Wednesday, 28 November 2012

Things I Like.

Cowpats and daisies, frogspawn and dew,
Reasons and roses and girls dressed in blue.
Robins and Redbreast and pints of brown stout,
Living in sin and loving in doubt.
Tree-leaves and tea-leaves and tinkers and turf,
Pale-bellied trout and sea-shapes in surf.
Dreamers and schemers and jeans on a bike,
These are just some of the things that I like.

Dry days, July days, penumbral pale moon
Yellow and mellow and humming in tune,
Bacon and duck-egg and Avie’s brown bread
Yearns and yarns, inside and instead.
Crack and conniving and playing the game
And someone I care for feeling the same.
Potting the black and hooking the pike,
These are some more of the things that I like.

Black and white movies, an Irish grand slam,
Black pudding and white and gooseberry jam.
Rovers and ravers and losers, who try,
Stories by Steinbeck and hard men who cry,
Glances with meaning, two or three friends
Living, forgiving, means without ends.
Clearing the air and boosting the psyche,
Remembering more of the things that I like.

People and steeples and streets that are clean,
Irish and music and anything green.
Mountains and fountains and fervour in fight
And shifting the barrier blocking my sight.
Fire and freedom and freaks who believe
Three absent friends and lovers who grieve
Guts and compassion and having a ball,
These are the things that I like most of all.

Dedicated to Avie, the best neighbour in the world.

Friday, 16 November 2012

The Stranger

We spied her in the Local
on Sunday morning cool,
Forty heads did swivel
as she graced the swivel stool.
She ordered West Coast Cooler
and moistened wine-red lips,
We traced the flimsy gingham
from her neckline to her hips.
She filled the fitted Levi’s
of perfect powder blue
And tossed blonde hair, she didn’t care
for blokes like me and you.
With dazzling film-star smile
she asked Paddy for a light,
The way she kissed that cigarette
was a rare disturbing sight.
The aisle from bar to ladies room
became a model’s ramp,
When she swayed in that direction
watched by every scamp.
She straddled lucky stool again
and ordered one more drink,
A sidelong glance, a sneaky look,
watched every sipful sink.
She paid her way with twenty
from a gold abundant purse,
And when she headed for that door
forty men did curse.
We met her on that Sunday
I remember well because,
While the others mourned her passing
I just wondered who she was.

Sunday, 11 November 2012

Free, Together.

Sometimes I need you,
Two halves one whole
Connected together forever

Steady, let us steep our love
In the silence deep, as thus,
Ballymulvey branches arching above
Twine their shadows over and beyond us.

For our souls are bound as one,
Hearts’ and senses’ ecstasies,
Evergreen, in unison
Together forever no boundaries.

Run together, hearts at rest,
Freed from all futile endeavor
Head atop of your slumbering chest,
Suspended in time forever.

After all, sometimes’ I need you
Like a half needs whole,
I am free to carry the entanglement of our soul.

Wednesday, 7 November 2012

Vice D'or

Gone, the irritating whinging whining,
The siren wail that might have been a voice,
No more, the manic screech of shifting misery,
At which turning, triumph will rejoice.
Never more the taunt of exultation,
Shrill and shallow victory-cry of hate,
Gone forever, deadly dart of darkness.
Touching amber embers in Hell’s grate.
Left behind, the mutant accusation,
Self propelled to maximize the maim,
Abandoned, the philosophy of cruelty
Robbed of target, inward turning blame.
History, a child of legislation,
Blind, for men the future is a veil,
A memory, the fetid fruit of lying,
Dark cloud of oppression turning pale.
Tiny foetal whisper of a prospect
Striving to survive at fading verge,
A sliver slit of dark enveloped radiance
Struggling must from shadows yet emerge.
Hope, that well of never-ending succour
Propping life on legs of tremulous you,
Forward inch by inch to newer dawning,
Budding green will overcome the blue.

Dedicated to a happy marraige and a happy divorce!

Friday, 2 November 2012

Sensible Drinking

We rambled to Skelly’s last night for a pint,
The Bull and the Finger and me,
Eyed round the bar and called for a jar,
“Soft porter and slow, make it three”.
Admired the dark stout, kissed the white collar,
And tested the weight of the glass,
Then drank long and deep, wiped the top lip,
“Bejasus” says Finger, “that’s class”.

We settled down snug on tall counter stools
And sympathised one with the other,
At the state of the country, that hadn’t a job,
To offer to Tom Reilly’s brother.
We analysed fair the company there,
Yet mentioned the merits of all,
“Give us three Pat” says Bull “and smarten yourself”.
A breeze rambled in from the hall.

Pint number two was better than one,
And three and four better again,
Buzz in the brain, familiar yet new,
Tom Reilly was chewing his pen.
The chat ranged from football to politics foul
Enda, and all of that lark,
Young Brian and old Brian both gone to God,
Mick O’Dwyer should be in the Park.

I was the first to visit the gents
Pressure built up to a head,
After a gallon I traveled again,
Stomach as heavy as lead.
The third time I went, the purpose was urgent,
Not just to answer the call,
With a hop and a skip, I just got the trip,
And sprayed the whole lot on the wall.

I straggled back painful to join the two brothers,
They were just getting into their stride,
I skipped the next round and the one after that,
Instead I just swallowed my pride.
We bounced off together, mellow and mute,
A happy and satisfied band,
“Tomorrow night lads, we’ll have more of the same
Sure sensible drinkin’ is grand”