Poetry of Existence


A Familiar Path


I took my old bones

For a walk today

Among my aging pals

To that Watering Hole

We all love.


I warned the boys

Of the danger:

Not drinking too much

But of licking the salt

Laced with cyanide.


Some bulls are just too thirsty

When they arrive at Hwange’s

They don’t listen to me and

Their tusks are now China dolls.


Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach



(L.A. Times today reports 40 Elephants poisoned in recent weeks in Zimbabwe, sometimes poached by rangers from Hwange National Park)



Marmalade remembers

Littering the dirt strewn alley

Near the highway truck stop:

His uncanny birthplace at Jake’s Tavern.


He recalls fondly Carrie’s sweet smile

When she heard a squealing voice, found him

Under a broken Ford hood, picked up only

Slimy him, none of his five sisters,

Drove him in a cardboard box


To a huge cozy space to slurp

white stuff and lie gazing at the stars

on a bright red fluffy cushion

Smelling of lavender.


But, meowouch, poor Carrie lost her job,

Said with tears she was sooooo sorry

When she left him on the doorstep

Where he loved to sun himself,


His cherished matching red bowl

Filled with Purina plus a plastic container

Of water got him as far as the

Next truck stop where he stealthily hopped on

Board one dark and lonesome summer night.


Waking up the next morning with

Arrowhead in the Big Bear City Mountains

To meet Seamus and Siobhan

At the Corridor Studio and there

Commence a new life in art.


Sombre, July 2015


Some Morning


When the white ceiling 

Above means you are not

Somewhere else


Still in the world



You see once more

The unfinished story

Of your life

A surreal memory

In that singular dream


In the empty air.


Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach




A Lunatic


Stands at the edge

Of Pragmatism Peak

About to leap

Into the Reality

Of another day

Inside the Empire.


But the Sun arrives 


And she dances instead

Against the shadows.


Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach





Terra firma


The earth breathes

Its morning after air

In and out, 

Heaving memories

Of the night before,


Lying with the moon

While mortal eyes

Look elsewhere to Mars,

That old red-faced dissembler,

Who grabs all the oxygen,

Makes outrageous claims.


The earth ponders,

Turning quietly, faithfully,

Reliably on beat:

How soon, so easily,

Too readily,

They forget.


Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach