Life is absence much as presence,
names, stones, the splitting of sticks
missyous strewn across the holy scape like erratics.
Cavern deep, rope narrow
one day bow, next day arrow.

Some verses will be supermarket queuing to buy
discounted cleaning spray
and words may not mean tomorrow what they mean today
but breeeeeeeeathe;
dig for voice when you strain from want to say,
though we know that the roll of the tune can matter
more than the words we sing
and power is busy and to its children will cling
and what really punctures us happens faraway
to the hearts of others.

And water can shimmer and glint and take our weight and
contain everything that we meant and
hold us in and hold us up if we only stroke stroke strooooke
past the depths where we sank and
the shores where we broke.

And from a distance many things sit pretty but
touch is the more true
and through parts of me folds the feel of
you.

And times we sow solitude and let it grow
teeth that chew loneliness into
this coat rack we call soul
whose shadows are never quite the whole
even if they towering sway and
you may not be tomorrow who you are today.

This is the way:
light will play on the surfaces and
we will dream forwards and backwards and
Love is wild animal
Wild animal is pilot.

The heft of headlines, snap rage.
Isn’t it a real disgrace?
Someone left the gate unlocked,
Installed cheap low fences,
Designed flimsy cages,
And fired the nightwatchman.

Question yet, our purity.
Isn’t it always the way?
Tigers belong in zoos,
Far from stony muck,
And farmers’ lambs,
And playgrounds on a Sunday.

Our latest brand, thinner beast.
Who in the name of God,
Would wrap in Pennys’ clothes,
Her medicine bones,
And swung by outraged friends,
Ebay them to Leitrim?

The Celtic Dream- an old ruin.
Isn’t it a shocking thing?
She turned up on site,
Hungry in cold bare feet,
Unable to tell postmortem muscle
From funeral meat.

Billows of dust
Thickened and dry
Colour of rust
Blotting the sky

Comments flicker in the fallen night
(A trillion stars in a trillion galaxies)
Flickering, bickering, faraway old light of
1000000000000000000000000 stars

Go on, get a good kick in now, and
Feel the rush of a boot point scored
A fist in the face of – oh such a punchable face –
They that say, They own the way.

Better the dust,
Hunker below,
Bunkered in crust:
Devil you know.

Us and them assemble again online
(1 megabyte of terabytes of data)
Armed and barbed and certain as hell of our
1000000000000000000000000 bytes

Us and Them and then and then
Only an idiot would think like that
Or like that, or that, or that and
What else have you got?

Somebody below is driving carefully along the low road.
below, below, billow, bellow
Wind rocks solstice grass,
on a bank high over solstice ocean
orange lights flicker over Ballyconneely,
drizzle drapes the blue tent
as colour slowly drains from the sky
in that long solstice goodbye.

Goodbye
    good buy
    good boy

The year’s a turning,
and two thousand seventeen,
is flying by, flying, flung:
I search for the lighthouse blips again
and ask for a calm
to seep into my gaps
Blink, blink, wait…
Dimmer now, hiding under mist.

Bofin, to Omey to Claddaghduff,
Cleggan, around the mess of edge to Clifden,
the flat bogs out to Erris Hill,
and down to Roundstone:
dreamy unreachable comfort
of lights coming on in faraway windows
like rainbow held at its distance

If I approach
it will break
as waves where they meet shore
so I will stay here and watch
from a bank high up under the Skye Road
as the dark settles.

Donal Kelly, June 2017

This is it guys
It’s happening
Clear the decks
This is breaking
I want pictures
Get the victim names
Find them on Facebook
Cross reference with LinkedIn:
We need names, faces, stories, now

Quick guys, quick
Stay ahead of the curve
This is the A&E
Not brain surgery
Find the hashtags
Twitter, Instagram
What’s trending?
What’s going on out there?

We have to be first with this
Video guys, we need video
Is there video?
Get on it
Draft up analysis
Open it for comments
See what it stirs up
We need his story
What’s his story?
Why did he do it?

Where are our headlines guys?
Massacre? Carnage? Bloodbath?
Get me a thesaurus
Is it enough?
Numbers people,numbers
This is happening
It’s big
It’s now
Get me some real numbers
What’s happening?

We don’t need all that stuff
It’s taking too long
Nobody cares
We can’t afford to wait
Go back to it next week
Get me tweets from world leaders
Get this on our Most Read

Be ready for the second wave
Are we getting hits?
Don’t forget the advertising slots
Review that linked content and suggested articles
How are the stats looking?
Are we up?

It’s too quiet
We have to seed the sharing
Or we will be lost
Can we get some comments going?
Get the ball rolling
Reaction guys, we need a reaction

Where are the damn headlines?
What’s going on?
We have to
Tell the people
What’s going on.

This is it guys
It’s happening
This is breaking
Clear the decks
Update the homepage
I want to see pictures
One with both politicians together?
Quick guys, quick
We have to
Stay ahead of the curve

Donal Kelly, Summer 2016

The body is wired from the mind to the world,
[Permission required for 3 updates]
And tuned into so many sensory patterns
That warn, condemn, or condone,
[Rachel P commented on your status]
As traffic lights do our daily commute;
[Joe Below also commented on your status]
sentinels of safety.

[1 missed call at 20:19]

Our alarms are reverse engineered
[@fstopinfinifty started following you]
From the leafy world of ancestors,
Where survival depended upon
[@liveeverymoment liked your photo]
Knowing which notification meant run,
[You have 1 new friend request]
And which meant hide.

[open wifi detected]

The body is tired, and alone in bed,
But the phone it beeps;
[New message (2)]
One hundred miles away
[New message (3)]
She is tapping a screen-
Sending out alarms
[New message (4)]
To rustle a body’s wiring.

[Low battery: Please plug in your charger]

How we crave to commit our attention,
[4 people viewed your profile]
To relevant updates and bytes,
[reminder: meeting at 2pm]
Scrolling through days,
[Breaking News: Uber Shooter arrested]
From so far away,
[restart required]
Hanging on the next sincere reminder,
[Installing updates (2/3). Do not switch off]
That we remain plugged in,
[Configuring 99%]
Worthy of remark,
[99%]
And are only guilty of being
[99%]
Easily Hacked

[@walterberlin79 favorited your tweet]

How did we ever survive without them?
[No service. Emergency calls only]

The car jolts and rocks along the track, as though dragged by chains to a chased beast.

I am the beast.

The indistinct greyed-over bogs and swollen rivers coming down the hills whish by the windows

I am the window.

Father is a good driver, but sometimes an angry driver, and now he has eyes only for the road.

I am the road.

The bends are the same as always but the speed has changed them into whipthumping snarls

I am the snarl.

I know that when we return he will shout at them all but they will soak it up like the wind

I am the wind.

I will flow, bicker, bellow, snicker,

Through the eves of your dropping moods
To harass the loose tarp that hides the part that broods
And raise up windcatching seeds to blow
At soft ground where only hard things grow

I know that we will leave again after the shouting and drive more slowly and be swallowed up by the falling skies

I am the sky.
In its endless I fly.

December 2015

Inflame inflame!
There is not enough
Fire in the game,
Or teeth in the trough.

Stoke, stoke!
The peace of your pieces;
Shake from the smoke,
Sparks to the breezes.

Whip, whip!
Agenda from embers;
Dare in the dip,
To sip on the the cinders.

Burn, burn!
As bright as a dawn,
To Ash in the urn,
The bones of a pawn.

November, 2015. Some days I dip too deep into the noise of the chattersphere, and there are times when my brain throbs from the plumes of smoke rising from threads of angry comments, online outpourings of almost selfless expression, negative risings to the orders of the day and the news of the hour. Cute puppies, or inter-governmental kleoptocratic corporate phonyism crimes of do's or do-nothing's, cram the airwaves. We, the plugged in; should we fan or douse he flames?

Am I in a trap?
Did I build it myself?

The punt bobs on the waves between Broochen and the point of Fournaugh
This is no weather for fishing; no weather for anything bar the

Seat next to the Stanley and the kettle hissing for tea
And the steam of decades sunk in dust and debris

Am I in a dream?
Is it my dream?

The oars dip in and out of the cold rolling still-winter water
Tufted ducks scatter over the Sandy as workers over

Those bridges in London built thick for the traffic
By which you once waited past six while I darted

Are you still coming?
Where will you go?

The oars squeak against the gunnel where the hand-carved oar-pins are fixed
Worn as smooth as my numb hands are rough, like

The creases of sea seen from the steel Ferry stern
While the hull cut a furrow through all that I learned

Am I still open to the air?
Can I hear the quietness out there?

The rod bends suddenly with the pull of brikeen-hooked trout
Just as I cross the Sandy’s shallow at the point where

Currents of no return meet currents of no surrender
And I am spring fishing

According to legend, St. Patrick blessed Connemara from a well at the top of the pass, and slept there (“Leaba Padraic”=”Patrick’s bed”), though to my limited knowledge there was stuff going on there before that too. There is now a little chapel next to the well and mounds of stones marking the stations of the cross. It is a remote rocky outpost where winds seem to gather, and stone in so many forms fill up to the changeable sky.

On Máméan