neath the beam’s
searching ray.
LONELINESS (MARCH 1961)
Loneliness, that ghost like phantom,
Haunting humans, through their lives,
It brings sweet memories of home and kindred,
Replaces joys, with heart throbbing strife.
Tears, like gems, flow slowly over
Rose coloured cheeks, or pale wrinkled brows,
Then sighs are heard, long low sad sobbing,
The phantom lover, once more prowls.
A child in fever, calls its mother,
The baby lambs bleat ere they die,
The lonely sigh of a pining lover,
The distant screech of a seagull’s cry.
Yet in the land of saints and angels,
The phantom ghost ne’er more can strike,
The soul, once more has journeyed homewards,
In peace and joy, fore’er to lie.
MOODS
Perhaps I’m moody, perhaps I’m odd.
But who is perfect on sea or sod?
Men claim patience, strength and speed,
They need us women through passing years.
Moody is thy name, o woman,
seed of Adam’s rib,
Never feel like being a Robot,
That would make him grin.
Man and woman, boy or girl,
Humans, all alike,
Equal they in spite of difference,
Share the strife in life.
Baby boys all spring from women,
Nourished at their breasts,
Grown up men, like babies craving
For female warm caress.
MUSIC
Balm of troubled souls;
The chirping of birds on a distant tree
Or the rippling sound of a passing stream
Gurgling slowly to join the sea
And lose its glow
Neath shadowed leaves
The Baa -_baa of a fLock of sheep
Cuddling their young
With touches meek
Or the shouts at play
Of little boys
Tossing their toys
Their music is noise
With a rush of wind
Through the nearby leaves
The harmony sweet
A combination of these
Music is a variety of sounds
Blended together
Like gems on a crown
Angelic in nature
Created by God
To be found all places
In sea, sky. and bog.
MUSIC2
Marriage of notes, sounds and chords,
Restorer of peace on earth’s troubled sod.
The whistling and chirping of singing birds,
Midst leaves a stirring o’er swinging buds,
Rippling sounds of passing streams,
Gurgling slowly to kiss the sea,
Losing glow neath shadowed trees.
Ripples shining with sparkling glee.
The Baa Baa of a flock of sheep,
Cuddling their young with touches meek,
Or the shouts at play of little boys,
Tossing their toys, their music is noise.
A hasty breeze through the nearby leaves,
The harmony sweet, a combination of these.
Sweet soft music, a variety of sounds
Blended together, like gems on a crown,
Angelic in nature, created by God,
To be found everywhere, in sea, sky and bog.
A NIGHT IN AVOCA
OCTOBER 4TH, 1953
The crowd dispersed and scattered
From Arklow’s dancehall bright,
Each heart was gay and happy,
Thus ended a perfect night.
Outside the air was frosty,
The sky, with stars did shine,
A bleak cold gale did rattle
Through oak and ash and pine.
A grey white road looked threatening,
An expanse of white, it lay,
Like a carpet, grey and speckled
At the side of Arklow Bay.
The car sped onwards quickly,
Like a fawn, with frightened eyes,
Through fog, that gathered thickly,
By hill and tree and sky.
Then the scent of lovely heather
From the distant Wicklow Hills
Enticed us to Avoca
Of which Tom Moore did sing.
Darkness lay her misty cloak
Across the vale renowned,
A torch’s rays so softly stole
Across the brambles brown.
The lapping waters lightly,
Tripped by the soft breeze calm
Sped through Avoca brightly
By hedges, green with palm.
Alas! I could not see it
That vale, with beauty hid,
But yet I knew a speck from Heaven
Around that place was shed.
Alone in the heart of Avoca,
Tom Moore’s tree tall, did stare,
Like a giant, though torn and broken
With broken branches bare.
That night is gone for ever,
But to me, its memories shine,
Like diamonds, with specks of silver,
To cherish all through life.
Avoca, spread your beauty
On travellers, day and night,
Give praise to Him your maker the Lord of joy and light.
THE OBELISK
Towering ,Like a sentinel
Overlooking Killiney Bay,
Overpowering, cheeky, lonely .Like a giant satellite;
Ready to pierce the very
Core of heaven
Offspring of man’s humble energy
To ease the strains
Of daily urgencies
In a time, when hunger
Was the topmost thought
In the minds of labouring humans,
Too poor to crave for anything
Only to build a monster
Elegant, stately, noble.
Evening dusk envelopes its
Shoulders of grey lime and mortar,
Cold to the eye, but yet,
It holds a frame of importance,
Heedless of the romantic scenery
Surrounding its obelisk frame
A lonely pyramid
Of far off by gone days,
A MEMORY................
THE OLD SCHOOLMASTER
An old teacher sat in a reverie deep,
He whistled a tune though soft and meek,
Then he gazed into by-gone days,
And many the lad passed before his face.
He saw himself there, tall, sturdy and strong,
Teaching the young hearts right from wrong,
In a dusty old schoolroom, where many the lad,
Learned to read, to write, and to add,
He knew them as babies, he knew them as boys,
He saw them clasping old rusty toys,
And then he saw them as soldier lads,
Going of to battle, smiling though sad,
Some of his pupils in far away lands,
Preaching the Gospel to pagan gangs,
Many the youth he taught how to trod,
One day to become a good priest of God.
Ah! those were the days of sadness and joy,
Many the frown heartbreak and sigh,
Slowly the knowledge crept into each cell,
He smiled when he saw the little brains swell.
Though old are they now, perhaps neath the clay,
To him they are still the wee lads bright and gay,
Each face he can see, each brow he beholds,
As they sat there together in good days of old.
The small pretty lassies have all passed away,
Their children now shyly bid him Good-day.
A warm tear slowly fows down his pale ch
eek,
His poor heart gives way to its last mighty beat.
Down from the Master of Masters there came,
Hundreds of saints in gallant array,
The old Teacher knew them—each happy brow,
Still the same faces though happier now.
The old Master now is sitting in state,
His hard work is over, bliss is his fate,
Sitting around him again he beholds
The souls that he moulded in good days of old.
Ah! great is the call of a teacher in life,
A difficult strain to mould a young mind
But greater by far, the ever lasting reward
Which awaits the lone master, when called by the Lord,
MOVEMENT ON DUN LAOGHAIRE PIER
At the very end of Dunlaoghaire Pier,
We sat gazing into the sea.
Nobody knew anybody else,
But there we were, all glaring
At a sea bird swooping downwards.
It caught nothing, but continued
with open wings and piercing beak
to penetrate the water’s edges.
Overhead, an Aer Lingus plane
glided over the harbour
on its way to Dublin airport.
Sail boats scurried to and fro,
swaying in the breeze.
Young couples kissing, holding hands,
Oblivious of watching strangers.
Moss Keane passes by, People nudge, and whisper
Their stares cause him to blush.
The bird swoops, all eyes turn,
Gasps of approval to see a tiny fish
wringle in death’s agony,
A bird’s efforts rewarded.
Evening descends, shadows lengthen
One by one, the human race and dogs
arise and disappear down the long grey pier.
Whose stones entomb the sweat and labour
of men long lost in cemeteries,
Their tomb stones similar to the large
boulders from Dalkey quarry, to make a pier.
ONE MORNING
A rose ebbing dew from paling petals
In the morning sunlight,
A grey mist hangs over the drooping branches,
Where wee birds are
Beginning to awaken from night’s silence.
Inside the clouded window
A small iron bed suffers the breathing weight
of a baby like figure
He heeds not the song of the morning thrush
Or the smell of the dewy rose.
He feels the soft touch of his mother’s hand
on his perspiring forehead
Then a gentle sigh,
A fluttering tremble
His soul has fled
Far from the morning dew
The rising sun
The singing thrush
The shivering watery leaves.
All pain is gone.
A happy soul takes flight
And the body that crust of clay lies there still
Motionless. .
Overshadowed by the labouring sobs of those
who, treasured his every move
The thin thread separating life from death is shattered
skillfully by the caring hand of a Fatherly Creator.
The young soul slumbers blissfully
in eternal peace....... ,
THE CHAMPION PLOUGHMAN
Soil, he turns in dark brown slices,
Hiding grass of emerald green.
Two horses move, with grace they glide by,
Drills are born in lines so neat.
Each drill, to him, is a strand of gold,
As people stare and follow slowly,
Deep furrows slimy, he then unfolds
Discarding weeds, as if unholy.
Peace and calm around him reigns,
An air of leisure, as he trods,
A master of the sun and rain
Yes king and lord of the dark brown sod.
Hungry birds behind him follow,
Noisy, giddy, as they flap their wings,
Picking, gulping from each hollow,
The wrinkling worms, that twist and cringe.
The ploughman, accurate, keen and silent,
Close is he to Nature’s whims,
Evening shadows, grey, declining,
Across the Vale, the church bell rings.
AREVERIE (1956)
Hedges green, all decked with flowers,
Honey suckle climbing leafy bowers.
Trees abundantly bearing loads
Of leaves, that flutter fly and float.
Skies of blue with dots of cloud,
Illumined by golden sunny showers.
Valleys wide where streamlets flow,
With gurgling sounds so soft and low.
Rivers broad, their ripples shine
And salmon leap in search of fly.
Rosy brambles high and tall
Climbing o’er the garden wall.
The lonely peal of distant waves
Lashing bravely ‘gainst the caves.
Cottage neat, with garden round,
Dotted over with fragrant flowers.
Music sweet sends forth its strain,
To brighten valley, hill and vale.
Fireside homely, poor but rare
To brighten hearts on lonely trail.
Terrier small with two kind eyes
A friend sincere, stern, though kind.
A cat to frighten wandering mice
With furry coat all soft and nice.
This is just a mid-day dream
Which haunts the human mind unseen.
GENTLE LITTLE ROSEBUD
In a lonely lane,
Shedding forth your odour,
Sweet and fragrant there.
So alike us, humans,
Passing o’er life’s plain,
Youth and love and beauty,
Unblemished, without stain.
Then comes passing raindrops,
Windy afternoons.
The spring of youth has blossomed,
Skies are clear and blue.
Gracefully, you send forth,
Beauty, wet with dew,
Lovely little rosebud
Is now a rose mature.
Evening shadows falling,
Petals dot the green,
Age is creeping o’er you
Good times all have been.
Youth, is gone forever,
Beauty, too, has flown,
Left one cherished memory,
Of a faded rose
SCIOLLAIN CUTTING
(SCIOLLAIN IS GAELIC FOR SEED POTATOES)
’Twas customary, an expert was invited,
An old lady, a genius in her own right,
Between her finger and her wrinkled palm,
She efficiently manoeuvred a tiny knife,
With handle as worn as her bony knuckles,
Which crackled as she dug the edgy blade
Into the rounded eyeballs of the potatoes.
Like a carver, she scooped and prodded,
Bending now and then she quickly cast
The ruptured remains of her labour,
But carefully piling up in a half barrel
The prospects of next year’s potato harvest.
Laboriously, she sat near the open fire,
Her grey hair falling untidily in bundles
Over her black woollen shawl, which covered
Her humped shoulders, rounded and brawny,
Like a witch over her magic cauldron
Preparing her special furtive brew.
The thud thud of falling fragments
Was lulling to our childrens ears,
She seldom spoke, but just continued
With aristocratic dignity, surgeon like,
Until the fall of evening, she stood and
Then suddenly departed into the air of night
&
nbsp; Leaving large bundles of potatoes
Cut in artistic shapes and sizes,
The precious seed to return to earth,
Their carved remains as fodder in the byres.
DRIFTING SEAGULLS
Drifting seagulls,
On currents of air,
Effortless, free
In the morning air.
Relaxing feeling
To the naked eye,
Soaring, suspended
Like specks in the sky.
Floating still higher,
Sending out calls,
Piercing to the robins
On the garden walls.
Emblem fair of freedom,
Earth cannot hold
Free to fly up yonder
Heedless of the cold.
Wish I were a seagull
Gliding in the air,
Like a kite of sunshine,
Peaceful, free from care.
SHELBOURNE PARK
Beams of moonlight
Illuminate the Shadowy
Slopes of Shelbourne Park,
New punters in pensive
expectation, silently awaiting
The goddess of fortune
To clasp them to her milky bosom
New punters; the old have gone
With empty pockets.
A new deluge of eager faces,
Nervously stroking
Their long earlocks.
Features alight
Moments of excitement,
The brisk rush of
Panting greyhounds
Stretching, leaping, rising
Cheated, by a dummy hare.
Pencils, chewed unknowingly
On lips, that trembled,
Features droop
All is over.
THE HUNT
A hanging tongue sporting
A slight tremor,
Sending clouds of vapour
In ridge like lines
Through the green foliage
Of a white thorn bush.
Bared teeth, craning ears
Awaiting the howl, howl
Of that pack of craving
Quadrupeds, eager for life’s fresh blood
Spurting from fox or vixen,
Making red the greenery
Of the once silent forest.
Panting, rushing, howling,
Teeth bared like razors
Rusty, dusty, eerie.
Paws, white tipped, tripping,
Leaping, jumping,
Throbbing heart, pounding,
Thumping, bending, nose touching
The earth’s cold damp cushion.
The noise of the chasing pack
Poems for All Occasions Page 8