It shrivels up when the weather’s fine and damp when
rain’s in view.
A spider passes by your fire, the old saying clear and true is
Let the spider run alive, if humans wish to live and thrive.
Sometimes one’s body shivers, you haven’t got a cold,
Yet you shrug your shoulders briskly, and feel uneasy, sad
and lone,
It means at that very moment there is someone on your grave,
Walking over your future bed of scraths and grass and clay.
If you suffer from sciatica or rheumatism sore,
Or any other ailment which hurts your joints and bones,
Just get a raw potato and bring it where ‘ere you go,
Your aches and pains will vanish in sunshine, rain or snow.
If you wish to avoid a quarrel with your love or mate or spouse,
Never wash your hands with him or dry with the self same towel,
And should you turn some garments, when dressing, inside out,
Leave them as they are, at first, good luck will then
abound.
We’re told that lightning ne’er strikes twice in any place
indeed,
Beware of the oak, it draws the stroke, under a thorn, safe
you’ll be,
But avoid the ash, it courts a flash, so the ancient Greeks
used say,
In your bed, asleep, you can have no fears, you’ll see another day.
A superstition believed by sailors, when their ship is still in port,
Should rats and rodents scamper out and desert the ship or boat,
They swear it dooms disaster, likewise if rats leave a house,
Its walls could shortly tumble, throwing rubble all around.
I’ve heard our football players some omens do declare,
The goal keeper touches the goal post before the match
they say,
In the dressing room, before the match, the oldest player on
the team,
Bounces the ball to the youngest chap, bringing luck and victory.
Omens, superstitions of every kind cling to our human brains,
Linking us with the distant past, be it willing, or unaware,
We like to dream of former days, when all these powers were best,
When our ancestors trod this worldly globe and left us do the test.
MONEY AND THE CHILD
A roguish grin
Enveloped his
Five year old cheeks.
Smiles shadowed
By a gleam of mischief. . . . . . .
A sudden brain wave. . . .
For the first time
He had just realised
THE IMPORTANCE OF MONEY.
With it ,a small boy
Could buy many things,
Cakes, lollies, toys.
Yesterday,
He welcomed nuts,
Fruit and watery orange.
To-day,
the corner Pound–Shop
held all his attention.
Mother wondered,
When he said,
“Mummy Darling,
When will GRAN ARRIVE?”
HATED EVENT
The day I hated most of all,
When I was a little child,
Was the day they caught poor Porky,
And stuck him with a knife.
You see I knew this piglet
Since no bigger than a toy,
But days before this vile event,
I sobbed and cried and cried.
The same thing happened every pig,
That was reared for private use,
As soon as Porky put on weight.
It signed his certain doom.
The kitchen table was brought outside,
And left on our backyard
A barrel and some tubs and bowls
To prepare for meat and lard.
They brought out squealing piggy,
His four legs tied with rope,
He was placed upon the table,
With a knife they cut his throat.
I put my palms around my ears,
To stifle his cries of pain,
I vowed I hated everyone,
And would never smile again.
A neighbour was the butcher,
Big and strong was he,
I heard him sighing softly,
When he saw my heartfelt tears.
The blood poured in a bucket,
Enamel white as snow,
Then mixed with salt and oatmeal,
To make puddings black as coal.
Boiling water steaming hot,
Was poured o’er Porky’s skin.
They scraped the hair and bristles,
And turned him round and then.
They took out all his insides,
Then hung him from the roof
Of a nearby stable building
And left him there to cool.
My brother got the bladder
’Twould make a fine football,
When dried with smoke, like kippers,
We could play it on the lawn.
The following day, the pig was carved
Some put into salty brine,
But each neighbour got a portion
As a token of love so kind.
But slices fresh of pork so sweet
Was cooked in the pan that night,
I can almost smell the odour,
And the cries of our delight.
So Porky served his purpose
And brought food and tears and joy,
But I often think of Porky,
Still sorry he had to die.
MISSING
Missing?
Vanishing into the space of oblivion
In earth, sea or sky?
Who knows?
Gone into the wilderness
Of the unknown.
Leaving behind;
Fathers, mothers,
Brothers sisters.
Bewildered friends.
Watching, waiting,
Hearts aching,
Eyes peering,
Ears listening.
Minds hoping,
The door will open,
The vanished will return.
Like the prodigal son,
The father will say;
“Come into my open arms,
Oh! Child, how we missed you.”
BABY ROBIN’S FIRST FLIGHT
In the freshness of dawn
A baby robin slipped
Over the soft twigs
Of its home nest.
High up at the gable end
Of an old castle ruin.
Down, down it fell,
Its silk like wings
Striving to save its tiny body
from thundering speed
into the hard earth’s womb.
Its fragile wings
mastered the breeze.
The happy offspring
of the bird family
Flew joyfully to a safe perch
on the branch
of a great oak,
Which sheltered
the tiny frame,
Its first great flight
on its very own.
BRÍD, THE TRAVELLER
An old travelling woman she was,
Born by the side of the road,
At sixteen married her cousin,
Ten children painfully bore.
They were poor, though happy together,
Until Dan passed away one fine eve,
T.B., was the disease that killed him,
’Twas hard for ten children to feed.
One morning she saw her kids hungry,
She drew a shawl around her thin frame,
Four tins of beans and some biscuits,
She stole from a super store chain.
The verdict, a week in a prison,
The judge just glanced at her face
,
If he only realised that this sentence,
Would last till the end of her days.
Claustrophobia smothered her breathing
Discrimination and prejudice cruel,
Made her cringe and shiver and cry out,
How much could her body endure?
Strip searched by a young female warder,
Left her puzzled, embarrassed and sad,
Nobody had e’er touched her body,
Only the man in his grave, known as Dan.
She suffered the taunts from some inmates,
Prostitutes, addicts, and rogues,
They jeered and they teased at the traveller,
Who was born for the white dusty roads.
The high walls and the gates made of iron,
Caused her poor head to quiver and shake,
Perspiration wet covered her body,
No more could her hurt spirit take.
One week, to the day, in that prison,
She left it, disillusioned ,and sad
Society’s justice just called it
REFORM for the evil and bad.
Though old is she now, and quite helpless,
Quite soon she hopes to join Dan,
And fly through the clouds neath the moonlight.
T o the land of the free travelling man.
YOUTH AND AGE
Wrinkled furrows,
Deep trenches
Like ploughed soil,
Hollow, brown, and greying ,
Shadowing, a curved forehead,
Neath shades of mousy tresses.
Now fading
Marrying grey-white streaks,
O’er eyes still twinkling,
Their shade, a darkened hue,
Nestling in a canopy
Of ageing wrinkles.
Age, blunderer,
Of youth’s fresh love.
Climax of life’s drama.
Obstacle to
Fleety, luscious, gaiety.
Cast aside, forgotten,
Yet, restful, dignified.
A sense of peace and calm.
The throbbing yearns of youth.
A beating pulse
Is slower growing.
Happy the mind,
Watching youth’s innocence,
Too young, they are
To hold age’s silent knowledge,
Grasped from time and experience.
Youth, too frail to know or listen,
Until age catches and says;
“Thou fool of fools,
Stand, stare and feel,
Listen, fall you must
Like withered leaves
In an Autumn mist.
Youth and age,
Both beautiful.
Wildness tamed,
Ignorance mastered,
A floating dream
Too elusive to understand
The roving drama in the life of man.
MY FATHER’S BOG MEITHEAL
His hat sloping sideways,
Determination in every step,
He moved past the furze hedges
On the pebble strewn boreen.
Morning shadows peering
On the mountain above Gortalassa.
He leads his meitheal of men,
Dignified as a king leading an army over rocky bog path,
Pebbles, sticking like darts through our Summer sandals
Causing painful bruises, which filled, a week later
With poisonous yellow matter,
Requiring a poultice bandage of hot burning porridge,
As hot as ever I imagined the fires of hell to be.
The beauty of the bog, with its white ceanabhan,
Floating like soft wool in the mountain breeze.
The soothing smell of purple heather snugly sheltered in
rock crevices, Dotting the silent bog,
Filled with dark mysterious peat ,undisturbed
in its habitat
For centuries and centuries,
Its hidden wonders, ripe and ready,
To be cut, thrown and saved,
To warm our hearths and homes
With the onslaught of Winter.
Fascinated, I watched in admiration
The men of strength and muscle.
Grasping sleans, dexterity displayed,
Butter like cutting, with gentle swing,
Artistically sliced and shaped,
Sculpture of a talented craft.
Each portion like new life
Flying from the slean’s womb.
I gasped at the accuracy of the throw,
With effortless ability each sod
Pitched ten to thirty feet
And landed exactly in line .
Yet, those sleán wielding artists
Were humble, unconcerned,
Sleeves pulled above bony elbows,
Hair falling over tan foreheads,
They made their craft look as simple
As throwing a rubber ball
Over brambles on the grey road
Down by Roughty Bridge, at eventide.
The screams of joyful children
Gathering “Brosna” dry and crisp
To heat the black kettle o’er flames
Which sent purple smoke into the skies,
Intermingling with bubbling vapour
From the boiling tea,which never tasted so good,
Wetting sandwiches of bacon
And large junks of currant bread
Covered with melting butter,
Sending a warmth through our bodies,
As we sat there cross legged
On a cushion of moss and heather
Drinking black tea, the beverage of Gods.
Stories were told, backs ached,
Sweat poured, yet my heart jumps
In ecstatic remembrance of our antics
In the bog above Gortalassa.
A week of soft winds and sunshine
Saw the footed peat sods
Transform into hard black turf,
Which became a decorative rick
Artistically shaped and clamped
In our back yard haggard.
Eventually to return as ashes
To the soil in Roughty Valley.
From its bog womb in Gortalassa
To the green fields and meadows,
From cradle to grave
Just like its slean artists,
Many of whom now sleep
In mossy graves by Kenmare Bay,
Their stalward limbs in ashes
And the gates to the old bog closed forever.
High over the furze and mountain heather
Curlews still swoop downwards
Digging for nourishment n the submerged marsh
THE GORTALASSA BOG, A MEMORY
(MEITHEAL is the Gaelic word for a group of unpaid
neighbours, who helped one another to cut turf.
SLEAN is the implement used for cutting turf.
BROSNA is the Gaelic word for bits of timber
and wood collected for to light a fire.CEANABHAN is Gaelic for bog cotton.
THE CAMAN SWINGERS OF LONG AGO
The native game of Ireland, swift, athletic, pure,
Setanta swung the caman and killed the mighty “Cu,”
Along the Roughty Valley, its roots deep in the past,
Were teams of note and spirit, always superior class.
The Village of Kilgarvan was noted far and wide,
For breeding caman swingers, no better would you fnd.
We heard the names of former men,
who captained the Village team,
Jack “ Jubert,” was their captain ‘gainst Parnells in sweet Tralee.
Jim O’Brien of Fossa House was captain in ’33,
They reached the Semi final, but Causeway ruined their dream.
Undaunted, a decade later, ’44 the year,
Young Richie Purcell led the team, one of
the finest hurling men.
Emigration took its toll, and stalwart men moved out,
Kiìgarvan strove with courage, to DEFEAT they never bowed.
The man, who never once gave in, he spurred the youth along,
Arranging games for them to play, through showers
and mist and fog.
Who could it be but my kinsman, a friend for many a year,
Denis P. of the Beara Clan, he encouraged boy and man.
Against Kenmare, they often played in Pairc Ui Bhraoin so grand,
Each player a born sportsman, like mountain hares, they sprang.
I just had reached my teenage years, ’twas way back in ’47,
When five minors from Kilgarvan’s team,
were picked to play for Kerry
They were Dan and Paudie Healy and Tim the Junior fine,
The late Jer Quill from Knockeens and the stalward
Dan Healy Shine.
In ’51, they beat Listowel and Abbeydorney too,
And later on the Crotto boys and Killarney’s mighty crew.
But the match of note in Austin Stacks, the year was ’53,
When Kilgarvan won the championship’gainst Lixnaw,
4–4 to 2 goals 3
Ah, Richie was the captain then, an experienced agile man,
So many of that team have gone, they are now in Heaven’s land,
Jer Quill, Jer Healy, Tim Junior hail, all have passed away,
That jolly soul,Con Mahony, God rest them all to day.
Ah mighty were those Village boys in glorious ’53,
In dreams I hear the sliotar’s sound and the camans from local trees.
The Gills, my cousins, Tom and Sean, Denis P. with John and Con,
Densie and his namesake, and the O’ Leary brothers strong.
And then the clan of Randles from Clontoo that vale so fair,
There was Connie Jack, and Felix Pats and Paddy Tom, I swear,
Joined by kinsman, Tomas Mickeen, a short bit up the road,
Timmy Mahony, fast and swift, like a fawn he jumped and strove.
The muinteoir, Dermot Hickey, and the Healy brothers, four,
Paudie Om, Jer, Dan and Sean were always to the fore.
Lets not forget the blondie boy, Sonny Dillon’s smiling face,
Urged along by their captain, Richie, strict, but always straight.
Those were the days of fun and joy,and that mighty Kilgarvan team,
There are many more the list is long, I’d like to mention here,
The supporters came from Roughty Vale, Kenmare,
Glenflesk, Incheese,
Hurling was their gift from God, a pastime noble, clean.
’Twas many a Sunday afternoon,
as we walked down the village street,
Each door was closed, the natives gone,
to applaud their beloved team
Poems for All Occasions Page 10