Words & Music

"Art is not what you see, but what you make others see." Edgar Degas

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

The Beast

Something is moving 
Under the water
Flowing steady as a current
Heading toward the land
Closer to the shoreline all the time
Swelling so close to the surface I can see the ripples from its spiny back

Wind and tides and storms at sea
All make waves but not like these
The beasts who live down there have grown
And want to flex their muscles
They need to feed to survive

Those who fed them scraps and helped to break their chains
Will be shown no mercy from any side
Will discover a world without shelter
Will cry for a past they could have changed
And for their future world of wind

Fishers with their hooks and nets lay traps for things that live in the deep
To harvest beasts you have to think as they do
You have to see the horror of the hook
And feel the pressure that holds them down
You have to ignore the life of peace that calls to you
At least until you drop the net
And sink into the clay

No sound disturbs the slumbering beast
But, once woke, no sound can lull it back to sleep
No appeals can be made to reason or right
The beast has heard it all before
The beast is tired of listening
The beast has spent its patience in hopeful times
The beast does not believe it can win
It wants to watch you lose

When I was a child I saw the beast marauding on dry land
Reptilian delight on full display
Screams of babies glowing in red eyes
Ancient lies slithering from forked tongues
Under respectable cloaks
It has since thrown off

Tiny claws, sharp as a ragged nail
Hysterical shrieking, purposefully disorienting
Accompany the rising beast
Instantly recognizable nightmare
Tribal warnings, remembered tales
Nothing can prepare us for the naked beast
Nothing can prepare the naked beast for us

Celtic snake artwork by Elizabeth (creativeliz.wordpress.com)
Ocean artwork by Ran Ortner (ranortner.com)
Saturday, March 17, 2018

Why The Irish Are The World's Greatest Lovers

Ireland has been inhabited for the last twelve and a half millennia. There are more than six million people living on the emerald isle today, down from a peak of eight million in 1840, before the famine. By 1850, the Irish were a quarter of the population of New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Buffalo. There are 40 million Irish people in the United States and they will all be marching up Fifth Avenue today, at least in spirit.

The Irish are known for being drunken and pugnacious but also for being poets, musicians, and dreamers. What is not as well known is that the Irish are the world’s greatest lovers. The French, Spanish, and Italian are renowned for being physical lovers. And we all know what happens when you go black. But the Irish are known for being spiritual lovers. They are good people to fall in love with, or to have fall in love with you. When an Irishman makes love to you he does it with his soul. The bodies involved are just pleasurable conduits to turn on and off while the souls dance the eternal ballet. In time bodies age, stiffen, and decay, but the love of an Irishman stays fresh.

Here's a taste of some Irish love in the form of the traditional song "The Banks of the Lee" performed by Sarah McQuaid.


When two lovers meet down beside the green bower
When two lovers meet down beneath the green tree
When Mary, fond Mary, did say unto her lover
"You have stolen my poor heart from the Banks of the Lee"

For I loved her very dearly, so true and sincerely
There was no one in this wide world I love more than she
Every bush, every bower, every tree and every flower
Reminds me of my Mary, on the banks of the Lee.

"Don't stay out late tonight on the moorlands, my Mary
Don't stay out late tonight on the moorlands from me"
How little was our notion when we sailed upon the ocean
That we were forever parted from the Banks of the Lee

I will pluck my love some roses, some blooming Irish roses
I will pluck my love some roses, the finest that ever grew
And I will leave them on the grave of my own true lovely Mary
In the cold and silent churchyard where she sleeps ‘neath the dew