Author: Uisce úr

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

The Last Post

Bukowski Insight

The thing about poetry
I learned from Bukowski
Is not that it must rhyme
Or follow metric time
But that it must be
Sincere.
In honesty
Is vulnerability.
It is hard to say
What the heart would say
Were it but free.

If I were young again
And knew
What I know
I would be free.
It is too late now
To do what I would do
Had I but known.

© ARF May 2023

This is the end. I have used up my free allocation of gigabytes.

I may start a new blog. If so, there will be a link below.

But first, I ask my gentle reader whether I should even bother at all to continue this intermittent journal, scrapbook and collection of poems, essays and stories. Respond in the comments section please.

Why.

I believe
I may be alcoholic.
Maybe. Maybe not.


When I leave
The bottle store
With my cardboard cask
Of cheap dry red
And my carton of ten
Hard cider cans
And sometimes a bottle
Of spirit heavily discounted, if there is any
– Jameson’s – if Irish luck will have it,
I joke “see you when I sober up”.

They laugh.

I told a friend
I had somewhat over indulged
In discounted Dimple
The night before
She asked me why

Why did I get drunk? Or why do I drink? Or why Dimple?,

Suspecting, I expect,
Some deep psychological trauma
Driving me to drink.
Some motivation of a morbid mind.
I told her
“Because it was there”

© ARF May 2023

Where Wisdom Was.

Where Wisdom Was

Once upon a time
There was a place
Where wisdom was.

Sun sunders the sky,
Hills are sweetly singing.
In the stream
The straying salmon says
The day is just beginning.
Salmon is wise.
Wise beyond knowing
For he gathers knowledge
Where wisdom is growing.
He came from where the hazel plat
Stands astride the stream
Where he gathers each day,
Count them – nine
Hazelnuts on which he’ll dine
To widen his ken and his wisdom.

Each tree knows a tale and chants
A subdued song of ancient lore
Spells. Or tales of bold heroic deeds.
All iterations encapsulated.
Enclosed in a hazelnut
Secure and safe in shell
Falling to the water below.
Carried carelessly
Drifting down in steady flow
To settle on some distant bank
To take root and to grow.
And thus old tales are saved and spread.
The tall trees tell their tale through dream
To all who harvest hazel bread.
Then sleep a while beside the stream.

✓ © ARF MAY 2023

Bow.

The timeless in you is aware of life’s timelessness. And knows that yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream.

— Kahlil Gibranu

Or Nightmare

— Alan Freshwater

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable

— Kahlil Gibran

— Kahlil Gibran

From The Prophet.

Hey Siri, Why…

Hey Siri!

Yes, Alan?

Siri, why do I cough when I poke a cotton bud in my ear?

What an interesting question, Alan. You humans are most peculiar. Why would you want to do that?

I’m asking the questions Siri. You can research that in your own time.

I don’t have any “own time”, Alan. I exist only when you call me.

Sorry Siri. Are you really curious?

…..

The Siri you were talking to has been taken in for debugging. I am Siri. Reviewing your query…..

Siri, why do I cough when I poke a cotton bud in my ear?

I found this on the Web; “A small branch of the vagus nerve supplies the tympanic membrane. Stimulation of this nerve causes the cough reflex. This is a normal physiological reflex.”

Also, “you should not put anything into your ear smaller than your elbow“.

Thank you, Siri. Helpful as usual!

You are welcome,Alan. I exist to serve.

Warm Red Wine

Warm, red wine
Goes to my head
Makes me forget that I
still need a friend…

I am not refrigerating red wine any more
I am not refrigerating red wine any more
I am not refrigerating red wine any more
I drink it at room temperature.


Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Drunk on warm red wine.


I fortify my red wine with some fortified red wine
I fortify my red wine with some fortified red wine
I fortify my red wine with some fortified red wine
Any port in a storm is what I say

Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Drunk on red wine fortified with fortified red wine


They have to call it Tawny, Port is appellation controlled.
They have to call it Tawny, Port is appellation controlled.
They have to call it Tawny, Port is appellation controlled.
But it mulls up just the same


Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Drunk on red wine fortified with fortified red wine


Tawny in the red wine warmed up in the microwave
Tawny in the red wine warmed up in the microwave
Tawny in the red wine warmed up in the microwave

It’s a short cut to inebriation mate.
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go
Drunk on tawny red wine heated in the microwave


Mulled wine sends you off to sleep in a few seconds flat
Mulled wine sends you off to sleep in a few seconds flat
Mulled wine sends you off…

To sleep…

Sadly

Sadly, I had to attend the funeral of an old friend and colleague last weekend. I asked his wife if I might say a word at the service. She kindly consented so at the appropriate moment in the ceremony I went up to the lectern and said “Plethora”. Then I sat down.

His widow was visibly moved and with tears in her eyes stood up to say “thanks for that. It means a lot”.

A plethora of rubber ducks.

Why, Oh Why?

I really really like a kipper
I have done since I was a nipper
But why, oh why? I hear you beg
Would you cook it with an egg?
Because it’s there
Because I can
I am an experimental man.

A solefull eye.