Aine MacAodha Poetry & links

Ireland, Celtic Myths, Poet, Crystal Healing, Tarot reading, County Tyrone, North Ireland, Poetry, Omagh, photography, Orbs, Chemtrails.

 

 


Pollnagaght mountain



This unforgiving landscape

of hill hedge and stream

are my oceanic waves

breaking now and then

on whin bush dotted like descansos.


Winter holds shadows here

things not fully alive emerge

without warning then follow you

a theurgy of a sort happens

like a song in the heart space.


After a steady climb

the villages of Omagh, Fintona

and Dromore shine like beacons

in the valley below caped in

the rugged terrains.


Grief calls through time here

pilgrims pass by safeguarded

by the wilderness as they follow

the path to Patrick's purgatory

there they lay their faults


Connecting again to this

ancient sky and earth to raise

ones own sacredness on the

lonesome plaine.

Poem translated into Italian also.)

Pollnagaght mountain (Pigeon Top) is located three miles

from the county Tyrone town of Omagh. 

 

 

Ethereal eye



Are we now holders of a new filament in consciousness?
a new layer of truth bonded by spiritual love
for all sentient beings, laid above and below
electronic components brought
our united souls together somehow 
our intuition has evolved to the point
in some more advanced souls, that
discernment is unequalled.


Etheral eye carry me onward
to the safe haven of of our ancient sky
our universe
uni-one
verse-  song
one song.

Are we now holders of a new filament in consciousness?
carriers of light so bravely formed and flowing
in the heart centre  that we cannot
cease the knowledge
that is now streaming into our  essence
shaking our core at times?

Etheral eye carry me onward
to the safe haven of of our ancient sky
our universe
uni-one
verse-  song
one song.

 

 

First Published in Boyne Berries Spring 2014

 

                Between two Worlds


When sister Agnes, for my own good
left me standing at the back of class
arms outstretches like Jesus
on his symbol of torture, I was scared.
A dreamer and talker being the youngest
of five, I knew my rebellion had begun.
Living in two worlds at nine does wonders
for the imagination but little for the outer shell.
I wondered about this god of vengeance
being so good and all, why punish?
For I had the minnows in the burn
glimmering and darting like silver angels
over my feet as i walked upstream.
I had a voice inside that knew the beauty
in a mountain shadow, how to gather primroses
and lay them at the feet of our lady.
I felt i knew better than the dark nuns

 

 

 

 

 

 

Robin


I see the robin most seasons

but its in the winter it displays

its wily spirit.


Frost has caught the branches

in various places as if someone

had daubed it with white paint


Today he came back, my red one

layered in winter taking berries

that like him have returned.


Of course he's not mine

he belongs to us all and to nature

a feisty little one, seeing off

a group of sparrows arriving.

 

Schools Out!

 

Three thirty strikes the courthouse clock

the steep hill begins to fill with school kids

blues, browns, blacks and navy

like shoals of fish networking the street

carrying window shoppers off in an air

of chatter as the currant of human traffic

reaches Bridge Street.

Brave buggy pushers attempt to run the

gauntlet, retreating hastily into shop doorways

then like mysterious UFO's the tidal wave of youth

vanish. An army of ants, tasks done

they make the journey westward and home

 

 

First published in thefirstcut #6

 The English Ones



I always sensed as a child

stirrings about the home when

the English ones were about to land.


You’d start seeing the need for

new mats, lino or curtains

your excuse to show off.


Dad would have to paint

the scullery first, then the stairs

and shure the bathroom,


give it a lick of paint too.

All for snobby aunt Breda who

Mother said was the brains of her family.


And don’t start me about cousin Claire

always she took what wasn’t hers

my ball baring roller skates

my boyfriend Michael!



Haiku


over my shoulder

the creaking door -

no one to be seen


perfect snowflake

gathering tempo-

ending samhain


After the rains

slugs take over ~

skating heavily


Through the pitch of war

my northern land ~

has peace all over it


Songs I’d left long ago

now come back ~

like ghosts on parade


steal horizon

a swallow soars up and down ~

just like my heart


cranefly wanting in

attracted by lamplight ~

we both shudder


moth caught in web

slowly its wings stop beating ~

no escaping now


perfect pink cloud

dips behind lammas hills~

birdless sky.








 

 













 

 

 

Books By Aine.~ Landscape of Self, and Where the Three Rivers Meet.

Books By Aine.~ Landscape of Self, and Where the Three Rivers Meet