try and guide their way. Who cares where the pilot goes he flies in every way. Adventure of flight in the new sky and sitting in a chair. Head down on the inside, but eyes looking out. The boys hand that was held wonders the estates and falls down now alone. Down there in the hollows and drowning under the bridge, the swallows never came that year they never flew under the bridge.
Morningless smiles on the early streets. The people make their way home. The birds still hanging onto the sleeping branch and watching with one eye. The cans of deep night footballed down the streets and goals that were never achieved. Hope is in the air, the early air that’s rising. This is a new day, a day that was hoped for. It’s coming you know the sun and the light, to shine in your life and
Through the fog the layers of light are revealed. The mountain stands like a giant towering out of the blue. Like layers of layout paper the big reveal, the mountain isn’t a mountain it’s a hill. Cows watch as you walk by gates and overs. Downs and furry glens, footstep through the first lights. First sounds as the day breaks the chirping sparrow calls, the black bird lets out a sound, the robin and the wren. Fox calls in the late night and people head for bed, people with soar heads, soar the hills high now. Eagle call to younger one, she beckons on the hunt. The vole that doesn’t move is watching from below, the eagles know that they stay still but watch for movements slow. Through town the river returns and slips along the wall. It combs the sea weed and brings the sea into the mouth of town. It rinses the teeth of town and washes out the voice. It leaves again on turn tide and dribbles down the edge. Bus watchers look at the people watching people. The statutes still haven’t moved even though they keep still. Still in the mothers bed, and forbidden movement of cells. The boy like a prisoner and frozen in a hell. Tears drop on his own and fall onto the floor. They crawl the floor boards and answer the days, the wicked with hard dried canes, the striking of warm legs, the young one who never grew, right from that day. Cars and walkers standing still and cold eyes wait as well. The dogs in the street always knew that the tears that carry swell and the empty and the cold ones who were tripped and then they fell.
Tags: dublin, irish poems, karl somers, poems, poetry, rain, river liffey
Cream buildings and light of gold, the light that creeps along the morning walls. Into your bedroom just above the curtain the shadows play and move, like a film projection and the story of a day. Outside people walk, they talk of autumn walks. The color of the leaves is color and the yellow and the deep. The falling time from tree to ground the tree is in reverse. It sucks the sugars back from th
The streets of wet day reflect the life, the cars, the buses and pedestrians feet. Reflection of the sky and grey and holding on below. Under the street the water drips and trickles down the wall of basement street. Down here where light rairley comes and plants that seem to grow, it’s a place where thoughts, down to the broken man who lives in a box below. We all have a box below and visit sometime. And watch and wait for the rain to stop and hold our shoulders up.
From beneath the bridge the liffey slides and people never watch. The mullet swim slowly along with eyes on deep and sky. The beds are soft where the fish lay their heads and their dreams are long as well. Dreams of shoals and dark dark deep and friends to follow on. The color of the sea gets darker as the tears fall from the sky. The boy that walks with father and hand, the footsteps on the playful sands. Ice creams and sticky leather seats and canned drinks of cold.
I can see the streams and their clear, , clear splashes. The drops in slow motion, , I slow them down and see through them with my eye. The moss is thick there on the rocks and thats the place where broken hearts fell. Walking back across the hill, the old man stills the day. He says hello with his mind and I greet that with a smile. The black birds wing the
Towns and feet and cars are old and printed roads of rubber. Oily streets slippy when wet and caution to the driver. The drivers of the city wait, they queue down at the docks. The steering wheel lives down there behind the cranes and seagull flocks. The engine room is huge and you, and seats for all to travel. Dublin is small and big and sea is blue and brown. Seagull flies so gently above and glides round like a game. The childs hand taken by grandfather, walk to see the ships again. Sand in the hulls for Guinness trucks and hands, and bottled the booze and gripping the glass of night and tired and angry told. Children who ran and hid and didn’t come back for their tea, hiding under the lime trees and hands that covered ears.
The old man walks the Abbey streets and srtrolls down Henry with ease. He stands on the corner of Talbot and listens to seagulls overhead. He watches people with their false heads on their shoulders. Beneath the streets the soldiers still meet and talk of how they’ll win. They drink the porter that trickles down and watch the sun beams through the thick glass basement covers. Cold it may be in the under street the warm soldiers call and weep. The elderly hands that feel that walls and the older that was built. The sands in between and mortar still setting and they’ll catch you one of these days. The blocks and bricks and window sills that stack up over head, make the city a home and fun place to roam and child hood footstep memory.