IN HOC SIGNO VINCES. This island mist and mystic blend of time. Torn by bloodlust for religious power. Power wedded by Norman and Tudor Horde. A dance set in new time to ease their desires. Footsteps a heavy thud upon our graves. An island once a dream. Now trampled by the leaded heels of malice themes. We now old before our time find this dream, is just a dream within a dream. We different in so many ways. Fate decided not by where we are born but by the shabby empire served. The die caste hand of fate leads in its own cold way. Allowing others reason to comply. Honour blinded by prejudices carried by small large hurts of desire. Therefore indifference must occur. This crazy world of rights and wrongs. Dictates of families, politics for empires to endure. To allow the theory of chaos to assist the 'Horsemen' in their everlasting brooding tasks. Time to awaken to witness what has gone. The sorrowful events and history have passed replaced with stepping-stones and wished for bridges to pave the way. The people of the Islands still different in many ways ponder to find understanding to their own thoughts and ways. They with gracious intent lead with honest hearts. Undermined by a vicious belief dressed as sheep in wolfs clothing. The lust for power and blood salivating from its carnivorous grave. Hidden under a mask of righteousness as from times before. This evil just as cruel with intent as any. Veiled under false modesty and purchased collar dictate from the sands of time. Determined in its will to destroy and undermine goodness and free will. This lesson learned and carried by a son of ‘Connell’. Let us not fail our destiny to listen and fall to the masons of mistruth. Allowing their corrupted views to visit our future and cloud our dreams of peace. Time will hopefully come when the masters of deceit will fall to the hand of fate. Neil Doyle O’Donnell. http://longtowerboy.co.uk/HOMEPAGE%20_AEROFARCE%20index.htm

DESERT SANDS.

Palms, distant sands dust wispingly across ridges of sun-singed gold.

Young boy of Connahan's were you learnt to run before you ran.

Man two score and more challenges the day but sometimes fears the nights.

As darkness falls on distant hills, he looks to a foreign sky to see the stars.

Stars so bright, white jewels in black blue star studded sky.

Seen one night from his city’s walls.

Father growing old may have dreamed and thought of stars in another sky.

Where the ‘Son of Man’ had one time stood beneath his Father’s sky.

The other man dreams of his land.

Knowing well: ‘That dear place has known the folly of man’s cold and careless hands.

THE RELUCTANT AIRMAN.

An escape route offered from ‘Derry Dole’.

Fancy uniform, sport, some adventure and a life of your own.

Just leave the love for your country and values behind.

Never a normal return to your land and add a new word to your life book such as pariah.

Controlled leaves, precious holiday times spent in Ebrington Barracks sometimes a laundry van for a taxi.

Live in a world controlled by racist right wing idiots, disliked the reason that your people protested wishing for their ‘Civil Rights’.

Murdered like dogs in the street by red-capped uniformed killers from a gene pool found swilling in the bottom of a bucket of Brock.

I this joke trained to fight the ‘Russian Might’ whilst a school friend Jim Wray lies dying in the street.

A best friend’s brother ‘Paddy Doherty’ shot twice in the back.

Jim, Paddy and others lie dead and dying to satisfy ‘Brookeborough's Spleen’.

Allowing the ‘Masters of Deceit’ to quench and sup at their evil feasts to feed scraps to the ‘Horsemen’ to fuel again never ending evil deeds.

 

DESERT HEDGEHOG.

 

 

Useless you sit in the sand on a cold hard runway.

 

Dormant brimming with teeth and iron.

 

Wings sadly droop in the early morning sun.

 

Gone that arrogant pride as you sit so forlorn.

 

Filled with anger your lungs choked with sand and stone.

 

Ha! Your rider lost his way or so he says.

 

Later his king will give him a medal to cover his loss of face.

 

Young men from the desert fear in their eyes, fingers tight on triggers.

 

Stand and wait for me to fill your belly with power.

 

A hunger for flight a famine in your entrails.

 

This power needed to fill your carnivorous stomach for war.

 

To bear gifts of destruction to wide eyed children below.

 

(Recovery operation)

 

 

 

TUNNEL FOUR.

 

 

Television useless and foul.

 

Content nil but violent thrills.

 

Lions and Christians replaced by Trolls.

 

Cringing Celebes slaves to egos.

 

Offered to the alter by modern day Caesars.

 

Attracted by delights as moths to bright staged lights.

 

Enticed by a plundering partnership of suits and secret orders.

 

Masons who lay building blocks of decrepit soulless kingdoms.

 

Partnerships of ‘Tory and Born Again Ruthless Core’.

 

Firing the pyres of modern nonsense.

 

Bloodless culture and gangster rap.

 

Attempting to rebuild the coliseum and it's jaded past.

 

Hailed as jumped up Nero’s by fawning hordes.

 

In the hope of replacing long cherished culture with instant thrills.

 

By fitting something so vile in a screen so small.

 

Apart from Bart, Lisa, Frazier and one or two more.

 

 

 

DESERT SANDS.

 

 

Palms, distant sands dust wispingly across ridges of sun-singed gold.

 

Young boy of Connahan's were you learnt to run before you ran.

 

Man two score and more challenges the day but sometimes fears the nights.

 

As darkness falls on distant hills, he looks to a foreign sky to see the stars.

 

Stars so bright, white jewels in black blue star studded sky.

 

Seen one night from his city’s walls.

 

Father growing old may have dreamed and thought of stars in another sky.

 

Where the ‘Son of Man’ had one time stood beneath his Father’s sky.

 

The other man dreams of his land.

 

Knowing well: ‘That dear place has known the folly of man’s cold and careless hands.

 

 

 

IN HOC SIGNO VINCES.

 

 

This island of myths and mystic blend of time.

 

Torn by bloodlust for religious power.

 

Power wedded by Norman and Tudor Horde.

 

A dance set in new time to ease their desires.

 

Footsteps a heavy thud upon our graves.

 

An island once a dream.

 

Now trampled by the leaded heels of malice themes.

 

We now old before our time find this dream, is just a dream within a dream.

 

We different in so many ways.

 

Fate decided not by where we are born but by the shabby empire served.

 

The die caste hand of fate leads in its own cold way.

 

Allowing others reason to comply.

 

Honour blinded by prejudices carried by small large hurts of desire.

 

Therefore indifference must occur.

 

This crazy world of rights and wrongs.

 

Dictates of families, politics for empires to endure.

 

To allow the theory of chaos to assist the 'Horsemen' in their everlasting brooding tasks.

 

Time to awaken to witness what has gone.

 

The sorrowful events and history have passed replaced with stepping-stones and wished for bridges to pave the way.

 

The people of the Islands still different in many ways ponder to find understanding to their own thoughts and ways.

 

They with gracious intent lead with honest hearts.

 

Undermined by a vicious belief dressed as sheep in wolf’s clothing.

 

The lust for power and blood salivating from its carnivorous grave.

 

Hidden under a mask of righteousness as from times before.

 

This evil just as cruel with intent as any.

 

Veiled under false modesty and purchased collar dictate from the sands of time.

 

Determined in its will to destroy and undermine goodness and free will.

 

This lesson to be learned carried by a son of ‘Connell’.

 

A curse from the flat crowning stone and its ‘Battle Book’ to be laid on the heads of the masons of destruction.

 

Time will come when the masters of deceit will fall to the hand of fate.

 

 

 

SPACESHIP EXPATRIA^.

 

 

Days pass so quickly here on Spaceship Expatria.

 

As it winds slowly away from planet Home.

 

Through opaque veils of days, weeks and nights.

 

Becoming years, memories first created by honest priorities now gradually decrease in clarity.

 

These silent honeycombs of present and past subconsciously relegated to the mind’s baggage compartment.

 

To be replaced by the need for relationships due to the demise of loved ones feelings and thoughts.

 

Priorities driven by an increasing amount of self.

 

Love for loved ones on planet home less in vogue.

 

Not caused by an uncaring heartlessness but by troubled sprite.

 

Goodness leaking away to be dissipated as memories.

 

As stardust in ‘Mind Space’.

 

 

 

 

BLOODSTREAMS.

 

 

Dreams raised in clouds in sun blessed days, some of merriment and sometimes grey.

 

These are the bloodstreams of my life, travelling rivers that keep me sane.

 

Remember young boy before turning teen, colours, tin soldiers, bright with light time to play.

 

Memories of times that must not fade, from here to look back so sweet those days.

 

So perfidious I view this present age.

 

As I reflect on memories of childhood ways, long before a mother's cold sad grave.

 

To find myself on a meadows bank in the peacefulness of a shadowed afternoon.

 

A line cast on a pond’s surface recreates the rippling waves of life.

 

whips as it dances to pull a wished for token once more to shore.

 

Dancing light reflecting to gleam on waters edge.

 

A memory pool shimmering back and forth bringing sought after memories home once more.

 

Thoughts of long lost loves and innocent days come to mind.

 

So important all consuming never really understood.

 

Suddenly a blue-black monster goes rushing by.

 

A crash of metal and hissing steam on a line by Foyle’s shore.

 

This black oiled spectre of clattering steel and wonderful speed.

 

At the head of the beast it’s driver ‘Big Bill Barton’ waving his shinny black cap high in the air.

 

Off to a place called Portadown, crashing up the line to some far off land.

 

I cast my line once more so simple those days.

 

As I reflect on memories before my journey from this dear and bitter shore.

 

 

 

A BAR IN DERRY.

 

 

Back home for a pint and no one knows.

 

Last night an Arabian airport, gun totting guards and flowing robes.

 

Back in my dear old city and once more on my own.

 

A quiet bar early morning, no questions asked.

 

I look like a tourist, have the tan no tales to tell.

 

The pint quietly pulled I sit down to take in the past.

 

Across the room three men, two of them look so bored.

 

The third to them a pain.

 

Nervous twitching, chattering antics falling on ears so deaf.

 

The companion’s thick shouldered, heavy browed small talk just between two.

 

Peed off with a look that could turn milk sour with a single glance.

 

The third man now familiar his Fatwa a curse in Persian verse.

 

Thick brows even more peeved look at watches to check the time.

 

Bar door opens to the skies, a shift change time occurs for a heavy to make his escape.

 

This man finally smiles relieved of his burden of the little man and his bloody

 

‘Satanic Verse’.

 

 

(Another of my quiet returns to the city on various leaves)

 

 

REALIZATION.

 

 

This moment in life to awaken.

 

Understanding the needs to endure.

 

With realization gained curing self doubts and fears.

 

Fears from the politics and ways of childhood.

 

Fearful jackbooted monsters and their bogeymen that cast dark shadows so unreal.

 

Now cast aside allowing doors to open to the world and its realities.

 

Windows viewed by many but never really understood.

 

However to another as simple as A.B.C.

 

No longer to adhere to the dictates of others.

 

I free to follow the steps to guide me on this chosen path.

 

So sensible as yet not understood by me.

 

 

PRAYER FOR THE TUBE.

 

 

Campfire prayers and poetic dreams.

 

From the spit of old men's blunted sharpened tongues.

 

Reciting long lost stories of poetic victories.

 

Men washed on prayer but misled to worship.

 

Watched over by the bearded greyhound face reflected on campfire flames.

 

Young men now filled with complex hate listen in awe.

 

The words of home lost in fervour.

 

So cold here in the stone heart of this distant Madrasah.

 

This world so removed from the poetic mosque.

 

Where the words of 'The Holy Book' are turned to stone.

 

 

 

 

 

http://uk.youtube.com/user/izdahar

PEADER’S BAR.

 

Watching the tides of time through glass of foaming ebbs and highs.

 

A black subtle sea of a palate’s delight coloured by aged hangings and pouring of smoke in a bar with Peadar’s name.

 

Your not from this town are yae son, Says he.

 

Go on do you not see me, not know who I am.

 

Naw son, don’t think I do, where’s the accent from.

 

It’s from the ‘Town’ same as you.

 

Get away with you, from the town no way; you’re not the same as me.

 

Good God! Your not a bloody soldier are yae son.

 

No I’m not, are you a bloody nutter.

 

I’m gone more than twenty years, long time ago.

 

Go far, did you?

 

Not that far you know ’The Town’, always calling me.

 

Aye, I know that well a couple of times across ‘The Water’ it was for me.

 

Son, let’s have another jar.

 

 

(On company leave from Gulf War I)

 

 

 

 

OCTOBER 5.

 

 

The son of a woman, a wonderful, wonderful woman.

 

I suppose I’m the son of not a bad dad too.

 

I wished someday to reach above the clouds to a bright blue sky but poor old me I had to climb and slip every step of the way.

 

The glue on my shoes laid by an insidious Tory flock.

 

Storment with its schemes trying each day to stop the sun reaching my spot.

 

Trapped in a school system and asked what your father would do.

 

"He’s a docker sir."

 

"A doctor, Hmmm! I’ve never heard of Doctor O’ D".

 

"No sir, he’s a docker".

 

The look of interest now none gone from this teachers face.

 

We sons of dockers and fathers on the dole pushed to the back.

 

To allow country boys and others to walk on grass.

 

Little ‘Neil Farran’s in his palace his plan an aspiration for a catholic middle class.

 

We would laugh "Aspiration don’t you get that in a bottle to cure a headache".

 

October on the bridge we stood together docker’s sons, fathers on the dole, country boys and others.

 

Battered by ‘Orwellian Thugs’ dressed as cops clubbing us to vent 'Old Brookeborough's' spleen.

 

On this bridge I view these thugs my fathers, father’s father was once one of them an old ‘RIC’ where am I from.

 

I must have had heroes from those days as I climbed the metaphorical barrackcades in my teens.

 

Yes I do the men and women, the ‘Teachers’ from my old school.

 

The two big Bills: Connaghan and Sharkey.

 

Miss Burns who made certain that we learnt to read and write.

 

Kelly with his math’s, Mc Laughlin, Harkin, Paddy Doherty and the lovely Mrs. Carson to name a few.

 

Let’s not forget the great 'Donaldson’ who taught us to believe in ourselves and win a medal or two.

 

He believing that inspiration wasn't to be found in a bar or bottle but in a book: or even in a bit of badly attempted verse or two.

 

 

 

 

The Enigma of events told in ultra speaks.

 

From the sky great Nimrod’s soaring comet falling to the harsh lands of poppy fields.

 

Fine blue men cut down and laid down to sleep.

 

A mysterious hot spot resigns them to this everlasting deep.

 

This aging eye soaring in the sky, spraying aerial lifeblood through bulkhead leaks.

 

Misting cloud falling on charging glow, on life’s battery they normally depend now to become their foe.

 

This vicious cycle starts again, heroes never to return to the glens.

 

Over looked once more in blue skies above the searing heat of hot desert lands and poppy fields.