The Beggar

It was the coat that drew me to his side, that cold September day.
He leaned against the wall, inside a porch that barely kept the wind and rain away.
An army coat, just like my dad’s, that came back from the war.
I hoped it kept him just a warm as it kept me so many years before.

I dropped some coins into his cup to ease my passage, as I walked away.
But as I glanced into his eyes, I watched him struggle with some words he had to say.
“God is bleeding into life”, he said. “And life is struggling to escape the mud.
There is nothing in this world which can be made without our sweat and tears and blood!”

His aura stank of urine and insanity, and so, I walked away until he called me back.
“Your poetry is shite!”, he said, “You write of flowers and butterflies like some insipid hack!”
“What can you know, old man, of what I do and who I am?”
He said, “I’ve walked the lonely roads since mankind first began”

“You think that speaking nice and being good will save you from your misery and pain,
But you will walk as many roads as I and birth will come again and yet again.
Your life may be a fairy tale, but fairy tales are born in blood and sweat and slime.
The grimy, gritty glories of this world will last until the very end of time.”

“You bore me with your godly prayers and clean-pressed trousers on the shiny pews.
You tire me with your candles and your bells and all your failed attempts to be a better ‘you’
You drive me to distraction with your chanting and your whistles and your drums.
The only truth is you, - and what you do is what your life becomes.”

“I became this world which we both walk and we both share.
Each moment of my birth was made of misery and pain and dark despair.
You bleed my blood and cry my tears for you and I are one.
This is the mystery which Man has wondered at since Mankind was begun.”

“Forget your worries and your foolish plans and simply be!
You never will be greater than you are, for I am you and you are me.
The measures and the rules with which you gauge your lives are false beyond compare.”
I closed my eyes to still my spinning head, but when I looked again, he was no longer there!

Patrick W Kavanagh
25/03/2018
Art by Bill Oliver.

Tumbling

 The silence was unruffled by the muted ticking of the clock

upon the shelf.

She lay between us like a moody mist which hid the memories of every single kiss.

The years have brought a dreariness which wore away the passion that we felt.

And yet, - of all the losses which we gained, your laughter is the one I really miss.

It’s been such a long, long time since last I saw you smile.

The lack of lustre in your eyes reminds me of the pain we share.

We have not left this dusty dried up world within our own front room in such a while.

The world we used to know outside may long have ceased to be for all we care.


I remember summers, once upon a time, when there was magic

in a sunlit grassy field.

We walked for miles to find a quiet spot where there was no one else around

A tartan shawl laid on the ground became a battlefield where both of us would yield,

And fall into a peaceful interlude, as, cheek to cheek, we lay upon the ground.

But now we sit and stare as if we both have rushed beyond

the veil to share a musty mausoleum

Sometimes I rouse myself from reverie and try to speak, - but don’t know what to say.

The days are just a burden as we sit and wait for sleep and all its promises of dreams.

I wonder if you dream of when we laughed and played and tumbled in the hay.


I see you clearly now through all the years with straw

entangled in your hair.

Your clothes were in a mess and through the creases of your shirt, your passion pressed.

We slipped into the barn and in a stall, we made a nest of cast-off cares.

But when the farmer came we had to run away as maledictions

filled the summer air.

Perhaps we both have lived too long? What use is life bereft

of laughter and of song?

Perhaps we died a long, long time ago when we were struck by grief and everything went wrong?

Perhaps we should have fallen on our bended knees and begged forgiveness for the crime of holding on too long,

To memories of all we had which once had made the love we shared so strong?

We had a miracle and then the miracle we had was torn away.

We had a dream, but then the dream became a nightmare in a
single tragic day.

Our love created life and then that life was torn away.

The god we used to love had punished us for tumbling in the hay.

 Patrick W Kavanagh

16/03/2016

Art by Bill Oliver

Angels Born Sleeping

Angels Born Sleeping.

I am sorry that my passing caused you so much heartache and such pain.

Although my sleeping form looks still and cold, - I am reborn again.

A higher call has summoned me to worlds beyond your sight.

And I am in a place of love and wonder, - and delight.

I will visit often, though you may not know that I am near.

But, if you listen carefully, who knows what you may hear.

My quiet voice will whisper words of comfort and of love,

For I have had the grace of being chosen by the one above.

Your sacrifice and sorrow will have never been in vain.

For our spirit lives forever and we all will meet again.

But I must be a messenger of hope and love to many who are born.
For I am now a light, to all who wait in darkness, for a bright new dawn.

Do not grieve too long for me or shed too many tears.

For I have risen far above all grief and left behind all sorrows and all fears.

I know you wished to be my guide and my protector and to share in all my joys.
But, soon enough, we'll meet again beyond the starry skies.

Patrick W Kavanagh.

16/10/2016

Art by Bill Oliver

Kiara  The early memories

Only a tiny person could see the entrance to Kiara’s world, and only a tiny person with true vision could see the green lady who guarded the entrance to the land of the Fae.
As is widely known, - but not so widely believed; - there are many physical entrances to this world, as well as the obvious routes on the astral plane. However, this entrance is very special; this is where Kiara first peeked out to see Jeremiah. This is when she fell in love and it is the moment that changed her life forever and also saved mankind from a terrible fate.

I was going to say it was the ending of her childhood, but, do the Fae grow up? Do beings with such a measureless lifespan have a beginning, a middle, and an end, - just as we do?
I do not know for certain. I have asked the Fae, but they have declined to answer. Trying to persuade a faery to be serious about anything is a difficult task. They love mystery and magic for its own sake and hate to explain anything in boring detail. In the end, I stopped asking. They are my friends and my helpers, and that is good enough for me. They are intrigued by our intellect and our ego’s, but they have learned from bitter experience that being too close to mankind for too long can have a corrupting effect. Somehow, it steals a little of their joy and innocence each time they give in to their endless curiosity.

How can I describe that world, whose entrances look so unremarkable to the human eye?
Many have spoken of the feasts and the music. There are also many tales of dancing and orgies too, - but perhaps these are the exaggerations of a medieval mind which was starved of joy and hope. Memory fails me where I need it most. Like the dreamer who struggles to recall their night of adventure, I am taunted by brief, half-remembered images of beauty and feelings of utter calm and peace. Even now, I can feel the gentle touch of leaves against my cheek. I can see a clearing where a soft light catches a multitude of tiny flying creatures. Are they faeries? I cannot remember. I can see orbs of many colours and I can smell the musty earth of the forest. The air is warm and moist. My clothes feel like they do not belong here, but I sense that to remove them may mean that I will stay here forever.

The flowers are beautiful. They are a strange mix of both tropical and temperate plants.
I sniff one and suddenly feel that I could shrink, if I wanted to, and nestle inside its cup-like petals. It looks almost like an upturned daffodil with a purple centre. Everything in this place seems to be asking me to stay. As I walk deeper into the forest, I come to a huge clearing. There is a river cutting through the woods, feeding a large pool that is sparkling in the sunlight. I can see larger creatures here. Wolves are blocking my path to the pool, but I do not feel frightened.  I hear the sound of a flute and look up to see a strange creature sitting on a branch playing a bright, cheerful tune on what look like Pan-pipes. He is much smaller that I had Imagined Pan to be. Perhaps he is a faun?

The wolves pull back to allow me to go forward. There in the pool are beautiful young men and woman splashing around. They called to me and invited me in, but my puritanical upbringing failed me, and the vision ended. I did return eventually, and I will share my memories as they return to me in a clearer form.
Patrick W Kavanagh 
Kiara’s later adventures can be seen at:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/589028

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/618855

'Distant Shores' is a collection of those poems which have touched the hearts of many visitors to my online pages. Book one, 'Voices From Beyond the Veil' It is part of a series of short volumes on various themes. This, the first volume, - is about parting with those we love, and the eventual acceptance and peace which can come in time. I hope that it brings some comfort to those who are grieving.

Lovers Moon

Dance with me once more beneath the sleepy moon.
The dawn begins to peek above the purple mountains all too soon.
The night has passed too quickly, and the garish daylight looms.
For me, without your smile, - the brightest day brings naught but gloom.

Whisper to me, one more time, - of love that never dies.
Show me once again, that far off world beneath the violet skies.
Share another kiss for all the ones which soon I’ll miss.
For there is nothing in life, for me, - but this.

Many were the nights I lay alone, by choice, before we met.
My heart was made of stone, and would still be, - if we were strangers yet.
But not a heart exists which can resist a faeries kiss,
And now my heart beats just for you alone, and none can query this.

How can I go back to dusty books when I have lain with you in quiet nooks?
Or tread the beaten path when I have walked the misty, moonlit road past sparkling brooks.
My weary eyes despise the bored and foppish dress of clerks,
When I have gazed upon the shining diamonds of your eyes, in caverns deep and dark.

Take my life, before you go away and break my foolish love-struck heart in two.

Do not leave this hollow husk behind with nothing left but memories of you.

Have pity on this mortal man.

And love me for whatever years are left in human life’s short span.

Take me to the world which blossomed long before the world of man began.

Patrick W Kavanagh  23/02/2016

Art by Bill Oliver

On a Mountain

“I never designed it like this, you must know!”, - 

Said the wise old man with a beard like snow.

He gazed down with kindness and gave me a bow,

“I never once ordered the flowers where to grow.”

The sky shone behind him with crimson and gold.

There was youth in his eyes, though I thought him quite old.

The birds sang so sweetly because he was near. 

As love overwhelmed me, I stifled a tear.

“But what of the sorrow and suffering and pain?

And those who must come back again and again?

He halted my questions and spoke with a sigh, 

“That was your own doing, my children, - not I!”

“I gave you this world to create what you will.

You have chosen to hoard and to hate and to kill.

I gave you a garden with beauty and grace,

But all that is left is just ruin and waste.”

“Your share of compassion has withered and died.

Your dreams and your visions are twisted inside.

I have often descended to help and to guide, 

But each time I fell by your malice, and died.”

“The trouble that comes will be wrought by your hand.

Your greed and your anger have ravished the land.

But, do not be troubled, for when it is done,

Your spirits will rise and will shine like the sun”

A music that I cannot ever describe,

Had lifted me up, - ‘til I stood by his side.

A chorus of angels, - a million or more, 

Extended as far as the distant shores.

I turned, as a Faery took hold of my hand.

She guided me back to my own sweet land.

For Angels and Faeries are much the same.

Like the faces of God, differing only in name.

Patrick W Kavanagh   21/02/2016

Art by Bill Oliver