Wednesday, July 20, 2011



All around, the dead, they lay
In hillocks green, ‘neath mossy stone,
Unmarked, untold, forgotten now;
The trial, the strife, unmourned, unknown.
Interred here, the babe, the wife,
Sarah, Peg and Maryanne,
These least, they dwell among the best,
The ancient lords, the highest man,
Whose weathered crests, now ivy mocked,
Defeated stones on hummocks fall.
The honored place of weeds and green,
By nature claimed, is shared by all
In Glendalough, where servants lay
Aside of saints and lords and stones,
As all shall come to rest one day
Amid the ancient hills of  home.

Sunday, July 3, 2011


The creative Kat, Poetikat, who blogs here, is in charge of the Poetry Jam this week, and she's in full bloom, asking us to write about a flower -- only darkly. This may not be what she had in mind, but the jammers are a forgiving lot. You can find other poems here. Why not join the bouquet?


In the dark of the night,
In the glow of the moon,

When there's no one to care,
And there's no one to see,

She opens her heart
And releases perfume,

Turns her face to the sky,
Dances wild, dances free,

Sings a dark, secret song,
To the sweet, sultry air,

And makes love to herself
When there's nobody there.