by Jim O'Leary
Were fodder
For their kill-machines
And still,
In flesh-fed smoke
The lives of all
Were being spent,
The World was coming to an end for all of them
And Hope was lost, abandoned in that wake!
Gentile or Jew,
The deaths continue
year by year,
For decades and a time
Until we saw that lives
and life should live
Despite the havok
Of the savage zealots
And a wishful World
Began to seek relief
Of Peace not War
For the children
of the rest of us,...
...what else is there for anyone?
A WAR GHOST
The Great Wars
1914 to 1918
And 1939 to 1945
Swept the world
And nothing ever
Was the same again;
Children of the Cities
Of the best of Europe
East and West were killed
And the frenzy said
That in its drive ‘twas for the best,
I felt today that it was not;
In Nice, the old City,
I passed, by accident,
A Memorial
To the dead of Wars,
The Great Wars
That left so many marked
And not just here
But everywhere;
The taxi skimmed around
In a stream of going cars
To there and everywhere
But next was my Hotel
And I knew that I could not
Go home or anywhere
Without going back
To meld with what was there;
So, rapt, I went to stand
At the vigil for their dying,
Their leaving life for man
And life for me
And I sat to the edge
Of their now Monastery,
A place to worship them
For me and anyone;
The lights were dim,
The Sun had settled low,
And a wispy dream-like fog
Rose from the grass
At their dedicated place,
That place to which
I now felt drawn
And then he came;
The ghost of a Soldier, 1914-1918, appeared
His story is told in short little shimmers of words
Until, at last, he says “I’m your Grandfather, Boy,
You have a brother called after me”;
“What’s your name”, I asked.
And “Sonny”, he replied;
As the evening noises
Swept up on the breeze,
I thought of my only brother, also Sonny,
In Nice on the 15th of August, 2009;
I heard the fireworks
Crackle and bump and boom
And I needed to be near
The monument
That Monastery, for them
Who heard it all before
The battle noise
The wounds of their encounters;
“My name is Sonny”, he said;
All I could see was mist,
The smog of fireworks,
maybe battle,..... I wondered!
“My name is Sonny,
I think I know you”;
I stopped a distance
from the monument,
the notice said be quiet
and show respect
And I acknowledged that;
His shape persisted,
the smog of battle, fireworks maybe,
seemed to waft toward the sea
but my eyes were drawn
to the spot, that spot
where his fog-bound form appeared;
I was rooted there,
My early life
Appearing
In an envelope
Of generations,
My mother’s father,
Daddy, Grandad, gone
and now come back, I thought,
and then I cried in the memories
Of the stories I’d been told;
I am but a boy,
of many dreams,
of shapes and tying shoelaces,
A boy with nothing
but a wealthy store of mother, his child,
The baby of her mother left behind;
I looked at all of this and wanted to embrace
his squandered soul for me;
The ghost came on
And with him came
A smell of cordite,
The stink of battle,
that smell to push the soldier
to let life go
and to appear just once
again in living flesh;
“My name is Sonny’,
he cried again to me
And as he faded
I was pressed to smile;
“My name is Sonny”,
he then whispered,
“I am your mothers father,
your grandfather, Son”
and I knew that he was here
for me and for my brother, Sonny,.....
“I’m glad to meet you”, he said
as he drifted from my view.
(In Memoriam Patrich Joseph, (Sonny), O’Donoghue, RIP,
My Grandfather)
AND WILL I BRING MY CAP,
GIRL........?
Will I bring my cap,
Girl?
I will
But I cannot think..
..Will it rain or not
Or will we wait
To see
If we might see the world
Before the rain comes.....
.....I’ll wait
But will you look for me
Because if rain comes
I’ll get wet
and I have no mind
to escape or to be dry....
.....I am sorry
but I’m lost,
A simple sorry fool,
Gone
To Alzheimers...
...and I am lost.
MY BOY IS DYING
My boy is dying,
Slipping
Slowly away
From me,
An old man,
His prime intact
But mine
Long gone,
My time to go
Long gone;
Why am I
Still here
Why must I
Survive
To see that loss;
My boy is dying
And will soon be gone.
( For Little William)
THE MOTHER WAS ANGRY...
Forty years or so
With Paddy
Stitched together
By good times
Adversity
And soul
Nora was
In pride
And humble
Measures
Worth acclaim
She thought
And right she was
In that belief;
Anger was a waste
She said to me, to many
From the centre of her being
In her best sincerity;
Once or twice
In hasty moments
Seldom seen
She reached an edge
That could belie
Her stated calm;
Once only, though,
She slipped
The hold of her proclaim
When Paddy,
Boldened with a whiskey,
Spoke to their guests his pride
In Nora’s admired features
And announced
That she should look so well
With the price
Of a calf’s bounty
In her mouth;
The mother was ang
ry then
As never seen before
And Paddy paid
A well-earned price,
A penalty embraced
With gracious fear
To sooth my mother’s ire,...
...The lesson gravely taught
Was not to be forgotten.
BY THE LAKE
Back to the start
He took you there
And talked of all there was
Of his beginning
Of what was between the then
And now of everything
From his home-lodge
And castle view
And what went on inside
His safe home-base and him;
He talked of birth and growing
And his walk to school age four
And trees and barefoot dancing
Through the woods of nature-love
And seeing everything
The grass, the lake, the trees,
(all gone),
The castle raped
A drive-through
Of past lives of him;
He took you to the start of him
And found for you and him
A time and space alone
And both of you were one,
Are one together
By that lake of special dreams.
IDOL
Stone centred
On an oaken pedestal
A barren cushion barefaced
Enclosed in verdigris
Ornamented the world
Inanimate and heartless
Despite the warmth outside and in
And treasured in admiring waves;
When she was asleep
The statue alive
Would come to her
In warming silence
And leave again in darkness
For his cold base;
He wanted to be warm
Not loveless stone
But could not speak it
Confined
On his barren cushion
An ornament
Feeling the world
In heart and soul
Not stone
And waiting
Biding on his plinth;
Warming to his need to speak
He rested and resolved
In his icon-mind
To confront his fate
And speak,.....
.....But she was gone.
I WAS A THIEF....JUST ONCE
I walked into the large shop
With bits and pieces everywhere
The selection was beyond me
And I couldn’t believe my luck;
I was seventy yesterday
I had no birthday party
The kids are gone
The husband too
And noone came
No cards or gifts came either,
I was seventy yesterday
And the world ignored my day;
This morning I remembered every day
And all my birthdays gone,
The cards and presents,
The calls that did not come,
And I wondered how I’d celebrate
My day of days, my birthday;
I walked to the shop
The bus fare in my purse
With little more
And I thought of dying
But the image of my passing
Did not help;
In the shop I looked
For the best of things
The price of which
I did not have
And I promised me
That I would have them all;
My bag was worn and open
To receive the things
I gave it to enfold
And another bag
From them for nothing
Helped me gain my joy;
I filled both bags,
My comforts for tomorrow,
With the victuals
For which I couldn’t pay,
Bacon, sausages,
Cheese and chicken,
Tissues for crying
For what I was doing,
Bread and soft buns
Brown and white,
With every kind of sauce
And relish for my feasts
But I worried about
How I’d get them home;
The man came as I waddled past the door
A badge in hand he held me with my bags,
I was caught with no escape, my birthday-plan was over,
I was seventy yesterday, a different story now.
I watched the old lady taken
And I followed her and him,
That catching-man for them,
To an office of control
Where she, a simple elder,
Seventy yesterday, was detained
And I wondered
If there wasn’t a better way.
ABOUT A MAN ON THE STREET
MY FRIEND, PAUL....01
Is he forty, fifty,
I don’t know;
His wispy hair
hangs
beyond his shoulders
framing
a drawn-red face
and a pallid
welcome-smile;
Paul is on the street
in his best and shaking
not from drink, he says,
but from the stroke
that took his right side
leaving that side warm,
he has no feeling there
and cold looks only
at his left
surviving side;
“I’m Paul” he said,
“They call me Michael
sometimes,
they’ve a lot of names
for me”.
MY FRIEND, PAUL....02
Adrift
In a money-swollen City,
Paul embraced his chance
To be the best he could;
The City-Rich
Engaged in shopping,
High-end shit,
To boost
A swollen ego
And Paul was left behind;
The pavement was his home
By day and mostly nights
And a ‘shilling’
Sometimes bought
His nightly bed
For a few hours
Of nightmare sleep;
Paul was a good
Compliant tenant
And he made his bed
When leaving
But Paul
Was on the street.
MY FRIEND, PAUL.....03
His wave to me
was hesitant
But familiar
and it meant
a lot to me
sometimes;
Paul had become a friend
from time to time,
someone I visited
when I thought of it
at his place
on Merchants Quay;
That day,
when he waved
and I continued smoking,
he looked away
and shuffled
to his humble space;
My space was humble too
as I stood away from him,
puffing the best I could
on a chain of cigarettes,
and the best of his humility
could produce no more for him
right then of me for now;
Later, I cringed
with guilt at my rejection
of my friend;
I strolled for a while,
his obvious hurt
was gnawing at my soul.
Go back to him,
I told myself,
have you any decency left
But I could’nt go back for now.....
.....maybe another time!
MY FRIEND, PAUL....04
“How are you” I asked
and he replied
“I’m doing
the best I can”
and when I asked him
“Are you taking care
of yourself”, he said
“I’m doing the best I can”,
his words were sparse;
Christmas
was approaching
And its spirit
was embracing me
so I said,
as I gave him
a few coins,
“I’ll see you soon”
and he replied
“That will be nice”
as I walked away
with hands in warm pockets.
MY FRIEND, PAUL....05
As cold and damp
Seeped in his shoes
And misting rain
Wet his lank hair,
Paul’s head sank
To his shoulders;
He shook,
Was it with cold
Or wet
Or was it drink;
“I take a drink” he said,
“sometimes
and the shaking stops
for a while
but always
it comes back,
could you stop the shaking
please for me?”.
“Drink can give you shakes”
I said with sympathy
“but only if you take too much”;
“I don’t” he said
“because I cannot buy it
but if I could I would”.
I left for a while
and strolled and shopped
and smoked, that was
one of my addictions;
I thought a lot
about what Paul had said
and knew that he had said
the truth to me;
I also knew
That there was little
Between him and me,
I had my own afflictions,
Fears to breast,
And I decided to go back;
“You’re back” he said
with a chastise-smile,
“ and you were shopping,
smoking maybe,
I don’t smoke, you know”
And humbly
I said “Yes, I know”.
“I was something once”
he said “and I was worth a lot
to many people
but, now, I’m out of life
For far too long,
could you help
to get me back?”
MY FRIEND, PAUL....06
“I had a friend
we were close
he was on the street
He had a life
Like yours once
But now he’s gone”.
“Yours is a gifted life,
the silver spoon,
and his was too
but only for a while;
His spoon corroded
As yours will not
And he slid
Down a helpless path
Where you will not
In your protected frame;
He had potential too
To be the best of best