Eire

I am not Irish, but the fair island calls me back:

distant, furry, moving white dots on the sloping bed of green.
small empty roads luring me onward, inwards, towards
playful dogs hiding, pouncing and giving chase;

Mrs. Kennedy’s motherly tone,
forcing more eggs on me in the morning;

Sharing lamb stew with a proud octogenarian for lunch
who, in emphatic Irish, was passionately explaining hurling;

the sweet wailing of the violin, in the smoky pub at night,
where half-pint of Guiness was an order worthy of hearty ribbing,
and an enchanting red-head, with her lingering eyes
easily stole my heart;

the tangible sense of a soulful presence,
of the foreboding castle-ruin
watching me from a distance,
amidst the scented mist and the deep forest;

the strange realization,
that small fairytale creatures do actually exist
around the bend and in the shrubs, watching me

Napping atop a hill, underneath a handsome tree
near the furry, moving white dots on the sloping bed of green.


I am not Irish, but I hear her calling.

Blue worlds

A Mermaid
meets me in my dream
She gracefully swims closer
as I slowly drift; downward, aimlessly
in a big blue world,
within which she thrives

Gazing past the threshold that separates our worlds,
She mischievously smiles, and gingerly whispers
whispers of her dreams
Of taking flight with me,
up in the big blue world,
in which I've survived

with my dreams and hers