Love is many things
or nothing

Love stinks
Love sucks
Unrequited love
is worst of all

I get confused

If I’m sexually attracted
I fall in love
greedily, needily
If I like someone
I love the company
If I am lonely
I love desperately

There are so many ways
to love
so many ways for love
to end

Which is real
which illusion?
Is love real
or just a myth?

We pretend we know
it feels like it’s so
How can it be real
if it ends?

If it ends
Did it
really exist?

perhaps all I
really want
a lover sometimes
a friend sometimes
a companion

and that’s all?


Perhaps I
don’t need
at all.


I should ‘a’ been a poet, but “comparisons are odious”

Between 400 and 450 years ago, Christopher Marlow wrote: Marlowe Statue


COME live with me, and be my love;
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber-studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

Just as crazy as I.

Do you doubt it?

Look at the reply:

The nymph’s reply to the shepherd (like Karen’s response to me)

IF all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

The gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,—
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

And so, you can see,

I am not alone in insanity,

my lovely lady

my lust, I can never satisfy.

tm 2009, 2010

Love is a trial; if only I were done with it


by H. P. Lovecraft

Black loom the crags of the uplands behind me,

Dark are the sands of the far-stretching shore.

Dim are the pathways and rocks that remind me

Sadly of years in the lost Nevermore.

Soft laps the ocean on wave-polish’d boulder,

Sweet is the sound and familiar to me;

Here, with her head gently bent to my shoulder,

Walk’d I with Unda, the Bride of the Sea.

Bright was the morn of my youth when I met her,

Sweet as the breeze that blew o’er the brine.

Swift was I captur’d in Love’s strongest fetter,

Glad to be here, and she glad to be mine.

Never a question ask’d I where she wander’d,

Never a question ask’d she of my birth:

Happy as children, we thought not nor ponder’d,

Glad of the bounty of ocean and earth.

Once when the moonlight play’d soft ‘mid the billows,

High on the cliff o’er the waters we stood,

Bound was her hair with a garland of willows,

Pluck’d by the fount in the bird-haunted wood.

Strangely she gaz’d on the surges beneath her,

Charm’d with the sound or entranc’d by the light:

Then did the waves a wild aspect bequeath her,

Stern as the ocean and weird as the night.

Coldly she left me, astonish’d and weeping,

Standing alone ‘mid the legions she bless’d:

Down, ever downward, half gliding, half creeping,

Stole the sweet Unda in oceanward quest.

Calm grew the sea, and tumultuous beating

Turn’d to a ripple as Unda the fair

Trod the wet sands in affectionate greeting,

Beckon’d to me, and no longer was there!

Long did I pace by the banks where she vanish’d,

High climb’d the moon and descended again.

Grey broke the dawn till the sad night was banish’d,

Still ach’d my soul with its infinite pain.

All the wide world have I search’d for my darling;

Scour’d the far desert and sail’d distant seas.

Once on the wave while the tempest was snarling,

Flash’d a fair face that brought quiet and ease.

Ever in restlessness onward I stumble

Seeking and pining scarce heeding my way.

Now have I stray’d where the wide waters rumble,

Back to the scene of the lost yesterday.

Lo! the red moon from the ocean’s low hazes

Rises in ominous grandeur to view;

Strange is its face as my tortur’d eye gazes

O’er the vast reaches of sparkle and blue.

Straight from the moon to the shore where I’m sighing

Grows a bright bridge made of wavelets and beams.

Frail it may be, yet how simple the trying,

Wand’ring from earth to the orb of sweet dreams.

What is yon face in the moonlight appearing;

Have I at last found the maiden that fled?

Out on the beam-bridge my footsteps are nearing

Her whose sweet beckoning hastens my tread.

Current’s surround me, and drowsily swaying,

Far on the moon-path I seek the sweet face.

Eagerly, hasting, half panting, half praying,

orward I reach for the vision of grace.

Murmuring waters about me are closing,

Soft the sweet vision advances to me.

Done are my trials; my heart is reposing

Safe with my Unda, the Bride of the Sea.

sweet-unda-in-oceanward-quest shot and modeled by the fantastic Kayleigh

Blog is dead


In as much as my fantasies about Karen have been effectively squashed by her, and bled out of me through her indifference, I find there is not much to say about her anymore.  I like her, and we sometimes still eat lunch together, but since there is no longer even the slimmest of strands of hope that we could ever be real friends, like going out to movies, nightclubs, for a drink, or a drive, or ever have a meaningful relationship of any kind, there isn’t much point, as it seems to me.  I’ll always consider her a friend, and never forget her.  She is different, and I’m oddly fond of her, but such is life.

However, I do write, and I write often.  Short stories, poems, fiction and non-fiction, can all be found on my Word Press blog Random Writings (

Thanks for visiting!

Unidentified Poem I Wish I’d Written

Nov. 14, 2007

If I could ever figure out who wrote this, I’d send it to Karen:

By day mine eyes, by night my soul desires thee

Weary, I lie alone.

Once, in a dream it seemed thou were beside me,

Oh far beyond all dreams if thou woulds’t come.


Can anyone attribute this poem? It has language similar to Shakespeare’s but I have been unable to find it in his writings or anywhere online.

I found it written in pencil on an index card on the floor; it had to have fallen out of a book I was reading. On the other side was a message from a Sarah thanking someone for lunch (!) and their undivided attention; it said also, “This poem says so much of my feelings towards you. This person was better with words than I.”

It drives me crazy not to be able to find its source. I’m assuming an old poem, probably from a schoolbook of poetry. Perhaps it is by Shakespeare? I wish I knew.

Poem Just For Karen

Sept. 07, 2007



Put me out there

away from shore

no insects there

in moonlight’s glare.


Let me float and dream

let me think and scheme

join me tenderly

drifting eternally.

© 2007, ’10  O’Maolchathaigh


Sept. 06, 2007

csbee.gif used to ‘bee’ and could have been what_i_could_have_been_1.gif

– nevermore!

compared to what could be or what you are!

© O’Maolchathaigh 2007-10