Sunday, January 30, 2011


That city night long ago,
I pulled my collar up leaning
In a vacant doorway escaping the bitter wind,
Darkened buildings gloomy from the yellow corner light.

I’d just read at St. Mark’s with the cool poets,
My stuff a mixture, mad politics, mystical murmerings.
You didn’t show, so I made up a name, like, S.I. Boy.

I was down deep in a dark funk, soul etched in troubles,
The growing pains of youth, I stared at your loft window,
A faint, ghostly light, the only light on the old block.

I’d seen you go up there with him, a well known artist,
Kissing, laughing, I felt poor, stupid, broke.
I shivered, reaching for the half pint of Irish.
Sharp, bitter, sweet, I threw it down my throat, quick,
A leap into the void’s chasm, it burned all the way down.

Stupid to come over here to see a glimpse of you.
So I turned east walking 20 blocks into the wind,
Majestic sadness flapping out behind me like a cloak.

The whiskey’d help me sleep,and tomorrow- you’d be gone
Just a headache lingering, and the faint and disappearing
Wisps of your perfume, that’d someday surface in a poem.

11/06/98 cottekill ny

Luireach Padraig

St. Patrick's Breastplate (Prayer of Protection)
Saturday, June 05, 2010, 4:54:04 PM | James P Casey
St. Patrick’s Breastplate

My mother, rest her soul, when I moved out of her house at age 19 gave me a small folded prayer to keep in my wallet at all times, & told me to say it every day I could. She said it would protect me and was called “Luireach Padraig (Loricah Porrig) “ in the Irish. I’ve seen many versions of it but I always liked hers best. A Lorica was a Magical or Mystical Breastplate which if worn by a Celt would insure protection at all times and a passage to the best of the Otherworlds, called Heaven or Paradise by Jews, Christians & Muslims. Christ did say that his father had many mansions. I came across it a while ago in an old wallet of mine & it was nearly disintegrated, but luckily I could still read most of the words. There may be a missing section or two, from the look of it but what remained I give to you. If you are of a Goddess bent, or somesuch you can substitute GodEssence or All-That-Is for “God”. Christ since it is an honorific high level spiritual title such as Avatar or Buddha, I would leave alone. There is also an Afterward you might find interesting. (Most versions use the term ‘bind’ instead of ‘gird’. Both are correct, but I find the encircling nature of ‘gird’ more pleasing than the squeezed sort of feeling ‘bind’ brings to mind.)

Luireach Padraig

I gird myself today with the might of heaven:
The rays of the sun,
The beams of the moon,
The speed of wind,
The depth of sea,
The stability of earth,
The hardness of rock.

I gird myself today with the power of God:
God’s strenght to comfort me,
God’s might to uphold me.
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to lead me,
God’s way to lie before me,
God’s shield to protect me,
God’s angels to protect me
From the snares of the divil,
In whatever guise,
From the temptation to sin,
From all who wish me ill,
Both far and near,
Alone and with others.

May Christ guard me today
From poison and fire,
From drowning and wounding ,
So my life’s mission may bear
Fruit in abundance.

Christ before me and behind me.
Christ beneath and above me,
Christ with me and in me,
Christ around and about me,
Christ on my right and my left,
Christ when I rise in the morning,
Christ when I lie down at night
Christ in each heart that thinks of me,
Christ in each eye that sees me,
Christ in each ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through the power of the Trinity,
Through faith in the thereness,
Through trust in the oneness,
Of the Maker of earth,
And the Creator of heaven

The Celts believed in the sacredness of the 3. They had triple gods & goddesses. They also had an overall Principal Being called a Father or a Mother God who was above all, depending on what part of Europe. In Ireland it was a Father God, called the Dagda, or Good God. Water was also sacred to them & interestingly enough it too is a triplicity: H2O. We live on Earth which is mainly a Water Planet. The number 3 was sacred to the Celts, & this in fact became the Roman Catholic Trinity. The Irish were great seafarer’s like their Celtic cousins in the islands & mainland of Europe. The Romans killed millions of Celts but not the majority and the rest of them are the earliest European ancestors that unite the EU, even w/ the various other ethnic groups that intermixed with them.
Their religion or Druidism was sort of like a Western European version of Pan-Paganism, Buddhism & Pythagoreanism practiced by a gregarious, loosely held federation of like minded souls, which was changed by the conquest of Rome. Ireland escaped Rome’s fury & so called civilizing notions. Patrick was the son of two Celts, a Briton & a Gaul who were Roman Citizens. They lived on the western seashore on the border of what today is Scotland & Britain. His father was like St. Luke, one of those hated Tax Collectors who would bully money from their fellows until they had raised enough that they would receive a special honor & would no longer have to pay taxes, great incentive that greased the great machine of the Roman Empire.
St. Patrick blended Druidism with Christianity like many other of his kind creating what was called the Celtic Church. Women were allowed to say & participate in the Mass as well as some other features, environmentally speaking, that today People of Spirit would appreciate. At first Patrick destroyed the Druids books, but then he lamented and he had his monks record the remaining ones as well as the oral Lore of the People, Bards, Seannachies, Poets and Minstrels to whom we Irish are most appreciative. The message of Jeshua was radical: It said that all were equal under God & that God was Love. No King or Queen was more special than the lowest slave. The Celts were Democratic in nature & this message took off like wild fire, especially in Ireland where there were no martyrs. From a people who call a rainy day: “Tis a soft day”, we do not call them Pagans but Pre-Christians & honor & cherish our ancient heritage. There are more Irish manuscripts of lore many of which is still not translated, then all the worlds stories combined.
Incidently, I no longer have access to the kind of Photo Copier that can shrink stuff down, as I’d love to carry it in my wallet again. Come to think of it, the run of bad cess or luck I’ve had in the last 4 yrs coincides coincidently, even though there are no coincidences, with the time I got the current wallet on Father’s Day 2006. Please you of non-Islamic-Christian-Judaic faiths don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater and identify the message of Joshua Ben Joshua or Yeshua ben Yeshua or Jesus Christ with the later established Churches, as did Aleister Crowley, who grew up under the weight of a small sect of fundamental Christians, and their nonsensical beliefs. A Christ is a Bodhisatva, an Anointed Avatar. The message in the Lorica is all you need, as you all are children of God-Essence All-That-Is, the children in the ancient Celtic trinity: The Mother of Darkness melded with the Father of Light and in their outbreath (the Holy Spirit: the three points of a triangle are the trinity united by the lines of the HS connecting them. The triangle is the smallest building block.) created we, the Children of God. We are eternal, but we are on Earth to learn how to be a Godchild, or to teach others how to do so. GodEssence Bless ye!


by James P Casey on Saturday, July 10, 2010 at 9:10pm


Satrap momma storm,
Bowling thunder
Babbling woman wonder,
Damp green thinkings,
Sinking mist of song.

Steaming wash of magic,
Pearl white sky,
Why do you come in slices,
Strings of crystals
Playing on the leaves?

Snake slipping down surfaces,
Frog gleams rippling
Frozen motion passing
In a pyre of pine,
And heady passion.

A finger on the lips of stillness,
As the red sun floats upon horizons
Newly cast with long tomorrows,
Stretching trees that sag in joy,
Open to receive the sky.

Memories meander in a million days
And hours shoot around the stars,
Seconds burst on passive ponds,
Aware of secret wishes buried
In the sand.

What mole inside his hole will
Cease to wonder,
Measuring the space between his claws,
Listening to dark and distant thunder,
Beating tears upon the ground.

How warm the earth,
How wet the mud,
How juicy are the roots,
The tasty worms,
The tender shoots,
How strong the stone.

And always comes the whistling psalm,
The drips that patter in the calm,
Wild whirrings,
Trembled buzzings,
Spinning webs of rainbow specks,
The subtle blend of yellow in the deep.

A golden beetle crawls upon the screen
As in a dream where shadows dissipate in light
His wings vibrating to a microcosmic tune,
To filled this darkened room,
With all-forever.

june 20th, 1976 james patrick casey clintondale ny

Brian Horbal likes this.
Christopher Casey Wow.....lovely poetry, James....John F. Casey the second..
July 11, 2010 at 1:43am · James P Casey It's my Rain Dance Poem. It always evokes the smell of rain thru an old wooden screen back door looking out on the greenery of earth glistening. I also once saw a golden beetle on the screen.
July 11, 2010 at 6:10pm · James P Casey And the ozone of a thunder storm.
July 11, 2010 at 6:10pm · Lillian Potteray James - You're your father's son. As a child I remember reading your father's poetry that he had sent my mom when he was overseas. She had saved all of them in some attic boxes which were full of her wedding cards, photos, and important... papers. Your poetry is magic - it envelops. Boy, I'll have to keep my Pocket Guide for Doubtful Spellers/Pocket Guide To Correct Grammar handy when I contact you. Had to read your poetry three times to drink it all in and each time I peeled away another layer of beautiful thought. Are you published? You should be. Not sure you'll even receive this comment but hope so. (Someone has to train me on this facebook.) Maryellen encouraged me to join without any lessons - so I only have her to blame. Mare, are you listening???? When I first got onto facebook today, I saw a Happy Birthday comment from Nicole and now I can't find it. So, Nicole, if you're able to read this, thanks for the good wishes. I did get into your photos, James, and your family is BEAUTIFUL. It's wonderful to see the Casey clan. Give my love to all. LilSee More
July 15, 2010 at 3:50pm ·
James P Casey Lillian, there are no nuns w/yardsticks on FB. In fact there's no such thing as spelling anymore. I gave up being a Spelling Nazi back in the 90's when i realized i was pissin' peepul off at Social Security & doing more harm than good. Anyw...ays w/the techno-speak, e-mail & text-ting & hip-hop slang Engullish iz goen thru anudder of it's continuous mutations. It is an eater(& destroyer) of languages. It takes wurds frum udder lingos und makes it it's own. The 2 main t'ings to remember about Inglish is the "th" zound & the "ing" sonned. Someday if my novel ever gets published I have James Joyce do a monologue on just that or dat. The Irish among others have a hard time w/"th" so we say "t'ing". Anywayz, all de best to ye and yers. Gra agus Solas(Ir. Love & Light).See More
July 15, 2010 at 6:40pm · James P Casey Oh, and I've been publshd in a few anthologies. Rain was publ. back in the 80's in an Anthology called Oxalis. You see us hereditary Seannachie Poets have inherited an Oral tradition, so we'd rather write 'em & read 'em then get 'em 'pressed'. I think it goes back to the Druidic teaching that you shud memorize everything becuz books can be destroyed & you didn't need to read to memorize & orate & pass down knowledge. The brain is still the best computer.
July 15, 2010 at 6:47pm · Lillian Potteray Dear James - you're a doll. Had to read this email just FOUR times before I understood it. You had a "yardstick" nun and I had a "watering artificial plants and believing them real" nun. Now that you've explained my lack of
need for the "...Inglish" language - believe me this is a relief - I implore
you, when you get a chance, to give me some hints on how to work FACEBOOK.
(I already know not to post my credit card numbers/social security number
but other than that, Lord have mercy on me.) I'm not on facebook much but check in to see photos every now and then. (p.s. - I was the only one of my high school "gang" that was pulled out of geometry and put into Language
Skills and the good nuns were at a loss when I flunked out of that too) I
was also kicked out of Choir (monotone). Where's that novel? Can't wait.
Mail me a copy when it's finished. Gra agus Solas Back to YouSee More
July 15, 2010 at 7:12pm via Lillian Potteray James, it might be 30 years late - but congrats (my new speak) on being published for "THE RAIN". It's an absolutely beautiful piece of poetry - up there with Wadsworth, Longfellow (hope they're poets - fell asleep in
English class as well).... I can see your point though about memorizing/orate/pass down. Here are two Nellie stories: 1) Our grandfather reading before his open fireplace for all the local farmers that couldn't read. He'd give them weather and local news and personal stories.She was very proud of him.
2) Her local schoolhouse being raided by the British rounding up all their "Irish" language school books and burning them in front of the schoolhouse. She was frightened to death. But you're too good - you need to share what you write. "press yourself to be pressed"
July 15, 2010 at 7:35pm via James P Casey Me Da told me the same, but not much detail on the burnin' of the Irish books, just that his sister's told him so. Time fer me sleep, so God Bless.
July 15, 2010 at 9:23pm · James P Casey Lillian FB's not as scarey as it appears. Just voice your voice. It's kinda like sittin' around a table havin' a cuppa.

What's in a Name: Casey

James P Casey on Tuesday, September 7, 2010 at 9:54pm
In the Name books, even in some scholarly works it says Casey means Watchful and Vigilant. But that's because that was our job so to speak, in Ireland. That's what the Casey's did for the High Kings, the Ard Ri's around Tara, be their Bodyguards & stand up on the Hilltops & Towers being just that. In a way because of this we may have been bred to be hypervigilant. The Vikings who took over Dublin made some of us Vassals, but we learned their business & trade methods, and later fought with Brian Boru to oust them from power in Ireland. We fought against the invasion of Ireland by Strongbow & King Henry II & thus lost our prominent lands in Fingal north of Dublin to the Norman Hugh De Lacey and later to those who cheated the De Laceys. Some of it was returned but never to its full glory. Casey is actually an amalgamation of several different names: Cas, Cassi & Casi, all great European Celtic Tribes & also 1st names. It comes from Kay/Cay, the word for Warrior, Knight or Battler or Battle. In Ireland there were the Dal Cas, or DalCassians, a great warrior tribe from who Brian Boru of O'Brien fame arose. In Ptolemy's map of Ireland the Casey's land in what is now Fingal is marked as Cahassi or Caci land.The name became prominent in 6 different septs as Ui(O) Cahassy or Cathasaiugh. Literally it means the Warriors of the Waterfall. Or the Knights or the Battlers of the Waterfall. Because of different dialects it also became Cash, Casse, Cass & Case when anglicized. The Irish name for O'Casey was Ui Cathasaiugh & their Irish motto in Gaelic meant Casey of the Blood Red Sword. The later Latin one, per varios casus could be translated as through many difficulties or through various fortunes, dependent on your half empty/half full bias. In America, the mostly Irish speaking Catholics who fled the Great Hunger in the 1840's to 1860's were illiterate peasants who spoke Irish and their names were mispelled just like later immigrants. Casey became Cass, Case, Casse, Cash, Kesey, Cayce. Kacey and many others. An explosion of popularity among girls names in America since the 1980's to present has as many variations, Kacey, Kaysey, etc.


The Sea Demon slain? Abdullah cried,

The gods piss in the sea;

And who will come to the edge of the forest

To set the antelope free?

The worms crawl, beneath the earth,

Abdullah lies in the mud,

Far from his ship from whence he came.

The sky is blood.

Tis the season of rain.

The buffalo roar

And the grasses bend,

The captain has his whore;

The carrion feed

On Arabian steed

And Brave Abdullah is dead. (c) JPC Bronx NY 7/29/1970

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Cold Heat (c)

Cold Heat

Eyes of Smelted Steel

Boring thru Aorta

Drilling Jugular

Sparks Flying




Void of the Red

Hot Rivets Sparking

Fire once within My Chest.

Furnace Rusted Crushed Beyond

Barnacles of Iron Rotting

Cavities of Dark Suns

What Mined now




Flayed from Within

Left Hanging Leaning

Throttled by the Dirty Wind.

Cold Heat the Breath of Me

Staining the Burning Air

Where Once Stood

Pulsing Pumping


James Patrick Casey 11/29/2010

If I Allowed But One Poem To Write (c)

If I Allowed But One Poem To Write

If allowed one poem to write
In my passage thru this world,
T’would be the Love within my Heart,
The Light within my Mind
Translated be for all to understand.

I come from a lineage of Poets,
A Race of bold and magic men,
Who used their tongues to spread the word
And sat by hearth with families and friends
Millenniums before one ever picked up pen.

The veil is thin, humankind is blind,
The struggle’s gone on too long,
Art, Beauty, Truth against the Avarice of Dark,
Each day grows dim, yet a promise still,
A glimmer, hope that Spirit nested deep within,

Will grind the tarmac on their soul to dust
To free their eyes to see
To free each one to be,
To feel the universe within
That pulsing beating muscle in their chest.

That all will see the beauty in each other,
In every stone and blade of grass,
In every bird in flight,
And like the smile of babies new
Will hear their spirits sing.

That those in power will relent, awake;
Their heart with true love filled;
Their lives an endless joy of truth,
So they will freely help make our world
A place called Paradise, without, within.

James Patrick Casey Jan 16, 2011 3:03p.m. Stone Ridge NY

The Crystal Path (c)

I walked out laughing into the night,
And felt the frigid snow beneath my boots,
The snow flakes sparkled in the Christmas lights,
Stillness all about I took an unmarked path,
Along a frozen stream with gurgling spectacles of ice,
So quiet almost deafening the silence of it all,
I turned to see my footprints disappear,
And heard the breath of Winter's white
Drown out the sounds of Summer's flight,
Down the pristine crystal way
My soul was forging heat inside my chest,
The steam from out my lips
Kissing and softly hissing
As the cold dissolved its mist,
I stopped and stood amazed
Feeling the ivory and pellucid aire
Envelop me into its breast,
As if I was a god inside his lair,
Who made this world of white
And ice and snow,
Twas then I saw the eyes of grey,
The wolven ears and fur and tail,
Who watched me from the rock
Beside the stream,
And pierced my vision
In its smirking smile,
As if to say:
"Now you understand
A little of the way.
Welcome to my dream,
I offer it a gift,
For I have summoned you,
To go back to your den,
And put your gifts to pen
For all the world to see."
We stared awhile and breathed
The chilly snow that whirled about.
Then fast he turned and disappeared
As if he was not there.
And so did I
Back to my cave
Of precious warmth
To write these very words.

james patrick casey 1/11/11 stone ridge ny

Me Uncle, Jack O’Shea (c)

Me Uncle, Jack O’Shea

“Did I ever tell ye the one about the..”
He always would begin
To tell his jokes and tales.

Rick, rack that was me Uncle Jack,
Jack O’Shea to be exact,
He was a granpa to me.

From County Kerry near old Tralee,
He fled from the Brits and the IRA,
To New York in Americay.

A bachelor man til fifty
When he met Bridie Casey
In an elevator in Sachs.

“And wouldja go for a cup of tea?”
She nodded her head in glee,
“Indeed, I would”, said she.

So a small spinster lass from Ballaghadereen,
And a tall bachelor man from Kerry’s green,
Married they did, they did indeed..

So they bought a house in the island of Staten,
With an attic view of old Manhattan,
Where us Casey boys would come and play.

Each day off to the Bronx to work they went
A bus, a ferry, a subway or two, a lady & gent,
Back home again by six or so.

Many’s the merry time we boys’d have
Listening to them tell their tales,
And Jack with all his jokes.

Like a Seannachie of old, with a little pub,
A little parlor, a little stage Irishman,
In the mix together they’d rub.

He could tell stories and jokes for hours
While Bridie would laugh, play cards,
Cook terribly or have us pray.

Twas she taught me how to box,
“Put up your dukes” she’d say
And we’d fun fight and dance about.

Now later on with pipe in hand
He’d say: “Now come here lad,
I’ll teach ye the proper way.”

“Now aren’t I, indeed the man,
Who shook the hand
Of John L. Sullivan,”

“Give em the horns of yer head to hit,
The corners of your noggin,
It’ll make their knuckles split.”

“If they knock ye down ye get back up
And never a tear in your eye
If they knock ye down all day.”

“Cause every time they knock ye down,
Ye always get back up again,
For soon their fists will be bleedin’”

“They can knock ye down, Jaymes,
But always remember, lad
They can never keep ye down.”

“For that’s the Irish in ye,
And they can’t take that away,
And a thousand years they’ve tried.”

“For a strong and hardy race we are
With the old ways deep inside,
For a Nation again we’ll be.”

“John Bull and all his armies,
With the divil on his back,
Will never take that away.”

“For Ireland was a Nation
Proud and civilized,
Before any England was.”

“Ireland was a Nation
As grand as ere there was
When England was but a pup.”

“And Ireland will be a Nation,
For how ever long it takes,
When England’s belly up.”

“Did I ever tell ye the time...”
It seems like yesterday,
When Bridie passed away.

And Jack was a widower man
Alone again in his seventies,
Just like he was as a lad.

But he never stopped with his tales
As his bones’ go crickety-crack,
And the tall frame started to stoop.

“Don’t worry about me Jaymes,
Fer the next time ye’ll see me
I’ll be in the boneyard.”

It was another 16 yrs of hearin that,
On St Patrick’s Day indeed
When we buried him on his back.

Once on a visit: “Don’t worry bout me,
Ye gave me drink ‘n food, a nice warm bed,
Happy I’ll be if ye get me a pot to piss in.”

That was me Uncle Jack O’Shea,
An’ proud as he was of me
I’m proud to have been the child
And the man that shook his hand.

James Patrick Casey 11-46 a.m. Jan 16, 2011 Stone Ridge NY USA