My Love

Your hair like autumn colors
Burning bright and browned
Your skin is like the winter snow
Laying soft upon the ground
Your eyes like the deep blue sea
Crashing to the shore
Your absence like 
The summer sun
No longer can endure
Your lips are berries from mountain ash
Your laugh a mountain stream
Your thoughts pry the unquestionable
Like a chink of light on a darkened beam
Or a white horse running wild and free
Silver mane by silver sea
Sliver Seeds of dandelion
Crowned starlets in your hair
Shining when the sun
Marry’s and melts
Amongst the veils of showers
Your the prism of color 
That above me towers
The rainbow that spans
The ditch stitched ground
The white swan sailing
On a stream of sound
And among the rushes 
waiting….....
I am found.

The Breeze blows cold
The sun brings heat
The clouds pour with rain
And you filled
Brimmed with love
To Eclipse
My cold moon’s pain.

Sweet child of Innocence

detail from a 1515 Flemish painting (The Adoration of the Christ Child) showing an angel and a shepherd perhaps showing signs of Down's Syndrome

Sweet child of Innocence

You sang a song for me

And in your own but simple way

You set my spirit free

You Caressed away

My hardships

With you’re gaiety and show 

And in your own but simple way

I know you let me know

That your love for me was bottomless

Over 3000 fathoms deep

And no dam could stop that love you have

Laid down for me to reap

Sweet child of innocence 

Sweet child of innocence

Your mind has got one simple tread

Of a pure yet magical weave

That was ment to love and glorify

never ment to deceive

For deception has saddened many

Who refuse what they receive

And look for other answers

For they Just cannot believe

That this child is just a messenger

Of a love thats rich and pure

And it’s we that are too oft’ times sick

Too blind to see the cure.

Sweet child of innocence

Sweet child of innocence,

Anybody that has met Diarmaid o Connell will know how special those born with Downs syndrome can be they give us hugs and love when we need them most, they are unconcerned with social conventions and get to the heart of the matter when words cannot be found. This is a poem/song I wrote celebrating the sun shine they bring to our lives but also lamenting those pre-occupied with a dis-appointment, not opening their hearts to the many blessing that such children bring to a family and those around them.

Homage to Halloween

Homage to Halloween

The Moon is full, the clocks go back
Strange things happen on all souls day
The dead souls creak, lost between
Sin, forgiveness and regret.
Remember now it’s Halloween.

The ivy curtains of their tombs
Are pulled away inside the ruins
Lichen statues turn their way
As their bones put on a flesh of clay
And walk again with unsure feet
Hoping they will somehow meet
The beggar they past on the street
So many moons ago.
Or the child they stole innocence from
Now they want, but the moments gone
To cry in contrite agony,
“Soooooooooooorry”.

So they trundle on in chains
While the darkness still remains
Hoping someone knows their walk
Senses their cold breath like chalk
Scrapping the screeching blackboards
Of dark memories that they hoard.
The victims eyes, with venom baptize
Spewing green phlegm, spat in streams
Absolves them of the unforgivable
Unchaining their sinful dreams
To sleep in peace
Eternally.

A BELLY OF TROUBLE , A BUNDLE OF JOY.

A BELLY OF TROUBLE , A BUNDLE OF JOY.

Her Belly Bulged like Hawthorn Hill

Her navel was a Fairy Lios

And I, felt like a king

When I brought my queen a kiss

Inside us both unspoken joy

Was it a girl? or yes a boy.

God my hands were like a potters

Moulding the clay of flesh

When something stirred like a startled bird

SSSSh….....Listen ….........hush

Her fingers drawn across her lips

Life moved and kicked the wall

And in my thought in green and gold 

He was kicking out the ball

Or climbing up a tree

Calling “Hey dad, theres eggs inside this nest”

And I was shouting” come down quick.”

Still, I knew I was blessed.

At night I’d tell him stories when into bed they curled

The three little pigs and how God he made the world

He made it specially for the children, for girls and little boys

For we too are children that sneak playing with your toys.

But then again, it could be a girl

And I would still be her father

And I would love her just as much, for she would be my daughter.

Later on I’d tell her life was an ocean fraught with danger

And even if she was hungry “Dont take sweets from a strangers!”

I’ am sure, I’d catch her playing,

Putting lipstick on her lips

Curlers in her hair, with lacquer and all them clips

And high heels on her tiny feet and varnishing her toes

While dressing up in mothers dressing gown and clothes

She’d come running, crying “Daddy!”

When her doll would loose it’s head

I’d put it back together, and we’d put it back to bed

She’d have lots of friends to play with latter on some lad

And even if his hair swam to the ground

Somehow I’d be glad.

If he would bring her flowers 

Treat her with respect

But the world is always changing 

So what can we expect?

And so, I wish that they taste love

Overcome life’s hurts and pains

Taste a bit of Freedom

Not be shackled up in chains.

If they could keep an Innocence

A wonder, even as they grow old.

And know right from wrong

And do as they were told.

But when I look, inside the crib

I see Joseph, the child and Mary

And I wonder if these things crossed their minds

And was the future then just as scary.

By Tim Buckley

A Pheasant Surprise

A Pheasant Surprise.

A brace of pheasant from Barons Court

Wrapped in christmas feathers

Eyes framed in berry red

Ringed in green of winter holly

Their body’s dappled brown bodice wore

Florentine marbled paper

Well travelled birds one might say

Three cocks and one brave hen

Far flung from the dynasties of the orient

Travelled to land in a barons court

And then to a minstrels table.

So to sweeten up the flesh of fowl

A drizzle of Tuscan oil.

A pinch of ground sea shore salt

Aromatic Madagascar pepper

Coriander seed, zest of lemon

Bunch of thyme, sprig of sage

And leaf of noble bay

Hear the searing hiss of wild juices trapped

Tuck the carcass into bed of Mirepoix

With clove of allium 

And sweet Amontillado 

Then decorate on willow pattern plate with love

Serve with juniper and red currant jelly.

Then Taste the taste that cannot be hunted

The clear running jus of friendship.

By Tim Buckley

My wife plays the harp and played at Barons court in co. Fermanagh an old castle country House where chef Michel Roux was cooking and shooting for the weekend before leaving they gave her some pheasants to take home besides a delicious meal this was the out-come.

Woman floating in the sea

  Woman floating in the sea

The sea combs your hair

It's gravity gone

It floats like treads of silk

Carded by the tide

Your face is an island

Deserted from your body

Your Knees, toes and breasts

A stranded archipelago 

In the watery wastelands

You breath with every ebb

Bubbles bursting upwards

Escaping joy

Blowing through

The briny blanket

That once again tucks

You under it's cover

The sand at your back

Wind blown shapes

Undulating like ribs

Starved of flesh.

Wound round you

The calm simplicity

That brings you here

The pulse and tug

Of tide

The jaded lap of waters

The monotonous slap

Of waves crashing

Seaweeds in slow-motion

Wave, their slimy gut

Umbilically holding stones

Keeping you within my reach.

By Tim Buckley

Whispers

Whispers.

The Irish worship 

Whispers

Like prayers

Snares that catch the stumbles

And the club-foot-life we lead.

Whispers whirl like hurricanes

In tea cups

Pouring through the cracks

That ooze

within us all.

Tim Buckley

A Poem I called Romance.

We gathered flowers from the garden

That stretched along the road

 A Mist breathed ethers of love

And in it's vapors we flowed

We picked and plucked the wild scents

Saw silver beads trapped inside a net

That spiders spun in Summer

But caught only now the wet, 

Wet mist, from clean air drunk

As we laughed and talked 

'til talk was sunk

In songs and dancing smiles.

The flowers we placed inside a jar

But somehow were not the same

Lost from those Kerry hills

Looked tethered now and tame

But still they hold a memory

Of a day when rain was a dance

Or a passionate poem

That was sent to me

A poem I called 

Romance.

Walking on the strand in Kilkee.

WALKING ON THE STAND IN KILKEE 

CO. CLARE.

The instruments of wind whistle

In a victorian bandstand

Papers pirouette

A poster flaps a clap

Encore ! Encore!

The oceans roar.

Oyster-catchers paddle

Like summer nuns

Black and white

Their orange beaks 

Machine sowing

The strand to the waters edge

A gull screeches

(the sound of a child lost at sea)

It's wings are held by a puppeteer

It wavers a battle without fear

Then suddenly

It lifts 

And like a newspaper

Is blown away.

Our hands are tight as mollusc shells

Far from the concrete eyes

Of sea-side hotels.

Your hair, like gold dust

 From the sand

Your eyes, they speak of finer days

Toes, painted red as lobsters

Against the strand

A scarf of seaweed blows in your hand.

Lips purple parched

From salt and sea

Our eyes moist

Thinking this cannot be

For eternity.

Tim Buckley

 7/11/84

Ballad of the Crubeen

In france they says

 They ate the snails

In Alsace the slimy frog

But believe or not in Ireland

They ates the toes of the hog

Some calls them plainly pigs trotters

Others call them just pigs toes

In Gaelic they calls them the Crubeen

The true name nobody knows

I finds them tasty with cabbage

Tastier still at the tae

But best of all with the porter

Well thats according to me.

In China they ates with the chop-sticks

And the English are re-knowed to be neat

But there's no room for them party manners

When your eating the glorious pigs feet

There jelly and grit and some brine

Sweet hairs and bristle and slime

And a bare pick of meat between the two feet

And the rest consists of just rind.

When first you start to beging to ate

The sliderry slice of the hairy feet

Your f----ing and blinding and swearing

Your Knawing your Knarling your tearing

Your only complete when the bones are picked neat

Not a trace of rind to be found

Its then you know your making a show

For you Skipped the previous round.

"So up to the bar there boy".

By Tim Buckley

To be recited in thick cork accent

(for as we know in kerry everything is thick in cork)

 except for posh English accent when referring to manners

do not add uck to the f----ing, the word is   f     ing

say = sayz

meat = mate

eat= ate

tea = tae

feet =fate

me = mae

The Gift

The Gift.

I will give to you a flower

But wait until it blooms

'til the colours  take the shadows

From all our vacant rooms

Do not let it dry between the pages

Of a book upon a shelf

Or let it droop to drink the air

From a jug of china delf

Wear it in your hair

Reflections mirrored in your dress

And the pattern of our love 

To your red red lips I'll press

Let the perfume of the moment

And true loves garment

Become our clothes

It shall conquer the grey bricks

 Of  loneliness

With a rose.

ON THE SHORES OF SWEET LOCH LEIN.

ON THE SHORES OF SWEET LOCH LEIN.

By Killarney’s lakes a wonder awakes

Like a morning after snow

When children’s eyes

light up the skies

With an effervescence glow

As the dancing hooves of horses

Tap through on a green-lush-lane

And plays a jig to the dancing strands

Upon the horses mane

And the Jarvey tells a story

As he pulls upon the rein

Of the magic and the wonder

On the Shores of sweet Loch Lein.

Muckross House with Gardens Fair

Where man and God has met

To Create a scene so beautiful

Its not easy to forget

With Bluebells through the forest

Rhododendron on the lawn

And a kingfishers blue bolt

like a strike of light at dawn

Winter summer snow or rain

There’s a magic and a wonder

On the shores of sweet Loch Lein.

Here ferns like lace

Surround the place

And glisten with an amber gown

When dew-drops catch the golden light

when the sun is setting down

But the only treasures to be found 

Are the memories here to gain

Of the magic and the wonder

On the shores of sweet Loch Lein.

Diamond eyes, wink from the skies

As they shine from dusk ‘til dawn

And fill the Lake with starry lights

 Around the Colleen Bawn

And bugles in the distant hills 

Echo their sweet refrain

To the magic and the wonder

 On the shores of sweet Loch Lein.

Green-Leave-Shawls the waterfalls

On Torc and Tomies mountain

When a gushing stream suddenly stops

to become a crystal fountain

Where the silver salmon

Slip and slides

As it wanders back home again

To the magic and the wonder

On the shores of sweet Loch Lein.

The Eagles Nest he thinks is best

From April on to May

When the road fills up on either side

With a purple scented spray

As the trees they push their talons high

As they prey upon the air

And curtain off the scenery

that surrounds you everywhere

And now you wonder why you came

But you travelled not in vain

For you found the magic and the wonder

On the shores of sweet Loch Lein.

By Tim buckley

Return to Eden

Return To Eden.

Eve went into the garden

Took fruit from the choicest tree

The apple cried its juices

And salted tears for me.

They cried of a naked discovery

They clothed theIr beauty with shame

Pointed their fingers like daggers

stabbing the air with Blame.

Birds that once sang so sweetly

Went hoarse, as they searched for  the note

And the serpents sweet venom boiled hissing

Like a satire scribed by a poet.

Adam discovered the apple

Eve was seduced by it’s ban

But they sampled the fruit together

Then naked in shame they ran

Banished from the garden of Eden

To a Banality where all was the same

Where Love was soon forgotten

And hatred was fueled with blame

Sons were born in the jungle

Pain wracked her body and nerve

Born to the darkest beginnings

To a sentence their parents were served.

We are the children of Eve

We are empty hungry and cold

Loveless lifeless and searching

For the apples temptation had sold

If we planted the seed of the apple

If they kept not discarded the core

We would watch the apple tree blossom

and would harvest the apples no more

Peace would rain from the heavens

Desserts would colour in bloom

Guns would again be silenced

 No man would preach of doom

Children would never be crying

Disease would be a thing of the past

And death like acts of contrition

in museums they all would be cast

Legends would tell of explosions

Of men who murdered and maimed

And children wide eyed with wonder

Would not understand what temptation had flamed.

We can still plant a garden in Eden

In hearths that are lonely and cold

In minds that pry for distruction

In sheep that have strayed from the fold

In the weak the sick and the hungry

Those thirsty for friendship and care

It only takes a moment to listen

but have we that moment to spare.

By Tim Buckley