Published on August 19, 2009
2 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BRANDYWELL.
3 Life in Riyadh @Al- Romazian, Al-Shark and Al-Izdahar Compounds.
4 N. D. O’ DONNELL K.F.A.A.
5 Thanks From USAF 4408 Air Refuelling Squadron.
6 2nd Battalion (Patriot).
7 1st Battalion (Patriot)
8 Colonel Dan. Blake Recommendation.
9 Poems From The Other Side Of The Brandywell and Other Places. Look What I found On The Way Back From Work!
10 Neil Doyle O’Donnell. POEMS FROM A BRANDYWELL BOY.
11 TREASURED ISLE. Hello ‘Old Friend’ may I rest beneath your shaded bough. Have you travelled far for my journey has taken many days. Yes, I’ve journeyed a lifetime to this day. It’s beautiful so restful a magic secret you have found. A magical place in deed but only if you wish to find. Stories told by they who seek, please now rest and ponder less. This may well be journeys end for here the sought after Grail. Safe from all that’s harm and shines with a fateful foolish glow. The treasured isle we hope to find. This fairy charm children’s minds it pleases. To man a mantle, he so gullible in his search urging wild dreams and follies. A need for light so bright that time has lost in warm dark hollows. Answers sought for ages speak. Blind men so wrong in where they madly seek. For they who search for the hidden Shangri-La. It may well be in lost hearts and minds. If only to look and see to allow our hearts run free. To find ourselves within each thought and deed. For we to view the miracle in the sky each morning. This gift of light, its beauty and magnificence at the closing of each and every day. Neil O’Donnell
12 PEOPLE AND THOUGHTS. People, places and things as the words of the song go. My words, your words and others do they matter. All matter but mostly it’s how they are said. Words are sounds created by thinking to carry thoughts and visions. It is the power of the spoken word and what it can do. This a creative tool to move mountains with an ability to topple the foundations of the once great and mighty. Through the dust of fallen cities other words come, some good and others not so good. The latter usually from the hand that wields the sword. Bellowing from loud brazened emboldened mouth to force tyranny on helpless women and child. The evil of men high and mighty incredulous to their own selfish thoughts and beliefs. This needed to feed to fuel many an ignoble deed. Neil O’Donnell.
13 Days pass so quickly here on Spaceship Expatria. As it winds slowly away from planet Home. Through opaque veils of days, weeks and nights. Becoming years, memories first created by honest priorities now gradually decrease in clarity. These silent honeycombs of present and past subconsciously relegated to the mind’s baggage compartment. To be replaced by the need for relationships due to the demise of loved ones feelings and thoughts. Priorities driven by an increasing amount of self. Love for loved ones on planet home less in vogue. Not caused by an uncaring heartlessness but by troubled sprite. Goodness leaking away to be dissipated as memories. As stardust in ‘Mind Space’. Neil O’Donnell. SPACESHIP EXPATRIA.
14 THE FISHER KING. Forgiveness is sometimes a gift of the heart, mind and soul. A supposed vision of time to come. Imaginary water bursting from a mountain stream. The sounds of Mother Nature’s wonders she generous in her giving. We in hope to find a flower between desert stone. A gift of times to come. Memories of bells heard in the late of an afternoon. Days of yesteryear our journey’s away from home. Sounds of laughter amongst the flowers in a meadow. Simple happy memories of salad days. Allowing words said in hast to be wrapped in cotton wool. Personal thoughts and a need to try to understand. Past events laid aside with honest heart for we to hear again. Life's truths and double speak. As we listen to the sound of water from a mountain stream. Symphonies heard again in the late of an afternoon. Memories to pull on heartstrings. Laughter ringing from a meadow. Heart felt thanks to smile again. Allowing the angry child within once more to clasp the wonder of a flower between desert stone. What rubbish it’s dangerous to be nice as it will only open the door again to ‘Perfidious Albion’.
15 Palms, distant sands dust wispingly across ridges of sun-singed gold. Young boy of Connahan's were you learnt to run before you ran. Man two score and more challenges the day but sometimes fears the nights. Darkness falling on distant hills he looks to a foreign sky to see the stars. Stars so bright, white jewels in a heavenly sky seen one night from his city’s walls. Father growing old may have dreamed and thought of stars in another sky. Where the ‘Son of Man’ had one time stood beneath his Father’s sky. The other man dreams of his land. Knowing well: ‘That dear place has known the folly of man’s cold and careless hands’. Neil O’Donnell. DISTANT SANDS.
16 THERMAL RUNAWAY. The enigma of events told in ultra speaks. Great Nimrod in the sky falling to the harsh land of poppy fields below. Fine blue men cut down laid to sleep. A mysterious hot spot resigns them to this everlasting deep. Creaking old aged comet spraying aerial lifeblood through bulkhead leaks. Misting cloud falls on charging glow. On life’s battery they normally depend now to become their foe. This vicious cycle starts again. Overlooked once more in blue skies above hot desert and poppy fields. This enigma held in silence not to tell. N. D. O’.D
17 LIFE’S FOOTSTEPS. IMAGINATION. My life this moment to awaken. Understanding for the needs to endure. With realization gained I have cured myself of doubts and fears. Fears from the politics and ways of childhood. Fearful jackbooted uniformed monsters and government bogey men who cast dark shadows so surreal. These cast aside to allow doors to open to the world and it’s realities. Window viewed by many but never really understood. However to another as simple as A.B.C. I no longer to adhere to the dictates of others. I follow the steps that guide me on this my chosen path so sensible as yet not understood by me. Neil O’Donnell
POWER BY INFERNAL MINDS. Hi! to you my fellow man. Why doth thee smirk and conceal thy hidden past.The path of usurper’s cruel and merchant’s disingenuous plans. This cruel and wanton journey by ancestor’s man.An unwelcome plague on people’s lands forever repeated to present day.The people of the land kind to the traveller not to view his devious plans.They welcomed to the hearth and offered the hand with friendship in its palm.Then to suck the life blood from the land.Hidden depths masked by merchant’s gile and beaming smile. Gentle mind’s blocked by devil’s brew and opium.The gifts of the merchant wizard’s mind this pot of empowering corrosive plans.This no God given enlightened path but from the depths of darkness.Pulled from the bowls of infernal Saxon’s Teutonic cauldron’s deepest boiling pans. The Reluctant Airman NOD.
19 MEMORY POND. On meadow’s bank in the peacefulness of a shadowed afternoon. A line cast on a pond’s surface recreates the rippling waves of life. It whips as it dances to pull a wished for token once more to shore. Dancing light gleaming on waters edge. A memory pool shimmering back and forth bringing sought after past home once more. Thoughts of long lost loves and innocent days come to mind. So important all consuming never really understood. Suddenly a blue-black monster goes rushing by. Crash of metal and hissing steam on a line by Foyle’s shore. This spectre of oiled blackened clattering steel and wonderful speed. At the head of the beast its driver ‘Bill Barton’ waving his shinny black cap high in the air. As it steams off to a place called ‘Portadown’ crashing up the line to some far distant land. I cast my line once more so simple those days before my journeys from this dear and bitter shore. Neil O’Donnell.
20 Life’s Revolving Stage. We met, she sat sadly beside a desert compound pool. In a haughty mood I dictating the importance of security to a couple of drunken ex-patriot fools. The pretty girl under the stars by this silvered mooned drenched pool. Later to become the beautiful barb in my heart one day soon. A number of years together that I will never regret. The blue skies of the days to the cool soft breezes of the nights. Heartbreak was in our parting when you flew home. I knew you were leaving as we all would one day soon. Time has now passed you were right, this life forever turning to another stage. Not all players on life’s stage can experience a part in ‘Blue Skies and Soft Gentle Breezes’. I’ve played it to the skies, gentle breezes and to the beauty of the nights. Today I turn to another role in this forever revolving stage to tread new boards. Alas, the scenery not as sweet as the one we played. Neil O’Donnell.
21 A PRAYER FOR THE TUBE. Campfire prayers and poetic dreams. From the spit of old men's blunted sharpened tongues. Reciting long lost stories of poetic victories. Men washed on prayer but misled to worship. Watched over by the bearded greyhound face reflected on campfire flames. Young men now filled with complex hate listen in awe. The words of home lost in fervour. This world so removed from the poetic mosque. So cold here in the stone heart of a distant Madressa where the words of 'The Holy Book' are turned to stone. Neil O’Donnell.
22 New tide washing gently on a shore. Pictures ebb and flow into the mind's colourful memory picture book. The fall of evening with it's dropping sun waving goodbye to the hills and tiring day. The darkness of greens and wind bush set deep within those dark and silent highs. A beautiful land blessed each day on its Atlantic shore. I feel a wish to walk again that special place. A gift of soft gentle lapping waters washing on a young boy's feet as he carries his bucket and spade. His trusty friend his brother in tow to search for the perfect elusive deepest rock pool and its tiny creatures. Little knowing that one day they would wear another's uniform and not come home. Let this place so precious never to be spoiled by the hungry hounds of progress and stealth. For they will surly steal it away. Neil O’Donnell. A GENTLE SHORE.
23 Ghost. (Home In Derry: March 1991 Post G.W.One Company Leave) Watching the tides of time through glass of foaming ebbs and highs. A black subtle sea of a palate’s delight coloured by aged hangings and pouring of smoke in a bar with ‘Peadar’s’ name. Your not from this town are yae son says he. Go on do you not see me not know who I am. Naw son don’t think I do, where’s the accent from. It’s from the ‘Town’ the same as you. Get away with you from the town no way you’re not the same as me. Good God! Your not a bloody soldier are yae son. No! I’m not are you a bloody nutter. I’m gone away more than twenty years long time ago. Go far did you. Naw, that far you know ’The Town’ always calling me. Aye, I know that well a couple of times ‘Across the Water’ it was for me, son let’s have another jar. (Neil O’Donnell)
24 Spurious Thinking. Can the poet describe what the artist will see. Capturing imagery within a drawing or painting with such great ease. They look to see a tree a flower or a hidden face. Can I do that, “Never in a month of Sundays”. Now there’s a saying for you. Hidden in its lyrical frame is thinking as clear as day. Euphemisms such wonderful tools. Helping to explain our day and many a situation. Sometimes used to belittle a foe with a stinging hidden attack. “He’s a right tight arsh he wouldn’t give you the wind of his fart” As a child my son in tears, overhearing that a friend had gotten ‘The Sack’. A young mind’s vision of a dear friend carried away on the back of a giant or some dark and evil freak. At other times the quaint use of words can make the day. A greeting and a smile from a stranger when on a morning walk. “Hi! great to see again, you Old Goat”. As you reply to this, searching memory to think “Who the Hell was that”. What I must watch is not to mix my metaphors and euphemisms. So please forgive if I do. Let’s not forget my problem with a thing call an anagram. A title for this poem maybe. Poems by a P.P.P. ‘Poems by a Pi** Poor Poet, slightly rude but understood. Neil O’Donnell.
25 Passion mounts. Waiting for the earth to shudder. Breathless poundings in the heart. Movements all a flutter. Onwards rising to reach the pinnacle. Legs lilt, long and slender strike out to me. "Darling was that a pleasure so sublime”. The reply to suit the words of the strong women from Merriman’s ‘Midnight Court’. “ No! It was Bloody Cramp”. Neil O’Donnell. CRAMPING MY STYLE.
26 AIRPORT LOUNGE. A book for the train is what I need. So on my knees on ‘Heathrow’s’ floor. To find the book for journeys end. “That’s a good one” I heard her say. Raising my eyes I view an angel. “Hi” she says, “Hello” said I. I’ve read it, this girl her skin as soft as peaches and cream. We stand and talk for that moment in time. Then turns for journeys end. Turns once more and smiles goodbye. I watch as if in a film from long before. Years have passed and I still think of that pretty blonde girl. My beautiful American: Pretty Blonde, Peaches and Cream. Neil O’Donnell.
27 DESERT HEDGEHOG. Useless you sit in the sand on a cold hard runway. Brimming with teeth and iron. Your wings sadly droop in the early morning sun. Gone your arrogant pride as you sit so forlorn. Filled with anger your lungs choked with sand and stone. Ha! Your rider lost his way or so he says. Later his king will give him a medal to cover his loss of face. Young men from the desert fear in their eyes, fingers tight on triggers. Stand and wait for I to fill your belly with power. The hunger for flight a famine in your entrails. This power needed to fill your carnivorous stomach for war. To bear gifts of destruction to wide eyed children below. Neil O’Donnell: Riyadh Airbase January 1991.
28 THE RELUCTANT AIRMAN. An escape route offered from ‘Derry Dole’. Fancy uniform, sport, some adventure and a life of your own. Just leave the love for your country and values behind. Never a normal return to your land and add a new word to your life book such as pariah. Controlled leaves, precious holiday times spent in ‘Ebrington Barracks’ sometimes a laundry van for a taxi. Live in a world controlled by racist right wing idiots, disliked the reason that your people protested wishing for their ‘Civil Rights’. Murdered like dogs in the street by red-capped uniformed killers from a gene pool found swilling in the bottom of a bucket of brock. I this joke trained to fight the ‘Russian Might’ whilst a school friend Jim Wray lies dying in the street. A best friend’s brother ‘Paddy Doherty’ shot twice in the back. Jim, Paddy and others lie dead and dying to satisfy ‘Brookeborough's Spleen’. Allowing the ‘Masters of Deceit’ to quench and sup at their evil feasts to feed scraps to the ‘Horsemen’ to fuel again never ending evil deeds. Neil O’Donnell.
29 TUNNELL 4. Television useless and foul. Content nil but violent thrills. Lions and Christians replaced by Trolls. Cringing Celebes slaves to egos. Offered to the alter by modern day Caesars. Attracted by delights as moths to bright staged lights. Enticed by a plundering partnership of suits and secret orders. Masons who lay building blocks of decrepit soulless kingdoms. Partnerships of ‘Tory and Born Again Ruthless Core’. Firing the pyres of modern nonsense. Bloodless culture and gangster rap. Attempting to rebuild the coliseum and it's jaded past. Hailed as jumped up Nero's by fawning hordes. In the hope of replacing long cherished culture with instant thrills. By fitting something so vile in a screen so small. Apart from Bart, Lisa, Frazier and one or two more. Neil O’Donnell.
30 SHARK ATTACK FROM A MIDNIGHT SKY. Mary, Mary never contrary fear from her eyes as the crescendo of the sirens grow. The unearthly sound of wailing Banshee invades every cell of our brains. I view again this old photograph from January ‘Ninety One’. Mary the girl from Carrigferrgus, eyes shine bright peering back with a worried smile. Dear friend never usually bothered now looks slightly stirred. Mary and her nursing friends who never faltered with friends like this who could ask for more. We await the blast from the falling warhead that causes a massive brilliant radiant rainbow glow. Ending nervous laughter to fill our air with stifled screams. Doors blow open, plate glass rattles to bellow stopped from breaking by masses of crissed crossed tape or was it ‘Gods Own Hand’. The unending silence as we wait for the all clear to go. Area declared free of particles and gas, helping to ease our nerves. Time for breakfast and lots of coffee and off to work we go. To relieve friends and colleagues from their nightshifts of horrid fear. ‘The Shark’ Riyadh 1991. Neil O’Donnell.
31 OCTOBER 5 ON THE BRIDGE. The son of a woman a wonderful, wonderful woman. I suppose I’m the son of not a bad dad too. I wished someday to reach above the clouds to a bright blue sky but poor old me I had to climb and slip every step of the way. The glue on my shoes laid by an insidious Tory flock. Storment with its schemes each day trying to stop the sun reaching my spot. Trapped in a school system and asked what your father would do. "He’s a docker sir." "A doctor, Hmmm! I’ve never heard of Doctor O’D". "No he’s a docker, sir". The look of interest now none gone from this teachers face. We sons of dockers and fathers on the dole pushed to the back. To allow the country boys and others to walk on grass. Little ‘Neil Farran’s in his palace, his plan an aspiration for a catholic middle class. We would laugh "Aspiration don’t you get that in a bottle to cure a headache". October on the bridge we stood together docker’s sons, fathers on the dole, country boys and others. Battered by ‘Orwellian Thugs’ dressed as cops, clubbing us to vent 'Old Brookeborough's' spleen. On this bridge I view these thugs my fathers, father’s father was once one of them an old ‘RIC’ where am I from. I must have had heroes from those days as I climbed the metaphorical barrackcades in my teens. Yes I do! the men and women, the ‘Teachers’ from my old school. The two big Bills: Connaghan and Sharkey. Miss Burns who made certain that we learnt to read and write. Kelly with his math’s, Mc Laughlin, Harkin, Paddy Doherty and the lovely Mrs. Carson to name a few. Lets not forget the ‘Great Donaldson’ who taught us to believe in ourselves and win a medal or two. Believing that inspiration wasn't to be found in a bar or bottle but in a book: or even in a bit of badly attempted verse or two. Neil O’Donnell.
32 CORK. Cork old girl with your constant rain. Washing away times of history on cobbled stones. Small streets wind away to smaller ones. The second city only in size. In the heart of your own dear people you are the first. Cork girls shining in the rain, flower petals reflecting the brightness of the day. Warm in winter the people your fire. Spring the clash of ash and sporting youth. Summer alive with glorious hope.
33 Dreams raised in clouds in sun blessed days. Some of merriment some of grey. These the bloodstreams of my life traveling rivers that keep me sane. Remember young boy before turning teen, colours, tin soldiers bright with light time to play. Memories of times that must not fade. From here to look back so sweet those days. For perfidious I view this present age. As I reflect on memories of childhood ways. Long before a mother’s cold sad grave. Neil O’Donnell. BLOOD STREAMS OF MY LIFE.
34 Things seem crazy and you think you are going mad so just stop thinking. If life is bad and sometimes mad stop thinking. This life can be bright so lets start from here. It’s just as well as we need to renew our thinking. Our world ruled by consumer thoughts to push us through doors to suit others plans and thinking. Days brushed aside by soft rough hands of smooth collared stinkers. Lives bound by consumer choice, stealth and meaningless thinking. Let’s rise each morning with no cross to bear to achieve our horizons. Reach out to touch this life with the powerhouse we find within us. Neil O’Donnell. WORDS SOUND SO SIMPLE.
35 A Bar In Derry. Back home for a pint and no one knows. Last night in an Arabian airport, gun totting guards and flowing robes. Back in good old Derry and once more on my own. A quiet bar, early morning and no questions asked. I look like a tourist have the tan and no tales to tell. The pint quietly pulled I sit down to take in the past. Across the room three men, two of them so bored the third to them a pain. His nervous twitching, chattering antics falling on ears so deaf. The companions thick shouldered, heavy browed small talk just between two. Peed off their look souring milk with a single glance. The third man now familiar his fatwa a curse in Persian Verse. The heavy brows disinterested look at watches to check the time. Bar door opens to the skies, shift change time occurs for one to escape. This man finally smiles relieved of the burden of the little man and his bloody ‘Satanic Verse’. Neil O’Donnell.
36 FLOODED FIELDS. Flowers so blue from the golden pool not by man’s hand. We unable to view where this eyes delight comes from and the hand that created first its seed. A secret lost to modern man blinkered by his vain supercilious mind and madcap plans. Structured, complex, beautiful and so blue. Delicate to the touch this magical presence reborn season upon season on shore, hill, lane and glen. Appearing each spring to give beauty time and time again. Depending on the cycles and the secrets of Mother Nature. She kind and understanding changing often to undo the follies of her sons. In modern time short of patience frustrated by her stupid foolish children. They not able to tend the land and understand water flow. Gone those days when men dug around fields to allow trapped water its voice. Trench to trench escaping from field to field. Channeling water far and wide to river’s mouth and freedom flow. Neil O’Donnell
37 CORPORATE SCHEMES. The city village under threat lost in masquerade and double speak. Local shops, morning greetings and lost post offices. Colourful palette, memories of summers and wholesome days. Retained treasures of thoughtful views and life shared in many ways. Friendship returned through trust and caring minds. Partnership of those who wish to walk a common path. Hands locked with each other on the way. A gift of understanding this beacon to guide each and every day. Relationship led by the sprite of one another not by addled brain and youthful foolish balls. True images of life bludgeoned by corporate sting and over swing. Overblown view to manacle us to a dearth of spin and new political ways. Trumpeted by those who wish to bow to the scatology of decisions blown in our ears. Common sense overlooked to suit the cosmetics of demigods to fulfil corporate schemes and egotistic dreams. People no longer interested in choice slumber in a media trance sleepwalking to the next available mall. A new ‘Sodom And Gomorrah’ or is it ‘Sod Them For Tomorrow’. They tasked to build mountains wrapped in gloss as we tread to stumble along this carbon path. Neil O’Donnell.
38 This island mist and mystic blend of time. Torn by bloodlust for religious power. Power wedded by Norman and Tudor Hordes. A dance set in new time to ease their desires. Footsteps a heavy thud upon our graves. An island once a dream. Now trampled by the leaded heels of malice themes. We old before our time find this dreamis just a dream within a dream. The people different in so many ways. Fate decided not by where we are born but by the shabby empire served. The die caste hand of fate leads in its own cold way. Allowing others reason to comply. Honour blinded by prejudices carried by small large hurts of desire. Therefore indifference must occur. This crazy world of rights and wrongs. Dictates of families and politics for empires to endure. Allowing the theory of chaos to assist the 'Horsemen' in their everlasting brooding tasks. Time to awaken to witness what has gone. Sorrowful events and history have passed replaced with stepping-stones, new bridges to pave the way. The people of the islands still different in many ways ponder to find understanding to their own thoughts and ways. They with gracious intent lead with honest hearts. Sometimes undermined by a vicious belief dressed as sheep in wolfs clothing. The lust for power and blood salivating from its carnivorous mouth. Hidden under a mask of righteousness and purchased collar as from times before. This evil just as cruel with intent as any. Veiled with false modesty dictate from the sands of time. Determined in its will to rule and undermine goodness and free will. Now a lesson to be learned carried by a son of ‘Connell’. A curse from the flat crowning stone and the battle book to be laid on the heads of masons. The time will come when the masters of deceit will fall to the hand of fate. Neil O’Donnell IN HOC SIGO VINCES.
39 THOUGHT CANAL. I sometimes ponder of walking in misty fields. My path stepped through blue grey trees shadowed by hidden silent hills. Dreams maybe, maybe not have I walked this in times before. Memory curtain falling to mask once lost times to ignore. Lost realities, subliminal imaginary or my fleeting daydreams. Times that may have gone but never really seen. Experienced one time in memory lore. In this circle I stand to face my hidden peers accused of fallen short. My failures they dictate to me. I beg them to understand that I am just a mortal man. No! They cry have not I broken trust and failed to understand. I await for they who ponder fate and destiny of this outcome. One more chance I cry! an inborn fear to fall. I challenge on another plain, does modern man carry into time and gene some memory of once before. Or this a fear of ‘Hell’ church lore brain stormed into child’s mind’s eye. Memory felt as pain as I travel a dark warm canal to find the bright light of day. Neil O’Donnell.
40 BROKEN HEARTED AUNT. A broken hearted lady dear old soul. A memory of her sitting sadly sipping sherry in the old fashioned way. Whispers around a table in case young years may hear. “She died of a broken heart, it’s said”. A heart split in two by some condition or mysterious fall. To die of a broken heart what a fearful end I hope that never happens to me. What a way to go surely the doctors will have a cure. This to look forward to when I grow old: is this part of life to come. Contemporary days and I’ve grown in most ways. Experienced the symptoms and survived, so relieved it doesn’t tear your heart in two. As I’m still alive and kicking and enjoying each day. Neil O’Donnell.
41 JOURNEY TO THE BRIDGE. A life’s journey when I was quite young. In the past with family and friends. A travel in time with many highs and a few times low. In early days easier with the love of a mother and father who wished for me the best. Finding my way through life and its tumbles not always knowing the way. Chased up ‘Hogg’s Folly’ to get to school. This young mind sensitive to the political follies of those days. Asking why I didn’t get to the ‘Brothers’ the school of my father. The teachers at the ‘Tower’ the best, crippled by the antics of church and state. Storment controlling creating its insidious divides as they played with people’s minds. Using the now discarded dull boring testaments of extreme mentality, set in the cesspool of archaic reactionary philosophies The incredulous antics of politicians and perfidious ways. I then wishing one day to reach above the clouds to a bright blue sky. This sky hidden from me by a mindset of dubious evil political ways. The monsters as vile as any of their ‘Cold War’ chums. Political highwaymen with schemes trying each day to stop the suns’ rays reaching my spot. Neil O’Donnell.
42 Garristown Time. GARRISTOWN This is not a poetry page but an inability to describe what I may have seen. One Sunday past in Garristown time lost in Barbara’s bar with nothing on my mind. I watch as light reflects off mirrors, bottle top glass as the sun dips behind the hill. Where Mèabh’s fort stands high amongst the centuries of Celtic Gaelic lore. The old graveyard and ruined church this post card picture view. Battle graves from times of Celtic kingship infighting spreading myths over hills and shadowed lanes. Stones circles, megalithic tombs attracting gatherings at ‘Winter Solstice’. An explosion of light to my right as I nurse a pint in the eve of this late summer afternoon. Clouds and mysterious white billowing beauty from another world. Tall radiant statuette figure wonderful this magnificent visible porthole view. Taller and more graceful than anyone I’ve ever seen. I stand to greet my visitor in wondrous light. Four others from the bar watching, conscious of their viewing. Allowing I to pretend that my mind imaginary and he not there. Today in another world memory reawakened. Remembering this phantasmagorical view reflecting truth and personal light. Neil O’Donnell
43 In this cold world a place safe far away from all that’s harm. This place where lies a sought after grail. A fairy charm children’s minds it pleases well. To men a mantle urging wild dreams and folly. The need to find the light that time has lost in warm dark hollows. Searched for answers so cherished for ages speak. Blind we men so wrong in where we madly seek. For we who search for that light so bright. May well it is in our hearts and minds. If only to look and see to allow this heart run free.Neil O’Donnell. BEYOND THE GATELouise & Richard
44 POEMS BY N. D. O’DONNELL Poems by N. D. O’Donnell. Graphic by Richard O’Donnell
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