The Hag of Beara Ireland

While in Ireland I was inspired to write a poem about a most amazing woman, The Hag of Beara. Now a stone I devoted a full month to creating an installation performance piece at the Burren College of Art to her. Here is the poem I wrote.

Ahh yes, I have a story

Beauty crystallized



forced to stagnate alive within this hideous stone form

Does it shock you to know I am alive?

I wither forced to hide alone   frozen

A hard granite shell merged with skin

So yes, I feel your pathetic pawing

And yet I remain invisible to you

Impervious to my shudders   Your hands like a boxers punch rest heavily upon my chest

tears brushed aside as sea foam

Let my cold body meet the sun’s warmth

Within beats a powerful rhythm

such an ugly lump of stone

Marrow bleeds and whispers

Darkness dances with damp decay

Branches grow thick with soft moss

can a heart break that no longer exits?

can visions cloud and clear or awaken only to death?

the wild Atlantic roars pounding the shore

foam forbidden fingers grasp for what is no longer there for he too has been banished

The god of the sea forbidden from reaching the rocky shore

His pain causes the sea to swell

if only this time

I no longer carry the scent of the sea

This rock coffin hides Sapphires and emeralds

a prison of stone fragile and dead

Yet, memories arise stories walk the island

A young and beautiful powerful warrior maiden gifted with powers beyond any mortal

An acrid sea salt scent gliding on the breeze

I am both beautiful and terrifying

Sea weed grasps for my ankles, thorns draw blood

darkness drips sheets of ruby

Dripping in rhythm I fall under a spell

Ghost of what was of all that had been

Lost words tangle in my hair twisting changing directions lifting and falling

Dripping ceases all sound

A soul shelter       Death                   is this how I recover?

I have grown old   Old,     no ancient ,

Yet I dance as a youth upon the cold damp sand

Shells open in anticipation dying as they huddle close

Mumble prayers to clouds

Wind whispers a command,” Tell me of your fears, tell me of your cares.”

Sea scented winds Head held high I enter the sea     wild waves entwine me   scrub me clean   until I once again am young and beautiful

Merely an echo

Howling winds dance in my ears repeating broken phrases

repeating broken words trapped in timeless moments

Seashells hide reason and thought no desire to be exposed to light

safe without a voice      Safe now                           Silent

Dying story written on decaying leaves

Secrets succumb

Words trapped in time mumble

Do not separate what belongs together

Desiccated corpses flounder

I want not your plastic baubles     I want to sore free

Rushing into the sea ice awakening my dead heart

The audacity   believing this granite entraps my soul

Do not be fooled by harsh cold wind   it is I

Ride the wind across the ocean searching lips give voice to my story

Past rests in the sand to blur all vision

A mix of wind and sand burning as if memory itself was not enough

gripped tightly in the fist of time, form and color alter, dust, no other worlds.

One wonders as the waves swell and the sea crashes only to appear as calm, is he awake?

Does he too stumble knowing not the night?

Anchored here as the Hag of Beara

Cover me with the sea and I shall once again be free.



Twisted Winds Halted

Forceful winds blow foreboding

no longer warnings.

The danger has arrived

Winds entangle lies, lies caught between the bamboo stalks

shattered promises, hope devastated,

broken scattered remnants.

Powerful winds unable to budge memories stuck in the quagmire of time.

No Milk

I have a very sad cup of tea tonight.

No milk.

Earl Grey

but…No milk

New Year Day in an Aluminum Can

So what does the first of the year look like from inside an Alum Can? Well, the year ended very prophetically with a tank that didn’t fill and cleaning sludge out of pipes. Drawing an analogy from that to life, clear away all the garbage and crap that is not healthy or good for you and clear out the sludge from life and veins. Veins being the transporters of good life blood and energy. So begin the year with a clean physical vessel. Scrub from the inside out or in layman’s terms: detox.

Detox of course means people, thoughts, behaviors as well as the obvious food and drink.

If the year closed with a cleansing of waste it should begin with an open clean path. The analogy for that obviously is to repair the washing machine.  Even the washer has it’s own alum can house.

Sometimes I think the washer has a nicer house than 3As you can see there is a broom to the left of the machine. That was to sweep away the gallons of water that went under and around rather than inside. The last time I moved the washer a bile green lizard with black stripes and dots ran by so I announced myself. Having learned from yesterday I unplugged then disconnected the water hose. Inside was green sea weed looking stuff. I am not sure I really want to know all that I now know. After cleaning it out and running the water through both ends it was clean. Reattaching and testing the hose all was successful so I attached the other end to the machine but since the cold water attachment leaked from inside as well I used the hot water opening.  Since the washer has no hot water I wasn’t sure if it would work. I readjusted the setting to warm and warm and pow water flows through almost like it should. There were a few drips. The hose was disconnected on both ends, plumbers tape attached the hose screwed back on and it works like a charm without a leak. I did learn that it does matter which direction you wind the tape because when you screw the hose back on the tape comes off if it is not going in the same direction. Okay, so day one of the new year I have clean water and a washing machine that works. Perfect!

photo 1-3This is the one where I winded the tape in the wrong direction but since it is on the outside I am not worried.

This one is attached to the back of the washer where it says hot.

photo 2-3

So there you go. The old adage, out with the old in with the new. Happy New Year to you!

Writers advice

David Farland sends out a newsletter: Kick in the Pants. I copied and pasted this from his newsletter. I find it to be great advice as well as inspiring. “Among the Welsh, a poet was called a Maker. The idea was that with words he could create illusions that were so deep, so profound, that it was as if he were bringing his dreams to life. When a Maker describes a stream, you can hear the babbling of the brook as water goes rolling over stones. You can taste the mist rising from limpid pools on the back of your tongue, along with sunlight and autumn leaves. As you kneel to drink, water striders dart through your imagination.

When a Maker tells a tale, he doesn’t just explain what emotions a character feels. He’s not satisfied with just “showing” the emotion by describing it accurately. His goal is to make you experience the tale. His goal is to bring you into the tale so forcefully, that you live through it.”


Mount charleston is burning. A horrible fire. As the sun iturns blood red. animal blood rises into the skies. The peoples tears weave in the clouds. Here in the city we inhale ash and Memories of the past up in smoke.

Urban Artifacts

Yes m’dear it is hot in Vegas walking home frome the supermarket I saw this gem embedded in the got road.

I had to go back for a close up. And to think it is only 115 degrees out at 11:30 AM.


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