Installed in his home
Copper taps, marked hot and cold,
Pensioned off as useless
Granny’s old scrubbing board
“Change is progress, Gran,”he said.
“Now, that you’re old,
I must modernise our home.
Then he replaced the huge round hearth,
Where her fire once glowed
A fire of turf and sparkling logs,
Crackling timber
From the near by wood.
Where she baked and cooked
And nursed her young.
Now a memory in her aged head,
The earthenware jar she used to fill
With boiling water ,to warm her bed,
The self same water from the quarry’s well.
COUNTRY LIFE
The city is lively, brisk, jolly, and fair,
But oh! for the country, with the fresh perfumed air,
The mountains so stately, like giants tall and high,
Their heads, they press softly against Heaven’s blue sky.
The murmuring waters skip down the blue slopes,
They glitter and fitter, and foam, as they flow,
They gurgle, and struggle, then fall with a roar,
They rattle and battle, then a sigh, a soft moan.
The sounds through the valley, are sweet to the ear
The thrush and the blackbird sing there, without fear.
The lark from the heavens, sends forth a soft strain,
And the angels, they chorus in joyful refrain.
The open hearth freside, with welcome it greets,
There’s joy all around the old Irish peat.
The children, they chatter, and laugh, talk and play,
There’s fun and enjoyment, till the end of the day.
The night spreads its cloak of dark dusky grey,
Across the green countryside’s bright happy face,
The birds disappear, the night owl appears,
Then silence sets in with slumber and peace
Then home in the country, I’ll cherish fore’er,
In my dreams, I will wander through
Roughty’s green vale,
When God calls me yonder to Heaven’s fair shore,
My spirit will wander in my own Irish home
DAWN
Slugs sauntering on their bellies
Across the pavement of my lawn,
Leaving silver trails, slimy, glittering,
Disclosing an itinerary, unseen till dawn.
Glowing lines, silent movement.
Large gaping holes rupturing the green
Of my herbal treasures, bare, uncovered,
Thyme, sage, dill ,and rosemary,
Nourished now, the slimy gluttons.
Close their doors of shell so sleek,
Hide away ,intestines bulging,
Dawn’s bright alarm,
Their time to sleep.
INTERRRUPTION AT DAWN
Dawn was rising oe’r southern suburbia.
Songsters cleared their birdy throats
Gushing forth enchanting melody.
“Great,” I said, grasping my recorder.
Tiptoeing to the open window,
All set to rob the melodious chirpings
From the sky’s morning inhabitants.
Suddenly, a thunderous sound,
Interrupted my dawn chorus,
In dismay, I turned detecting
The cause of this unwelcome intrusion,
There he lay, mouth open, eyes closed,
His loud snores stirring the bed clothes,
Oblivious of the dawn chorus outside,
Entwinement of gasps, snorts and sighs,
Smothered the harmony
Of flocks on flight.
THE TWO WORLDS
Born into homes of drudgery,
Starvation their heirloom.
Young lives ruptured into a scab world
bloated with vulture like rot,
swollen air filled bellies, feet too weak to walk,
Tongues too feeble to even talk, even cry in their human
misery.
A world, where headless chickens and animals with cut
throats would be a welcome sight,
easing the ache of starvation.
Limbs groping, when a dropping sun
reddens the colourful horizon.
A stabbing wind from a northwest stream
cuts the bones marrow
Acid poison in air and sky
Soaking the blood and mirth like flies held in bondage
by spiders in a web cocoon.
Doe rabbits in a hollow burrow,
Hours after giving birth exploited by frivolous bucks
in an uncaring world,
Where infant insects scramble and flee
From the danger of drone wings
In a universe where only the strong survive.
Across the horizon of sunshine and flowers
Drifting in a spray of love and happiness
The dawn sees a smiling moon ruling
a fleet of coasting stars and fleeing meteors
Sending waves of warmth and optimism
through the ploughed drills of riches
Where food, wine, and luxury increase
in multitudinous varieties.
Unaware of the existence of human like corpses
on the other side of the globe.
All are God’s children, but, why should
some be outcasts with protruding bones?
Their fellow humans, gluttons,
sick from over indulging in food and drink.
In the blossoming meadows of heaven
Surely wrongs will be made right
And oceans and land will give forth
human remains all equal in peace and justice.
Suffering and hunger unknown,
and the moon of plenty will
shine on all creeds, races, and colours.
EARTHQUAKE . . . SIGN OF THE TIMES. .
Earthquakes slicing the earth’s crust,
Sending its restless vomits
Flying into the spaceless sphere,
Where tall buildings, offspring of man’s labour,
Are hurled back into the globe’s open womb,
With glutonous gulps, swallowing
Humans, young, old agile, aged
Creatures, small and large,
Furry, feathered,wild and tame.
Across the world, peace reigns,
Heedless they of darkened doom,
Muffled cries and broken hearts,
Where torn fingers scrape,
With grit and might,
Their bulging eyes peering,
Ears craning, anxiously awaiting
The smallest sound,
Eyes aglow, a gleam of hope,
Tell tale of someone breathing
Beneath dark rubble far below.
THE EMERGENCY
They called it “THE EMERGENCY.”
I was too young to know its meaning,
But I recollect, vividly the scarcity of tea,
And my mother’s friend grating carrots,
As I watched fascinated, one October night.
She dried them slowly in a hot oven,
Which hung over red hot cinders.
The dried fragments of dark yellow carrots,
Substitutes for leaves of a plant grown
In abundance in India, China and Ceylon.
We all sampled the war time beverage.
Like the small boy, who truthfully
Judged the Emperor’s new clothes,
My mother frowned disapproval
When I tasted the new brew and announced
“It still tastes like carrots.”
My mother’s friend looked uncomfortable
I was ordered to bed immediately.
They continued sipping, as if they liked it.
They s
uffered diarrhoea for two days after,
I was the only one who survived ,
That sure was an emergency.
THE FILM
I saw a film the other night,
Superb acting, based on fact,
Showing British justice,
At its very lowest ebb,
Bare faced liars,
Confining innocent folks
To a prison life of hell,
One old and delicate
Left to die, he the father,
Spirit broken, humiliated,
Separated from the spouse
he loved and longed for.
Even now, Great Britain,
I ask of you to stop and think.
For 800 years, you and yours
Have trodded on our very dignity,
Trying to stifle our Irish spirit,
You have failed dramatically
And will fail.
Instead of foddering hatred,
We can still be friends,
If you glide gently away
From our land, our homeland,
Then and only then can
Our friendship blossom
Into everlasting comradeship.
In the name of all fathers,
God speed that day.
GOSSIPING WOMAN
Evil in her diabolical onslaught.
The labours of her tongue rupture
The tender fibres of a sensitive heart
Daughter of Eve, careless, without feeling,
Creator of mental aches,
Sending pangs of psychological dismay
Into the heart’s core, cruel and numb.
Murderer of friendship’s young glow,
Destroyer of every virtue of decency.
Gossiping woman, stop and think,
Your pathway is hell’s open plain
Pause ere you drive another helpless soul
To despair, suicide and death
The aftermath of heartless gossip
Theme of the idle, thief of youth
Bitter, cunning, bitchy,sin of sins
I despise your eloquent disclosures.
MY GRANDFATHER’S SUIT
I saw my grandfather’s tweed suit,
Waving violently,
Lopsidedly whirling,
Bringing memories
Crowding, twitching,
Memorandum of by gone years.
Warm tears gushed from my eyes,
At the sight
Of that woven grandeur,
Which once adorned
The well built frame
Of Granda in his prime,
Joyfully welcoming
Each beloved grandchild,
Or walking solemnly
Subdued in mourning
In the silent cortege.
Of a friend’s last journey.
To his final resting place.
Such loyalty, he displayed,
His big heart pounding
Neath the tweed suit
His hat of dark grey,
To day, carelessly
Displaying a gaping hole
Protruding dried up hay,
Falling untidily
On the drooping shoulder pads,
From the weighty burden
Of the element’s dust, and rain.
Turning I retreated slowly,
Wiping my burning eyes,
Closing their curtains,
To obliterate the view,
Of a skeleton scarecrow,
Sporting my Granda’s suit,
That windy morning,
My aching brain felt subdued.
THE GRAVEYARD
She was scared of the graveyard,
They said long boney hands
Pulled you down and buried you
Deep in the grave holes.
One evening, returning from the shops,
She barely looked, as she ran
Past the big iron gate
Which decorated the silent graveyard.
Down the road, a big car passed her by,
And suddenly stopped,
A long hand tried to grasp
Her blue Summer bib.
She ran and ran , and when
she reached the graveyard gate,
She climbed over and fell
With a loud thud.
Inside, she hid in a hole
By the edge of a tall gravestone.
She could hear the car’s driver,
Searching, panting, running.
She felt safe in the grave’s open mouth,
Then he gave up the search,
She could hear the engine starting,
And once more, there was silence.
She ran home and her mother said,
The dead would never harm you,
It’s the living you should fear,
Mother was nearly always right.
No hand tried to grasp her
By the lonely gravestone
Her mother said “Evil sparkles
In the hearts of some men.
Hard to know what she meant
Sally was only ten.
THE HUMAN MIND
He sang of her beauty
on Raglan road,
Her very posture
sent a warmth
through his spine,
Gliding like a fawn
O’er Autumn leaves aglow,
Man’s pain of love
Silently he pined.
But beauty fades
like Summer roses,
Tall trees decay
and tumble down,
Sweet thoughts remain,
perpetual harvest,
Enhancing love,
no one can ever drown.
Fair the mind,
remembering
youth’s wild passion,
Fickle daydreams
scurrying by,
of all the times
This love can cause
disaster, ignoring
the bending victim
waiting by the stile.
But great the mind,
superior gift,
So God- like
Combining thoughts,
some brilliant,
some unkind,
Sole possession,
nourished in
man’s brain cells,
Yesterday’s dreams,
treasure of
the human mind.
I WANT THAT TOY
O Mummy dear, I want that toy,
I want it now, or I will cry,
I want it badly, that’s the reason why
I keep on saying, “I want that toy.”
Son, you know I can’t buy that toy,
I would if I could, but I told you why,
Your Dad is idle for two years now,
We have no money to waste on toys,
Like a real good boy,, go play with Roy.
But Mummy Dear, I need that toy,
I’LL cry and cry and sob and sigh
Write to Santa this very night,
He’s rich and kind and he can buy
Whate’er is needed by each good child.
Son, are you deaf or slow or sly,
I said last night I can’t buy that toy
Santa Claus, too, is poor, you know,
My head is aching, my heart is cold,
Go out and play in the Christmas snow.
KILLARNEY
Peace lay over the vale of renown,
All was still
Over the distant heather brown,
Stood a shady hill,
Beneath its shadow, deep as night
Set a spark of grandeur
To the lake so dim and bright
A happy lark
Sang forth a strain of dreamy melody
A gush of song
Disappeared among the pine trees edge
Peace still lingered on
But oh the scene so lovely
Lay be
fore us,
Entranced, we sat on the wall above
Sweet beauty’s home,
Our very thoughts were lifted from this world
On nature’s wings
Those silent wings of lakes and trees and flowers,
Islands by shady hills,
A breeze of fLoating calmness
Gently passes by
Fills the mind and heart and lungs
With lasting mildness.
Oh! that I could stay
Beside yon lovely valley
O sigh poor heart, was it a dream
Or reverie of gladness
Killarney, home of happiness?
LIFE
Life, no doubt, is one great puzzle
A shadow falling beneath the sun,
A misty dawn of joys and troubles
Faded clouds, when day is done
Valleys green, haunted realms
Humans tumbling one by one.
Alas! they fly and seek for fortune,
Then, they’re gone, their work undone.
If only man would look up yonder,
To the mighty being, the God of all,
Ah, there he’d fInd content and happiness,
No matter how the raindrops fall
In this great world of doubt and sorrow,
It’s just a trial before the dawn,
Oh humans awaken before the morrow,
Life is like a hunted fawn.
THE LIGHT
Pointing at a mansion tall, he said;
“Grand people living there,
“Nightly, half intoxicated,
I pass by that garden wall,
aches in my head and legs,
On my way home
from my local
watering hole.
It must be the lady of the house,
Flashes on a glaring light,
to brighten up the road,
So that I can see my way
through the dark of night.
Then when I reach
my cottage home,
All is darkness, .
Dark as clay.
Gone is the light,
The good lady
knows I’m safe
Inside my garden gate
,
I smile, and think
Of what fIne people exist,
caring about chaps like me.
Turning on a light, each night,
so that I can see.”
I listened carefully
but would not dare,
Tell my friend
His lady of the night,
is a new invention,
an alarm light,
set to ignite,
by his own shadowy frame,
Intruding there
Poems for All Occasions Page 7