Brian Francis Heffron

 

 

(USA)

 

 

 

The “Tout”

 

No longer sweet comrades gamboling amidst the damp green hills,

Drilling in unruly lines with hurleys on their shoulders in place of rifles.

They are now hard men bent on physical force or freedom.

But schism after schism has broken down their spirit.

(Just as their enemies planned).

 

Then one day, another secret meeting is called in another safe house in another county.

Evidence is presented of odd meetings, loose chatter and perhaps even deliberate treason.

All this against a man beyond reproach, a Fenian and fiddler of great renown

Who has lived as a pauper while giving his life to the cause.

 

Afterwards, framed by an awkward silence, each eye moves to the next around the room. In this sad solemn moment, the betrayal of a former comrade is complete.

The room empties quickly and the conspiracy of assassination

Is begun without word or order. The sentence known but never spoken.

 

Weeks later the target’s broken frame is found along the Northern border.

His people are notified and go to Dublin to bring their brother home.

He is denied the Church Yard so is quietly interned in the ruins of an Abbey.

Later it is determined that the enemy falsified the frame.

The “Tout” was innocent of all charges and was a loyal soldier.

 

 

 

Dissident Partition

 

Her tears have been made into the perfect pearl necklace.

Spaced like freckles on the facial landscape of an entire people.

Her dawn hills glow with a crown of orange embers and

The air still has soot and bonfire smoke infused within it.

But a damp morning rain is now wetting the soil of the four fields.

And extinguishing the culture that Pearse and Connolly died for.

 

Her heartbeat still has the same pace

As Sassenach soldiers as they ran away.

Leaving behind parades that veer off course,

Marching hate straight through our cities.

Whose flags are these that fly for loathing?

 

My Great, Great Uncle John Joe, eventually used his old Tommy as a cane!

Sticking the barrel into Irish mud with every crippled step,

Making his way across hard won Sligo to an arms cache.

When they attacked a church in Belfast.

He remembered the way and gave us the guns.

So that shouldn’t count against the peace process.

But if we had not lowered the barrel there would be no parades today.

 

But the cause is now so weak that no one even cares anymore.

They want gas or cigarettes or an easy way out.

There are no border guards anymore, but the alphabet spies hide nearby.

Wasting their time, really, as

The “hard men” are now plain West Britons.

No longer Celt or Catholic.

Or even men, really: Quislings.

 

Broken ugly folk that have forgotten the murder of their fathers.

Weak hooligans that care more for english sport than Irish Freedom.

The firm honest legacy of the men who made them free

Has been tossed off the cliffs of Mohr.

Given up, to suck the brit tit.

Shame. Shame. Shame.

 

But I still care enough to kill you;

To tear you from the bosom of your bloody royal life.

And you deserve it for

Your careless, fact-less, imperial presence.

You are a dirty wool sock that needs mending and cleaning

But instead will be thrown away and replaced with a rayon pair.

Carrickfergus is gone again.

All is lost.

6 hours ago

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Bright Irish Smile

 

An unexpected note from the Basques

Has knocked us all off our pins.

We must hold and respect

This feeling of solid community

But it is about as comfortable as a rain-drenched retreat to the mountains.

 

Is love political, or simply passion?

Or maybe even divine?

Kissing is very revealing of political intent.

Yeah. Sure. You have a little speck of food in your teeth.

 

The world will find out tomorrow,

Or perhaps very late tomorrow night.

 

If our plan flows to rhythm,

And rhythm flows to a process of clear consciousness,

And this process avoids a blur of feeling,

And our minds motivate the physical action,

Then, ah well, you know the rest. Shucks.

Boom.

Perhaps you might join us in our fields of active service?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Night Flight of the Earls

(REVISED 7/2/2011

with assistance from Richard Charman)

 

We assume that a soft kiss upon wanted lips,

accompanied by a soft swim beneath the moon,

in conjunction with our hands upon her hips,

would bring the desired one to swoon.

 

But Life, we find, is much more tense!

And really makes very little sense.

We reach for the breast, but grab the horn;

And in doing so our hearts are torn.

 

And so we press on into the night,

Fording streams and making flight;

Beside sweet dogs, our only friends,

Together, afoot, we’ll meet our ends.

 

 

 

When Dreams Bleed

 

The punch remembered from then on

Looping round in endless song.

When dreams bleed they are funneled south

Blood still dripping from the mouth.

My heart cannot be wounded more,

I have taken all you had in store,

And rolled over into a newer sorrow,

Understanding this won’t end tomorrow.

There is sadness beneath your childhood bed,

Stored there, like the things unsaid.

But if you come to me at night

I will give you a lamp to light

And point you to a spot secure,

Down here amidst the other poor.

Who will welcome you like a long lost brother

Although at heart, you’ll remain the other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright: Brian Francis Heffron

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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BIO

 

After Brian Francis Heffron achieved a bachelor of Fine Arts in Writing from Emerson College, he navigated across the Atlantic Ocean under sail (and found Gibraltar), was Director of Photography on “The Imported Bridegroom” a tiny Indy film that received a national theatrical release, created a heart-rending poetry blog within the Notes section of his Facebook profile that drew an avid, dedicated, and international audience, and all the while he wrote, produced, and directed hundreds of hours of television programming for KLCS-TV, a PBS Station focused on education. On Valentine’s Day 2010 he published a handmade poetry chapbook that sold out in three weeks! « Sustain Me with Your Breath » then became, and remains, a promotional e-book sensation. Heffron followed that up with “Something You Could Touch”, a one hour spoken word poetry CD that broke sales records in its category. Heffron has also won Emmys, Tellys, Aurora, Videographers and the Davis Award, among others plaudits for both writing and television. Brian Francis Heffron’s debut novel, Colorado Mandala, mines the complex landscape of 1970s post-Vietnam America to chart the love triangle of a former Green Beret, his lover, and a young wanderer. Colorado Mandala straddles the line between literary and young adult fiction, and distills the author’s poetic sensibility into a deeply lyrical work of art.

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