Missing the Blarney Stone

Missing the Blarney Stone

Sitting in the Blarney Stone

sipping draught cider—

a brief respite

from Pestilence

& Death's mad gallops,

dowsing fear with alcohol,

hoping to never hear

the trots of War

& Famine; & a glance

askance chances upon

Clíodhna, Celtic Venus,
Queen of Wails—

concealed in a corner,

disguised behind spectacles,

sipping ale from amber glass.

Dare I open my mouth,

risk making a fool

of myself as I trip

unglibly through the ragged

words of a hermit, no longer

used to the social protocols

of humans? This cloistered

life foisted upon me has left

me more perverse than versed,

lost in thoughts unshared,

unshareable;

yet, now

beguiled

I want to speak,

to delve

into what drives

such a goddess

to hide, unassuming,

in open corners.

I dare!

The words flow

out as easily as

the cider flows in,

doubtless due

to my proximity

to the Sidhe, She

who shared

the Stone in which

we all now hide:

the lost, the lonely,

the lovelorn,

all torn

by life's

callous cruelty,

or our own.

Crowded,

but we are alone

for a while,

as all else

broken fades,

save the occasional

offer of a sordid tale

or the reminisce

of cigarettes

as stale as the pick-up lines

with which they are proffered.

This is dangerous!

We live in dangerous times,

full of demons professing

to be saints, full

of killer crowns

that have made every kiss,

every touch,

even the act of sharing

breath taboo;

but that's all I want

to do, to steal

away with a goddess,

to learn,

to laugh,

to live,

to learn to laugh to live,

again—to love!

& that scares me,

& I don't know why.

I know I did not arrive

alone, & turn to see

my companion, asleep,

surrendered to the potions,

surrounded by empty

upturned

vials & chalices;

but no one lives

at the Blarney Stone,

we're all tourists,

friendly invaders

whom sooner than later

must free ourselves

from this spell,

this illusion of freedom—

every respite ends;

reality awaits—

so I gather my goodbyes,
my gear, & my somnambulist
friend to kiss
the darkened sky;
& as we wander back
from whence we came—
I'm struck
by the fact
that I forgot
to kiss
the Stone;
worse yet,
I missed my chance
to kiss the goddess
who gifted
it to us all.

I may not always be The Hermit,
but I am perpetually The Fool.