Ó Seasnáin's Verse

What Makes Man?

2010-06-16T20:39:00.000-07:00

man is made from mom
and dad and a drooling, wagging dog,
but made incompletely –
red clay, not fully formed.

man is not cleats
or show tunes…no,
neither is impetus for man.
something is missing…

didn’t someone call Eve a rib?
maybe she was…
made from man, is man,
that something stolen from man?

the rib closest to the heart,
the protective cage that man needs
to be safe in the world, to hide in plain sight,
the missing rib…only? nothing more?

why don’t we see Eve’s struggle?
why is she just the rib of man?
a sucker-for-a-snake?
a mother of Cain, a man?

when she chewed the juicy apple
and swallowed the red seeds
did she go to man,
with a tearful heart, aware?

did man heavily sigh, thinking,
as he lost paradise twice-over,
swallowing pride,
showing that woman makes man?

Coloring Cloud 9

2008-03-01T05:00:00.000-08:00

the sun burns the sky from pink to violet-black,
and all the while the ladder locks clank
with the whirl of rope, turning pulleys
that raise steps toward heaven.

a house of another color stands dim,
empty of children playing in the yard;
the revving sound of a paint sprayer
commands the bone of the worker.

flecks of dried latex and sweat,
gel his curls into clumps.
simply, he invents dreams
of daylight-revealing a clean coat...

no doubt- peeking at trim and sofets -
touchup. he won’t confess to scale.
blaming dim sight and shadow
to ease his fears and pain.

Bare Feet on Hot Asphalt: A Microcosm

2007-03-22T11:17:00.000-07:00

As I hop over the waist high, rotting, wooden fence that resembles the Lincoln Logs I was so fond of as a child, I think to myself, “Ouch!” This asphalt is too hot to walk on, today.” My face shifts in a routinely unusual mix of smiling and grimace – the blacktop path to the neighborhood park has always been the test to see how good the pool is going to feel. The hotter the path, the longer you stay at the pool, the more rest-period ball games… All my thought blurs into a sprint past the rusty jungle gym. With mitt, bat, and bucket of tennis balls in hand, I am ready to end my grueling journey of thirty yards or so, all the time careful not to scrape my toes on the path (Or else…mom will sting me with the washcloth…she says it helps. She must not have scraped a lot of toes).
Arriving at the pool, I know by the absence of splashes that rest-period is under way. At this time of day, just about everyone is in one of two places, the pool or the small sand lot to the back of the pool house. I join my friends and they quickly assign me to the fielding team. I take left, standing ready with my hands firmly pushing on my knees. Ziegler, from Brahms Circle, is up. He’s most powerful of us all. He knows it. Brandon pitches. Zigs swings, makes short work of the ball, driving it quickly, quickly on its long journey over the fence, and it’s lost. That is another tennis ball that we will never lay our eyes on again, because no one is fond of the rusty cuts that the tall outfield fence leaves on our feet. All is noise: screams, motions, taunts, bragging, and…
In an instant, time stops. The sharp sound of the whistle momentarily paralyzes and then promptly launches a stampede of testosterone driven studs to the diving board in a group attempt to strut in front of Ashley, the lifeguard with dish-water-blond hair. We all hope to catch her eye. A waterlogged collage of cannon balls, belly flops, and can openers crudely deters any feminine allure as our not so attractive competition accelerates into full force. We quickly trade the sweet smell of Ashley’s hair for the eye-watering odor of chlorine in our hair and the aftertaste in our throats. That is the way it is (the way it was); this fun is far more important than the young love that we are not so prompt to jump into. New games of sharks and minnows, mums the word, and water wrestling replace the old springboard competitions. In time, we will allow the young and competitive ladies that we are not interested in right now, on purpose, to join our games.
The whistle that once signaled a beginning signs the end, for now. The cycle continues for a little while. Dusty and then wet, we never once stop to shower off before we jump in or before we race to be first at bat or before we walk home over the cool pitch and, rarely, before we return..
In the years that follow, our park changes. Crab apple trees are cut down, replaced by pavilion, grills, and volleyball net. A sign says, “NO BIKES!” prohibiting us from racing up the sidewalk and leaving our chariots outside the pool gates. They must be placed “neatly” in the bike rack, near the freshly painted jungle gym. Small stones that do not build as well into imaginary castles replace sand around the jungle gym. They even cut branches out of the trees that we first learned to climb.
We watch. Sometimes we cry, when no one else is paying attention. We teach the younger kids how to climb on top of the new pavilion, sit on the roof, and jump off. We train them to flip the new benches on their sides, the long way, to reach branches farther up the old climbing trees. They think if they break the benches we will be pleased – we are not, and we never tell them. They think that their unblemished, NASA-technology tennis shoes will earn praise. We ignore them. They retreat indoors to video games, and are lost to us.
We learned to accept the change, but our world would never be the same. Paradise was hacked away with the berry-fighting bushes, and bartered for with bright yellow, blue, red, and green paint for the jungle gyms. But, some things will never change. I still smile when I burn my naked feet on hot asphalt.

stardancer

2007-02-28T06:12:00.000-08:00

Standing under a freezing-clear sky with my head tilted back, I trace the constellations, and the galaxies they contain; driftshifting toward a place less timid... I see her eyes before me, resonating in a lucid voice of silver sparks, as crystals in moonlight. She can’t hear them singing, to me, so deeply in my thoughts when all else is quiet, and she laughs sometimes when she catches me staring at her, my mouth hanging slightly open. Then blushing into a giggle, tucking her chin to her right shoulder, she demands to know what I was thinking. She doesn’t notice how her eyes capture all of creation, and how it stills my world when she cries. And all I know is that I would trade my body to dance in her eyes, just for a moment, when they smile – to visit those pools of sapphire light, enveloped in the stars. But I keep my secret, and manage to breath out a ‘nothing’ as though heaven was not stolen away from my gaze; and with a shiver I straighten myself to wakeful senses, wrapping my thin coat more tightly against this piercing Cleveland February… to walk beneath the night.

forgive us our trespasses…

2007-02-15T00:00:00.001-08:00

"forgive us our trespasses..." needs some sincere criticism. Please feel free to comment on any part or all of it. This has been in the works for some time... and it needs a great deal of guidance.

romantic dreams of retaliation
do nothing to reverse the fatal blow,
the demonic deed, that stole Ralph David
and set fire to this malicious sorrow

he, my hero and most beloved uncle
whom covetous felons overtook,
carried acceptance, love, and P-B-J
sandwiches to Cleveland’s untouchables

yet, who watched his head assault the pavement,
afraid to save their station wagon saint?
Who could forgive a world so far tainted
or find the light of grace in this shadow?

sable thoughts concede to wholehearted peace
when vengeance is far too kind a release

Engagement

2007-01-25T10:02:00.000-08:00

frail she sits in a dark escape
from the voices that tell her,
“paint your face, nails, toes, and heart
to conceal the features we forsake!”

she has her bucket, her paint,
and all smell of bile – black and yellow;
she wipes her dripping nose and eyes,
and reflects upon the voices of the leaches.

they tell her, “use your body as the weapon,
your voice as a whispering lie,
hide your eyes from the mirror
and look to others to see yourself.”

who could guess this to be a bride, a woman
of radiance, of grace? who would imagine
that even her flaws are rich in beauty
as canyons reflecting the desert sun?

she could rise on the fragrant blossoms
of spring like Persephone,
yet no winter witch could wilt the flower;
she, like an orchid, would stand in strange beauty!

but, instead, she is in her shadow chamber,
the prison she constructed while listening
to the voices… she is a prisoner of voice,
and consequently she knows not joy.

her tears will continue to fall in a secret
pit, and her dress will stain. yet One
will love her in spite of herself,
and she will rise in the light of grace.

Poetry

2006-10-05T13:37:00.000-07:00

What is poetry to you?

Unvoiced Forefathers

2006-09-07T22:33:00.000-07:00

why so weary Ó Seasnáin?
what’s that you say? the glory is for but another?

“shiite,
bloody well right, we are silent in our charge,
and stayed from the field,
as Bláthnat, to shoe the horses”

striped? Aye! so was I, Ó Seasnáin,
but I walked on in my day;
the sunshine on your back will stain you - even so…
will sting, will pain you – even so…
though you call it blessed. Aye!
Ó Seasnáin…

did old Searnán give such complaint
when his Limerick was foul to fair?
did he spend too long in it’s glow
before he called upon the zephyr
to drive them back?

Aye, Ó Seasnáin, you were deaf to him!
his cry even drowned out Ború
for ferocity was it, made it, formed it!
Ó Seasnáin, you with your shriftless ear,
hard is it, Ó Seasnáin?
Aye!

that’s how the road does rise;
the travels bless us, Ó Seasnáin,
and all Dál gCais of Thomond will sing,
so sweet, as one thousand thousand church bells…
drowning out the ramped mouth
of fools, in silent power.

So, Ó Seasnáin, do as Searnán,
spade your dirt, fell your timber, pound your spikes,
shoe your mare, and know your knees…
from fjord to fjord
I, Ó Seasnáin,
Am Victory,
Aye!

Chapter 1

2006-06-29T22:49:00.000-07:00

I am currently working on a novel... it is in its beginnings. I am publishing a chapter here - currently the first chapter of the book. It is a flash back (the majority of the story takes place in the present/future).

So, let me know what you think. Constructive criticism would be appreciated.

Chapter 1: Arcane Archness

March 15, 5000 B.C.

“In times like these, we hold our breath and trust that time will swiftly cover us like desert sands, erasing the mistakes,” Achilles repeated in his mind, trying to believe the words. He was cold and tense, and the niche in the corridor tightly embraced him with shadow. He reviewed every procedure, every movement, and was ready. He continued to strain his muscles to be sure that his circulation left no limb slow to act. He had been still for hours after years of continuous labor and planning left him with few moments to find rest. Now, only little time separated him from what he desired most; precious moments would decide his fate and the fate of those for whom he cared.
Then, faintly at first, he could hear echoes some distance off. Dim electric lights shone through the darkness, growing brighter and brighter. As the light bounced off the refracting passageway, the liquid-smooth surface of walls, floor, and ceiling seemed to magnify the light, as thought the hall were bright as day. Achilles refrained from his whispering and, now, strained his ears. He acted quickly, pulling what seemed to the untrained eye to be a bundle of fabric from his rucksack. Achilles carefully unraveled the Electralifreeze Screen before him, and connected his electric pulse, a handheld item, that converted light into focused streams of energy. The fabric of the screen, previously limp, now quickly stiffened to the same glass-like consistency of the passage walls when the electric current streamed through it, appearing uniform with the wall, except for a slit through which Achilles could view passers-by. Even the royal guard would need foreknowledge to recognize the ruse.
Next, Achilles unloaded the small sample of talcum powder into his hand. As he expected, it evaporated slowly as the voices grew stronger. He new that by this time the trail of Talc he had plastered throughout the tunnel would be unnoticeably absorbed into the Two Cyclopes that escorted Zeupater to the Olympian Council. He need only wait for the passing… everything was going as planned. He could now clearly hear the oncoming party converse.
“And what of Prometheus? Is there word on his status?”
“No… my liege. The last scouting party… has not yet returned,” the deep voice of the rear guard replied reluctantly. Then, as if catching himself, “but Homer will be present tonight to discuss progress in the Aegean War Front!”
Zeupater turned, raised his hand, and seized the rear guard by the throat, “What?!” To the shock and dismay of Zeupater, the rear guard did not withstand the gesture; Zeupater’s fingers immediately pierced the Mineral composite shield encasing the Cyclops, and unwillingly discharged several gigawatz into the guard. The man fell dead and smoldering. The corpse seemed to melt into dust, into the sands of time.
As soon as the guard mentioned “HOMER,” Achilles wasted no time. He was already through the fabric barrier, and into the corridor. He pierced the guard in the front line with a composite adamantine arrow shaft, and he stood, alone, with his bewildered adversary. Without a moment of hesitation, he loosed another arrow, sodden with a saline-ethanol solution, into the crux of the Z-Nucleus. Zeupater had no time to think, no time to plead, no time to scream. It was over in an instant, and Achilles stood dazed at the sight, the reality.
As Prometheus hypothesized, the saline countered the Shield of the Z-Nucleus, conducting unfathomable energy through Zeupater, and the ethanol acted as a catalyst for an implosion that prevented the electricity from discharging in all directions. Achilles could not believe how simple it was to end a reign of terror. And then, after his moment of hesitation, he rushed on.
The murky passageway dimmed, and in the shadows Achilles whispered the mantra that Prometheus taught him, “In times like these, we hold our breath and trust…” while he sprinted blindly down the passageway, heavy laden with the components he carried. His only hope, now, was to cover up the history of an entire country, an entire civilization, the entire world.

Painful Echoes

2006-04-13T07:47:00.000-07:00

The pains in my back only became frequent when I was in the second semester of my freshman year in college, one year after I discontinued playing football. It was sophomore year of high school when I fractured my L5 vertebra; it happened subsequent to my hasty return from a broken tibia and fibula. I refused to give up even a single football season, then. It was the fulcrum of my life for so long that I couldn’t move myself to live without it. I was defined as a ‘football player’ in secondary school, and who would I be without it? So little I understood...

High school seemed to stretch into the length of God, but I was nearsighted then, and now it’s only a speck in the distance that I have traveled. I rushed it, and, while I was absorbed, I never took the time to contemplate how sincerely influential it was.

When I sit in science classes dealing with simple physical properties of friction, I think of junior high and high school. Any school that used the word ‘high’ seemed to be made of denser material that was surrounded by substances far more sparse. The shape of an egg and its yolk, those six years seem somehow to be the center of my life, and when any of my thoughts pass through them they slow down and slightly move to another course as light passing through a thick piece of glass. I learn something each time I run through them, and my path in life is somehow adjusted.

I can’t remember ever becoming tired or feeling pains when I was very young. Movement was like breathing, in its ease and necessity. Years have eroded my energy, and I fear what might come of me when I am nothing but thin shale in a valley rich in iron. But I opt not to live by that fear. It was in high school that I discovered the loves of my life in Jesus, in words and in my wife; and it was only after that I learned to enjoy them for what they really are. I was like a drunkard who became a wine connoisseur. My pallet was unknown to me until I slowed down to learn what it was that made the stings, tingles, and taunts.

Somehow it makes the back pains a blessing to endure, and a constant tap on my shoulder from a speck that is closer than my eyes can tell. It says, “remember!” and then drifts off into a passing silence.

songbird

2006-03-30T02:42:00.000-08:00

"szwee -- szwee -- shzi-shzi-shzi" is his nameless song
that herald of rosy dawn,
whose light sweet voice is full of cloud and purple-carpeted sky,
I wish to roam his airs and drift upon the songs,
in flight divine.

but wish as he may, that herald will not be graced as I,
for my head will lie near yours in dream,
and I will brush my hand against your cheek
and inhale you, as the heavy air that brings the rains.
wish as he may, he will not sing my song,
"Shalome-Jirah, hallelujah!"

Awaiting Death

2006-03-23T02:39:00.000-08:00

Quivering with age, as a sopping cat,
Andromida covets your silk-soft sole,
her grass stained rags dragging, odiferous,
obsessing for chastity squandered. Fat
and dimpled, she's a gluttonous troll
infected with herpes and syphilis,

abominable to children's glances;
self-pitying chosen circumstances.

In light of her face, I honor wisdom's
sweet voice: "Acknowledge and adore
prudent eminence, and abhor the whore
of Babylon. Observe how love becomes

opulent as wine's body in due time,
flesh is a moment; true love...sublime."

2006-03-20T22:50:00.000-08:00

The Scene Upon Parking in Front of the Westbury

2006-03-20T15:40:00.000-08:00

I ask myself why the man unsteadily
walks with his cigarette so tightly pressed
to his lips. Sauntering, he sweatily
sucks the butt, and straight-sends it air express,
as if stepping off the rubber. Steadily

it flies through the window of a passing
mustang. Why he threw it? Anyone’s guess…

Then in squeals and smoke the car breaks, returns,
and out jumps a thuggish fiend surpassing
average size. Red faced, anger burns
in showers of obscenities, sassing
in screams. Briefly, the fool freezes, then turns,

dashing from the parking lot into his
building. His pants flooded in his own piss.

Belonging to a Poem

2006-03-16T16:08:00.000-08:00

my feet are as ice dancers, gliding
over verdant meadows of dew that paint my toes.
blush kissed white pedals shower
on top my head, from the dogwood.

morning is born of the night,
rising to heights not yet touched by
hands of mottled design,
which, joined, form one pure shade...

so is the day, the radiance that owns twilight -
and this, the renaissance season
that fills the lungs with spry breath;
itself, born of the blossoms
arriving on the zephyr.

and the gentle caress of the breeze
moves me to listen intently
to secrets that it will tell.

I smile at the beauty that I witness,
then knowing that I too am in this picture
that is perfect to my creator.