Pete's lighter poems

Wasting energy

2010-05-29T18:00:00.003+01:00

I don't get many commissions, apart from family occasions, so when my supervisor in work asked me to do him "a funny poem on energy conservation in the home," I though I'd give it a lash. No idea what he wants it for, though. Should really have asked him.

You’d come down in fine fettle
And fill up the kettle
To make one cup of tea for yourself.
With a nonchalant skill,
You’d throw bread on the grill,
With the toaster unused on the shelf.
The fridge door, then, sloppily,
Would not be shut properly
And the motor would quicken its pace,
Then you’d hit the dishwasher
And hear the suds slosh a-
-Round all of the wide open space.

You’d think it amazing
You’d no double-glazing
As the heat escaped out through the cracks.
Your electrical heater
Put pounds on the meter,
Not to mention the twelve per cent tax.
A good lagging jacket
Did not cost a packet
But your boiler stood naked and numb,
And you’d stand in the shower
For nearly an hour
And dream of the good times to come.

On standby, the telly
Still gave the grid welly
At night while you slept in your bed.
And the CFL lighting,
You did not find exciting
And you’d stick with the old bulbs, you said.
Your letter-box rattled
And fruitlessly battled
With the wind that blew up our drive way.
And I found it quite stunning
You’d leave the tap running
When brushing your teeth night and day.

You knew that your attic
Was quite problematic
With the heat seeping out through the roof.
But you simply said ‘Shag it,
Its too hard to lag it,’
And waited till you had more proof.
Oh mother, you’re old now
And feeling the cold now
And complain you’re alone and bereft.
But you know that its true, mam,
Its all down to you, mam,
That the world has no energy left.

On holidays in Galway 1999

2010-04-08T16:46:00.003+01:00

(I was going through my folders of family history files today when I came across this, presumably written during our holiday in Spiddal in 1999!)

With nowhere special left to go,
We drove around to Carraroe.
We didn’t see the waterfalls,
Just rocks and rain and lakes and walls.

Gortumna Island our next stop
To try and find an ice-cream shop.
Instead of ice-cream cones and flakes,
We’d walls and rocks and rain and lakes.

Then we drove on to Rosmuck,
Just, I said, to have a look,
But all we found there once again
Were lakes and walls and rocks and rain.

Exasperated at the wheel,
I headed back to Rossaveal
But all we saw, down round the docks
Were rain and lakes and walls and rocks.

A close shave

2010-01-19T19:38:00.002Z

I hit her quite squarely on the N34,
She came down awful hard on my bonnet.
I slammed on the brakes most determinedly for
I could not see a thing with her on it.

She lay in a puddle, her fur coat around her,
Like a bruised and a battered ham sandwich.
I was sorry to learn that the water had drowned her
But at least my car suffered no damage.

Edgar Allan Poe says Thank You

2009-12-18T14:35:00.002Z

My unsuccessful entry in Martin Parker's light verse competition for Issue 8 of Lighten up Online. The theme was to have a famous writer in history respond to receiving a modern gadget as a present - maximum 16 lines. http://www.lightenup-online.co.uk/Issue_8/Poems/Competition_8.htm - for the winning entries.

I thank you for this mobile phone, sir,
With its dreary ringing tone, sir,
Though ‘tis true, I have to own, sir,
That I know not what it’s for.

Despite its self-proclaimed mobility,
Sadly, it lacks real agility,
Sitting silent in tranquility
In the shadows ‘pon the floor.

Can one use it in a duel?
Or is’t a type of fossil fuel?
Or maybe some strange-lustred jewel
Hewn from Lethe’s darkened shore?

Was it cast o’erboard by seamen
For it housed some deathly demon
That, when mortal souls were dreamin’,
Crept forth with a ghastly claw?

Diana Ross

2009-12-10T08:57:00.002Z

Diana Ross was at a loss
To what she should do next.
She hadn’t thought her day in court
Would leave her so perplexed.
In her denial, she said the trial
Was one almighty fudge.
She said “I feel I must appeal
To the Supreme Court judge.”

RSI

2009-12-10T08:56:00.000Z

The mother of Thackeray Ponsonby-Twyst
Suffered repetitive strain to the wrist
She got it, she claimed, to Judge Rory O’Carroll,

Through writing his name out on his school apparel

On arriving at Philadelphia airport

2009-12-05T21:55:00.001Z

Down the steps of the plane we descended
But tarmac was not what we found.
Cream cheese! Oh, delicious and splendid,
Was spread two feet thick on the ground.

Flight US792

2009-12-05T21:54:00.002Z

The flight was very long and very boring,
The screaming child was getting on my goat.
The large, obese man next to me was snoring.
I had a sudden urge to slit his throat.

I tried to go to sleep through self-hypnosis
After spending forty minutes counting sheep.
But all I got was slight deep-vein thrombosis
When just my feet and legs were put to sleep.

Voice from the grave

2009-12-05T21:52:00.001Z

Here I lie beneath this stone,
Quite unattended and alone.
No-one’s ever shed a tear
Since they first interred me here.
The wood surround that marks this plot
Long, long ago began to rot
And now lies broken, badly splintered.

Yes, two hundred years I’ve wintered
In this corner ‘neath the yew
That blocks the morning sunlight’s view.
The clay is cold, the weeds like thick,
The autumn comes around too quick.
How many long-forgotten bones
Rot silently beneath these stones?

I do not have for company
The wife and children dear to me
For, victim of tradition’s slave,
They occupy another grave,
Where still they moan and bitch and bawl,
Because I murdered one and all.

I turned a blind eye

2009-10-26T23:22:00.003Z

I turned a blind eye to her smoking,
I turned a blind eye to her men.
I turned a blind eye
When she drank the bar dry
Again and again and again.

I turned a blind eye to her spending
Though the bills came to more than I earned,
And when she slipped in the rain
Right in front of that train,
I kept my blind eye roundly turned.

(Not submitted to BAFFLE - see post below!)

The Ballad of Isaiah Turner

2009-10-26T13:49:00.004Z

Pretty thrilled about this one. I actually won the Baffle Bard festival organised by those wonderfully hospitable people down in Loughrea. A brilliant competition, highly recommended to all! The theme for this year's competition was Turn a Blind Eye

Isaiah Turner’s dead and buried,
Across the Styx his soul’s been ferried,
With his glass eye in its socket,
Hidd’n by neither patch nor pad.
He’d take it out, dear friends and mourners,
And claim that he could see round corners,
And sometimes put it in his pocket
Just to see what change he had.

When he was but a tiny sparrow-
-Fart, a kid with bow and arrow
Struck him square as he was playing
In his garden with his brother.
When he came home, glass eye staring,
Local kids, with wit and daring,
Nicknamed him Isaiah, saying
“One Isaiah’s than the other.”

But in time, he found that gettin’ a-
-Long with but a single retina
Wasn’t half as bad as being
Short an arm or leg or head.
And though his zero: twenty vision
Occasionally invoked derision,
Still, it didn’t stop him seeing
The funny side of what they said.

He eyed a neighbour of his uncle
And sang to her like Art Garfunkel,
Crooning in a soft voice that he
Only had one eye for her.
And then, when he’d been merely blinking,
She had thought that he’d been winking,
Which led to himself and Hattie
Having an affaire de coeur.

On honeymoon, above in Norway,
Hattie got stuck in a doorway
And only after hours of shoving,
Did he force his wife outside.
Breathlessly, he gave a snigger,
Eying her quite ample figure,
Adding, with a lot of loving,
“It doesn’t pay to be too wide.” (two-eyed)

Back home, alas, he had to pull back
From his job as rugby fullback
When the opposition spotted
He was merely single-eyed.
For every time he kept his eyeball
On each tantalising high ball,
The other team, with great guile, plotted
To take him out on his blind side.

Forgoing sport, Isaiah Turner
Got a handy little earner
As nightwatchman on a really
Come-and-get-me building site.
In his hut, he sat there sleeping
Till the daylight hours came creeping,
One eye shut and one eye steely,
Gazing out into the night.

People used to slip him money,
Which he thought was really funny,
As they could have simply purloined
Anything they liked for free.
“Turner Blind Eye” someone called him,
Which, he knew well, should have galled him,
But he liked his rump steak surloined
And he favoured Earl Grey tea.

At length, although he was indicted,
His plea of being semi-sighted,
So impressed the judge and jury
They bade him go with God’s good grace.
His former boss, beset by creditors,
Telephoned the tabloid editors,
Berating with almighty fury
The “cock-eyed verdict” in this case.

He turned a blind eye when his Hattie
Met a man with Maserati,
Not caring to uphold her honour
As most husbands tend to do.
And as she crossed the street one morning,
Did he yell a frantic warning
As the truck bore down upon her?
No, he turned a blind eye too.

But Isaiah grew despondent,
Told the Reuters correspondent
That he prayed to heaven nightly
To release him from this strife.
He felt the stigma, felt disfigured,
Hurt when silly schoolboys sniggered
At his glass eye, so unsightly.
Thus in pain, he took his life.

And if, in Paradise, St. Peter
Has to go and check the meter,
Let’s hope he does not choose Isaiah
To watch o’er those Pearly Gates.
For “Turner Blind Eye’s” bound to let in
Every foul or hare-brained cretin
Who was destined for the fire
But can pay the going rates.

Ivy

2009-09-13T16:25:00.002+01:00

It was an old deserted mansion
That had undergone expansion,
Since it first had been constructed years ago.
On the now-abandoned stable,
Ivy hung down from the gable,

But why she killed herself, we’ll never know.

The Mountains of Thrude

2009-09-13T16:23:00.001+01:00

It’s considered quite rude
In the Mountains of Thrude
To dip your chest into the soup.
Some bores raise guffaws,
But the strict social laws
Say it’s not the done thing in a group.

Soup-dipping’s a no-no
For chests. Men cry “Oh no!
Please get your chest out of the broth!
For up here in Thrude,
It’s considered quite rude
And has often engendered much wrath.”

Marie Antoinette

2009-07-30T17:32:00.002+01:00

“Let them eat cake,”
Was a dreadful mistake,
When the peasants were pleading for bread.
But much worse, by far,
Was the fashion faux pas
On the day that they cut off her head.

‘Pon the feared guillotine,
The sartorial queen
Didn’t take her black dress to her grave.
Instead, she wore white,
An incongruous sight
That the peasantry never forgave.

My country and western song

2009-07-30T15:49:00.002+01:00

You didn’t rinse your wine glass; you just left it by the sink,
The bright magenta lipstick stains the rim.
You gulped the wine down quickly when I offered you a drink
And then rushed out the door to be with him.

Somewhere I imagine you are sipping your champagne,
His large hand resting lightly on your knee.
Your laughter flows like bubbles and dispels the summer rain,
The way it did when you would drink with me.

The vineyard has been ravaged by the worm of discontent,
The grapes lie small and withered on the vine.
I stand among the blackened leaves and wonder where it went
And why the sun decided not to shine.

So now I sit here sadly with the semblance of a frown,
Self-pity and great sorrow unconfined.
The wine has turned to vinegar but still I gulp it down
And hope that it will drive you from my mind.

But still I see the wine glass and its lipstick bright and red,
Laughing at me from the kitchen sink.
And though my mind is hazy, I can’t drive it from my head,
And so I reach out for another drink.

The theatre loving motor car

2009-07-30T15:45:00.001+01:00

The theatre loving motor car buys tickets for the shows,
And can be found at many curtain calls.
The tourists are intrigued and turn round in the front rows
When he goes up to the balcony and stalls.

On Flying

2009-07-30T15:42:00.002+01:00

Despite the fact that aeroplane’s keep crashing,
Despite that they keep falling out the sky,
Despite the way the warning lights keep flashing,
Flying’s still the safest way to fly.

The queues for Ryanair

2009-07-30T15:40:00.002+01:00

Oh, why is it important to be first upon the plane,
Especially for a fifty minute flight?
Why do people feel the need to go through all that pain?
They really make a very sorry sight.

The moment that the gate’s announced, they start to form a queue,
Not wanting to relax and wait a bit.
They stand there for an hour or more before the plane is due,
Determined that they choose their place to sit.

Perhaps they feel its vital that they get a lovely view
Of all the shagging clouds that line the route?
Or maybe it is simply that they like to form a queue,
Though frankly I would not call it a hoot.

What the hell’s the point in booking short haul flights priority
When everyone is guaranteed a seat?
But more and more, I fell that I am in a small minority,
Although I find the logic incomplete.

Another Millennium poem

2009-07-19T15:19:00.001+01:00

We stood in the garden as midnight grew nearer,
Some had champagne while me Gran had Madeira.
Not many witness a change of millennia
And so, round the world, from Caracas to Kenya,
In every village and every town,
We waited to count those last ten seconds down.

Then, all of a sudden, Aunt Liz let a scream
(Which fitted in well with the carnival theme)
And started to kick her left foot in the air,
Which caused all our nephews and nieces to stare.
“Is that how you danced,” asked young Will with a smile,
“When Handel and Bach were the top of the pile?”

But ‘twas not a dance that Aunt Liz was performing,
But trying to escape from some black insects swarming
All over her shoes and ascending her tights,
Seemingly fearless of scaling great heights.
“I wouldn’t be in their shoes,” said bold cousin Bert,
On viewing them starting to nose up her skirt.

Where they had appeared from was anyone’s guess
But soon they had doubled Aunt Liz’s distress,
And everyone squeezed in our small plastic torch,
While Dad bathed the garden in light from his torch.
Then Grandad began to scratch at his bald head
“Oh Lord, we are all being eaten!” he said.

Black insects, black insects, we slapped at our trousers
While neighbours peered fearfully out from their houses,
Till Dad got a hosepipe and, in a wild panic,
Shot out more water than sunk the Titanic,
And yes, it worked well for the insects all drowned,
A thousand black corpses strewn cross the green ground.

Alas! We’d forgotten to count down the clock,
But we were all freezing and somewhat in shock,
It seemed as if we’d been caught out in the rain
As we stood around sipping our watery champagne.
Then Mam kicked one slowly and motioned to Doug
“Is this what they call the Millennium bug?”

To the postal assistant in Blanchardstown Post Office

2009-07-10T16:17:00.003+01:00

Oh how I wish that I possessed
Your sense of laissez-faire,
That attitude of ‘sod the rest,’
That look of ‘do I care?’

The queue was half a mile long,
The mood was not that great,
A silent, disenchanted throng,
Like cattle at a gate.

Six hatches were not manned at all,
Just three were trying to cope.
The queue was moving at a crawl,
The damned, devoid of hope.

And then we saw ‘Position Closed’
Go up before your face.
‘Toilet break,’ we all supposed.
‘Go swiftly, with God’s grace.’

But no, you reached down to your bag
With most indecent speed,
And, taking out a gossip mag,
You then began to read.

You crunched an apple as you flicked
Right through that magazine
And, using your small finger, picked
Your nose till it was clean.

Meanwhile, evil mutt’rings grew
On our side of the fence
And violent thoughts were hurled at you
With blazing eyes intense.

But no, you carried on as if
You didn’t have a care,
Oblivious to the acrid whiff
Of anarchy in the air.

Every night, my prayers go flying,
Asking, if I may,
That I can come across you, dying,
After some affray.

And I’d produce a magazine
While you lie comatose,
And sit and read it, as I clean
The inside of my nose.
.

A lucky escape

2009-07-10T15:15:00.002+01:00

The doctor’s letter fell upon the table.
I couldn’t comprehend the words I read.
Although my situation was quite stable,
I’d only one month left to live, it said.

Oh bother, I swore loudly with some feeling,
I suppose its time I took myself to bed.
And, shrugging, I stared upwards at the ceiling
That hid my deathbed lying overhead.

But then I read again that dreadful letter
And let a whoop that filled my wife with dread.
Suddenly I started feeling better,
As I saw the note was for my son instead.

They're dissecting my poo on the telly

2009-05-05T15:29:00.002+01:00

Post temporarily withdrawn - entered for competition

New car

2009-05-05T15:11:00.002+01:00

There’s a new make of car on the market,
Like a Fiesta but shorter and sweeter.
It’s easy to drive and to park it
And it does fifteen miles to the litre.

On Top Gear they praised it most highly
And Jeremy Clarkson was drooling
‘Bout handling and ‘oomph,’ he said drily
And the time on the road ‘tween refuelling.

But between twelve and four, there’s no power,
According to Ford’s senior tester.
So you must keep an eye on the hour
When driving the new Ford Siesta.

Joan of Arc

2009-05-05T15:09:00.000+01:00

As the flames lit the dark
All around Joan of Arc,
She saw a large man start to mutter.
She strained to make out
What he whispered about –
Was he catholic priest or a nutter?

“Are you talking ‘bout me?”
Came her gut-wrenching plea,
For he looked like a man of great learning.
“Whatever you’re saying,
Say it loud, please, I’m praying,
But hurry up, for my ears are burning.”

My Porterstown queen

2009-05-05T15:01:00.003+01:00

My Porterstown queen
Had a face so serene
She could launch a flotilla of ships.
She had curves where she should
(Which were awfully good)
And a pair of fine child-bearing hips.
I looked into her eyes
Open wide with surprise
As she lay on the silk-sheeted bed.
But I knew, her and me,
It was never to be,
For sadly, Elvira was dead.

There’s a very dapper wizard

2009-05-05T14:46:00.001+01:00

There’s a very dapper wizard
Who lives down in Chapelizod
And is known throughout the valley and beyond.
His hair, in rain or blizzard,
Is immaculately scissored,
Though he leaves his nasal grooming to his wand.

Curse

2009-04-14T13:32:00.001+01:00

May your charms and your guile
Serve you well for a while
But then fail like the blossoms of May.
May your hamstring grow taut
May your nose grow a wart,
May your teeth slowly start to decay.

May mistakes stay unlearnt,
May your dinner taste burnt
May your tyres attract nails on the street.
May you often, by chance,
Tuck your skirt in your pants,
May your flatulence not be discreet.

May your midriff expand,
May your legs stay untanned,
May your facial hair grow strong and thick.
May your perfume cause rashes,
May you lose your eyelashes,
May one glass of red wine make you sick.

Oh there’s nothing to fear –
I’m not bitter, my dear.
Sure we parted upon best of terms.
I just wish you good luck
When you find yourself stuck
With a terrible dose of the worms.

The poor little squid

2009-04-06T14:31:00.002+01:00

The poor little squid woke up suddenly
While all was still dark in the pool.
“I do not feel well,” he said woodenly.
“I don’t think I’ll make it to school.”

His dad, who was always suspicious,
Regarded his offspring in bed.
He always suspected sick fishes
Were experts at swinging the lead.

“You don’t look too bad,” he said dolefully.
“Perhaps you just had a bad dream?”
His son stared back up at him woefully,
His look of distress quite extreme.

“Just look at his skin,” said his mother.
“Those spots have come up overnight.
I think that we should get another
Opinion on our young son’s plight.”

“The doctor’s a waste of good money,”
Said his father with growing distaste.
“Just smear him with fish oil and honey –
Your sense of alarm is misplaced.

“Six pound to come out for a visit?
How does he expect us to pay?
It’s not worth the money now, is it?
Those measles will soon fade away.”

“Shut up!” she replied, in a lather.
“Just look at the poor little kid!
By God, you’re a miserly father
Begrudging a measly six squid.”

Given his cards

2009-04-06T14:19:00.001+01:00

He worked in an old paper factory,
Like his father, a grizzled old Pole, did.
But things turned out unsatisfactory
When the old paper factory folded.

Modern Man

2009-03-23T22:23:00.002Z

For thine is the kingdom,
The power and the glory.

Whatever.

A Flash of Orange

2009-03-10T17:50:00.003Z

It's finally here!

100 pages of side-splitting (author's own word) verse (and a few seriouser poems too) all collected under the title "A Flash of Orange." The title poem was written to disprove the theory that nothing rhymes with 'orange.'

From lamenting the demise of greengage jam to solving the age-old conundrum of the chicken and the egg, from the tale of a mendacious state pathologist to the ballad of Roy Keane and Alex Ferguson, Peter Goulding explores the idiosyncrasies of life through the medium of humorous verse. Formerly poet in residence on The Creedon Show, his work has also been read – and even sung – on the BBC and has won awards in Ireland and abroad. Now for the first time, he has assembled some of his finest comic poems in one volume…

“Peter Goulding has a remarkable ‘ear’. There is music in his rhyming and melody in his words. He seems to pick words for their musicality and he can spot the humour in a word from a hundred paces.” – John Creedon

Over 65 poems. A miserly €10. Not a swear word in sight, though several of the poems might stray into the territory of 'blacck humour.' Post and packing free to anywhere in the known world (P and p extra to the unknown world) All personally signed too...

Kimberu-sang

2009-03-03T08:43:00.002Z

Kimberu-sang
You perch on the rafter
Above the loud laughter
Of young girls who visit
The Kowhai Ke-dang.

Tightly-clenched eyes
That channel each colour,
The bright and the duller,
That meet in the iris
With joyous surprise.

The shadows prevail.
A flutter, unbidden,
Half-heard and half-hidden,
Dies in the dark corners
Behind a thick veil.

The foolish ones sprang,
But you sat there biding
Your time in half-hiding.
Restrain my impulsion,
Oh, Kimberu-sang.

Sycamore

2009-02-26T18:37:00.001Z

The tree became sick
When the wind became raw.
And when snow lay thick,
It was sicker more.

Budapest Limerick Competition

2009-02-18T06:41:00.002Z

There was a young woman from Budapest,
A naturist, proud when folk viewed her chest.
But on the shores of Lough Swilly,
She declared ’twas too chilly,
(As those who stroll there in the nude attest)
.
Yet another unsuccessful Drivetime competition entry - this time to compose a Limerick based on the first line above but with an Irish theme

Gamla Stan

2009-02-09T20:46:00.002Z

I’ve travelled all around the globe,
New Delhi to New York.
A great long-stepping claustrophobe,
I’ve walked the rover’s walk.

But no more do I choose to roam
From Cyprus to Saigon
For I have gone and made my home
In dear old Gamla Stan.

Gamla Stan, where the haughty seagull perches.
Gamla Stan, that the Baltic breaks upon.
Gamla Stan, you have snared me,
Gamla Stan, you have spared me,
Now I’ll be yours forever, Gamla Stan.

For there I met a raven lass
With skin as fair as ice.
Her eyes laughed o’er her bubbling glass,
I gladly paid the price.

The blackened clouds soon parted
And the sun in wonder shone
When my engine was re-started
In the heart of Gamla Stan.

Gamla Stan, where the winter’s never bitter,
Gamla Stan, you will take me when I’m gone.
Gamla Stan, your meandering
And cobbled lanes still pandering
To the romance within me, Gamla Stan.

They wanted ten kronor for a wee-wee

2009-02-09T20:30:00.002Z

They wanted ten kronor for a wee-wee,
A price that I declared a sin.
And so, I sipped my rum and kiwi
And tenaciously I held my wee-wee in.

There’s no way I’d give them the satisfaction
Of getting my ten kronor for a pee.
Their urinals (sad) did not see any action,
At least, not from a stingy sod like me.
.
10Kr. for a pee in Stockholm's T-Centrale station!

The classic Swedish beauty

2009-02-09T19:54:00.001Z

There’s a classic Swedish beauty,
Eyes of blue and hear of blonde.
This fair damsel is a cutie
Of which many men are fond.
But in Stockholm I was taken
By another of the race
And in truth I was quite shaken
When I gazed upon her face.

Oh those black-haired girls of Sweden
Made me think that we’ve returned
To the flow’ring shrubs of Eden,
And the apple has been spurned.
They’re as black as any raven
With complexions clear and fair
And the country is a haven
For those girls with jet black hair

The Board

2009-02-01T15:01:00.001Z

We sit ‘round the table, well-dressed and clean-shaven,
Discussing the business, our aims loud and craven.
The MD presents an array of large figures
And tries to suppress what the warning bell triggers.
We sit around doodling and shuffling papers,
While dreaming of sexual liaisons and capers,
Wasting long hours we can scarcely afford.
Oh, we’re the head honchos, lads,
We are the Bored.

Considering lilies

2009-01-29T20:15:00.001Z

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; (Matthew 6: 28)
.
There they hang upon the line,
Ten pairs of homespun knickers.
Some plain, some with a flowered design
And lo! How each pair flickers.
Yes, Lily has her washing out
And it gives me the willies
That Jesus preached that souls devout
Should aye consider Lily’s.
.

As the train pulled out the station

2009-01-27T20:02:00.001Z

As the train pulled out the station
She leaned out to wave goodbye.
‘Twas a sorry situation
And a tear came to my eye.
Oh, she cut a forlorn figure
On that last train to the coast
But I couldn’t help but snigger
When her head smacked off a post.

I miss that old tree

2009-01-14T22:46:00.001Z

I miss that old tree at the end of the street,
Which afforded us shade in the dull summer heat,
That flung its leaves gaily when autumn did blow
And shivered when branches were laden with snow.

I miss that old tree, where we once carved our names
And hid from each other in long, childhood games.
And sat in the branches and secretly smoked,
The wisps of tobacco so cleverly cloaked.

I miss that old tree, where I’d meet my first love
As sparrows and chaffinches twittered above,
Where night time goodbyes lasted almost till dawn
And sexual awakening was clumsily born.

‘Twas a terrible storm on the night it came down,
The lightning forked wildly o’er this part of town.
The crash was heard widely, we all rushed outside
To witness the moment that tree of ours died.

Beneath its great trunk, my poor, flattened wife lay,
Crushed at the wheel of her Honda Coupé.
Oh yes, ‘twas a terrible moment for me
And still, two years later, I miss that old tree.

Mary Elizabeth (spelt with a zed)

2009-01-14T22:39:00.002Z

Mary Elizabeth (spelt with a zed)
Was saying her prayers at the foot of the bed,
When under the mattress there came a loud roar
And before she could jump up and run to the door,
She was pulled by the bogeyman under the bed
Poor Mary Elizabeth (spelt with a zed)

A very un-pc P.C.

2009-01-14T22:35:00.002Z

“Feck and arse!” my PC roared,
Each time I moved the mouse,
Language which my wife abhorred
And banned within the house.

“Sssssshhhhhh!” I whispered frantically
In case my spouse should hear.
“What was that?” she called to me.
I answered, “Nothing, dear.”

“Shite and onions!” cried the screen.
“Oh please shut up!” I pleaded.
“Please do not make such a scene –
Such language isn’t needed.”

“Feckin’ arse!” it called once more.
This time I heard her coming.
She stuck her head around the door,
Me, innocently humming.

“Balls of shite!” it called again
I sat back now, quite broken.
No longer could I truly feign
The words had not been spoken.

“Why is that PC swearing so?”
She asked, quite clearly puzzled.
“That foul-mouthed thing will have to go
Or else, please get it muzzled.”

Her tone was terse, but bravely I
Replied with words much terser.
“Can’t you see?” came the reply.
“It’s just the feckin’ cursor.”

In Venice

2009-01-14T22:23:00.001Z

In Venice, this singer, in years long gone by
Sang wonderful airs in a voice clear and high.
And in between songs, she’d make wry observations
For which she received many standing ovations.
So remember this girl and her famed heritage
Whenever you’re crossing the Wry Alto Bridge.

Impaled upon the railings

2009-01-14T22:19:00.001Z

Impaled upon the railings
Like a maggot on a hook,
His raucous high-pitched wailings
Could be heard in Donnybrook.
But although his grave plight made him
Work himself into a tizzy,
Sadly no-one came to aid him
For we all were far too busy.

The joys of Saskatchewan

2009-01-14T22:13:00.001Z

Young Juan left his dear Costa Brava
And travelled from Jeddah to Java
In search of a land to inspire him,
To hold him, to rouse him, to fire him.
He travelled to Montevideo
And Munich and Moscow and Mayo
But only the wilds of Saskatchewan
Were impressive enough to enrapture Juan.

The falcon

2008-11-30T23:49:00.002Z

In a chapel, on a pew,
Carved of finest English yew,
Sat a falcon in reflection,
So engrossed in circumspection,
So engrossed in fervent prayer,
He never knew that I was there.
I still remember, to this day,
Wond’ring at that bird of pray.

Really knowing me

2008-11-26T00:16:00.002Z

Sweating like two seasoned lobsters, we
Lie back in the watery maelstrom.
Bubbling and belching, the convulsions
Splash merrily on noses and eyes,
Great geysers of fomenting turmoil
That liquify brooding joints and bathe
Protesting muscles in amber steam.

And still, she doth know me completely.

Jacuzzi suffused, the pampering
Minefield explodes in a thousand jets,
As the subterranean air streams
Rise and break through the surface, gurgling
In a thousand archaic voices,
A vortex of erupting steam bombs
That seem to seethe and hiss volubly.

And still, she can tell me I’ve farted.

My first poetry recitation

2008-11-02T03:23:00.004Z

If I were a McCain or an Obama,
Then public speaking would not hold such terror.
But sadly I possess a chronic stammer,
A total lack of eloquence in grammar,
That renders public speaking quite an error.

Oh how I envy all those glib presenters
Who strut their stuff before the TV cameras,
Wearing shirts of lilacs or magentas,
Waxing loud in television centres –
A world away from this poor tongue-tied stammerer.

And so, when called upon for public speaking,
Politely I declined all invitations.
The merest thought would set my knee-joints creaking,
In my head, alarm bells would start shrieking
And my body would succumb to palpitations.

But then I got this bug for verbal rhyming,
Which very oft requires a live performance.
Its not an art that can be done by miming
And stuttering plays havoc with the timing,
According to reliable informants.

But, I saw I’d have to grasp the nettle
And wax forth like a multitude of linnets.
But even if I turned up in fine fettle,
Saying words like ‘Popacatepetl’
Might take the better part of fifteen minutes.

But still, with fear and hope in equal measure,
I took the mike and blessed the holy trinity.
“Don’t rush it son, just take it at your leisure.”
“Every word you speak will give such pleasure.”
“Farewell, oratorial virginity.”

The first line – well, it came out rather fluent,
With just the merest soupçon of a stutter.
But then for every feckin’ line pursuant,
My eloquence, I’m sad to say, played truant,
Not one simple sentence could I utter.

Oh God, it carried on, ad infinitum,
My words of wisdom simply kept on sticking.
Small gems, but sadly I could not recite ‘em,
Never mind attempt to expedite ‘em,
And the clock up on the wall just kept on ticking.

At first the crowd just sat there most politely
As I grimaced and I struggled and I swallowed.
At length, a few rose to their feet contritely
And tiptoed to the exit very lightly,
At which, the rest, in one mad scramble, followed.

Of course, as soon as I had been forsaken,
And left alone to my finish my oration,
Why then my tongue and tonsils did awaken,
As with panache I sure brought home the bacon
With a masterclass of great communication.

So now, when I attend these poem readings,
I participate with tickets for the raffle,
But despite Sir Seamus Heaney’s earnest pleadings,
I will take no active part in the proceedings,
Unless of course, they’ve tempted me at Baffle.

I wrote this originally to perform at the BAFFLE Festival - theme "The First Time" - in Loughrea on the October Bank Holiday weekend. Then changed my mind and used "Stuck for words" instead.

Villanelle villanelle

2008-10-31T13:22:00.003Z

Post temporarily withdrawn - entered for competition

Stuck for Words [a true story]

2008-10-26T08:52:00.004Z

Inside my stomach, wolf cubs growled persistently,
A chipmunk gnawed away deep in my bowels,
The consonants had favoured me consistently,
While all he’d had were double-u’s and vowels.

At Scrabble, I had always been the victim,
However many I got, Dad got more.
But now I knew I’d well and truly licked ‘im,
And gleefully I totted up the score.

“Two-four-eight for you,” I almost gloated,
“Two-eight-six for me, I think you’ll find
My lead is quite substantial and, yea verily,
One tile left, you're thirty eight behind.”

He gazed upon the board for half a minute,
And bit his fingernail in contemplation.
“That Zed’s a hoor," I warbled like a linnet,
“Methinks you’re in a hopeless situation.”

He scanned the board again, his grey head shaking
While all the time my heart was thumping madly,
I smiled at all the noises he was making –
I’d give him all the time he wanted gladly.

The end was near, he faced the final curtain,
Those huge defeats now firmly in the past.
He’d never get that Zed out, that was certain,
The mantle would be handed o’er at last.

His tile lay still. And then I watched him take it,
And at the end of “QUART” he placed his Zed.
“Ten and fourteen’s twenty four, I make it,
And doubled up is forty eight,” he said.

The vict’ry in my grasp just turned to ashes,
Poor Tantalus in Hell ne’er knew such pain.
I packed away the game with tear-stained lashes
And it never saw the light of day again.

Recited at the very wonderful BAFFLE festival in Loughrea October 2008 but it didn't get out of the heats.

Even more Oedilf limericks

2008-10-01T05:16:00.003+01:00

Oh, pity the poor daddylonglegs,
An insect with not-very-strong legs.
They'd better support 'er
If they were much shorter —
Perhaps she was given the wrong legs?

A lecherous North Wales Druid
Ran amok in the county of Clwyd.
The birth-rate increased
And, in fact, only ceased
When he used up his bodily fluid.

Said Fergus to Ike, "This hand's more like
A hand. I am sure you recall, Ike,
That the old one was twisted.
It's now been de-listed
'Cause the doctors agreed it was clawlike."

The Daíl (Ireland’s parliament) houses
A host of buffoons in grey trousers.
With hope’s candle flickering,
They spend their time bickering
And can’t see what ire it arouses.

A property agent was selling
A “compact” and “bijou” cliff dwelling.
Constructed of granite,
One tenant (a gannet),
The reasons to buy were compelling.

What magic conspires to draw me
To this Danish Pastry before me?
Its currants and icing
Appear so enticing –
“Oh, eat me!” I hear it implore me.

The Danube, that deep, brooding river,
Springs forth where the Alpine goats shiver.
To the Black Sea it wanders,
And languidly ponders
The secret it has to deliver.

The Davy Lamp, housed behind glass,
Burned blue in the presence of gas.
This welcome recruit
Gave canaries the boot
And saved many a coalminer’s ass.

My mother’s poor face became ashen
When told darning had gone out of fashion.
“When a sock’s had its day,
You just throw it away?”
She demanded, her voice full of passion.

A blood clot is prayed for (obtusely)
When someone is bleeding profusely.
But when bleeding has stopped,
The prayer should be dropped,
For blood, when inside, should flow loosely.

Sexy ailments

2008-10-01T05:05:00.002+01:00

Some ailments are deemed to be sexy,
Like TB and grave apoplexy.
Though jaundice and croup and dyslexia,
In my humble opinion, are sexier.

Ryanair self service

2008-10-01T03:50:00.002+01:00

The trolley moved slowly down the aisle,
Though we couldn’t really smell much cooking.
There were sandwiches, bars and camomile,
And some sweets, they said, for sucking.
The girls served the passengers with a smile,
Despite all the finger-crooking,
And my son sneaked a Coke and a sandwich, while
The two of them weren’t looking.

Rien de merde, Phil

2008-10-01T03:48:00.003+01:00

“Tonight there’s gonna be a jailbreak
Somewhere in this town.”

Now some might claim
My brain is lame
And – no defence!-
I am quite dense,
But even I,
A brain dead guy,
Have some idea,
As yet unclear,
Where this jailbreak
Might
Take
Place.

What if?

2008-10-01T03:46:00.002+01:00

“I’m not that fond of apples,” said Eve.
“I much prefer those peaches.
Their pulpy flesh
Is sweet and fresh
And more worthy of your speeches.”

More Oedilf Limericks

2008-09-10T20:34:00.002+01:00

Oh the hills that adorn Connemara
Paint themselves with a purple mascara,
And in midwinter’s reign,
They will show their disdain
By adopting a snow-white tiara.

Up above, where the stars are all clustered,
Shining forth in the dark, brightly lustred,
They are sprinkled like dust
On a black velvet crust,
Like white pepper adorning black custard.

As the bishop became even dozier,
The priest grew increasingly nosier.
He picked up his crook
And he had a good look
Till the bishop yelled “Hands off my crosier!”

The bungee jump stifled all laughter:
No-one noticed the white-water rafter—
As the jumper, with craft,
Dived headfirst through the raft,
And the coils of his rope tumbled after.

The Chief of Staff watched as his army
Were drowned in a Red Sea tsunami.
On the far side, young Moses
And the slaves thumbed their noses.
"Oh God," said the Chief. "I'm going barmy."

Clotted cream, it's alleged, has been spotted
On grocery shelves, firmly potted.
It's the true taste of heaven
When served fresh in Devon,
But in pots on the shelves? Ah, get knotted!

The conductor of the band had to warn its
Brass section 'bout squabbling like hornets.
He threatened to dump its
Recalcitrant trumpets
And melt down its quarrelsome cornets.

The laundrymaid took the bed linen —
"Eatin' choc'late in bed?" she said, grinnin'.
But then came the smell
And she let out a yell,
"Its a stable that they should've bin in!"

There once was an old basket-maker
Who made baskets upon his half-acre.
He wove every reed
Very slowly indeed –
He was hardly a mover and shaker.

The Christian liturgy's written
To stop people biting when bitten.
But though I agree
With this wholeheartedly,
I'm still gonna smite when I'm smitten.

At Amsterdam airport, the lack
Of forethought caused Seamus some flak.
“Your visit, you’ve stated,
Is business related?”
“Oh no, I’m just here for the craic.”

Desp’rately, Frank mopped his brow.
“Oh, please do not say goodbye now.”
But the leggy Italian
Caressed his medallion
And left with a tremulous “Ciao!”

My darling wife oft remarks I seize
Up totally in household crises.
If the loft tank’s o’erflowing
Or the heating’s not going,
I yell “Someone help! I’m a Pisces.”

A bar-room chanteuse from Muskogee
Complained that the place was too smokey.
“I can’t hit the right note,
I’ve a frog in my throat
And my voice is decidedly croaky.”

When Hamish pulled out of a date,
His friends called him “tumid” and “blate.”
“She doesn’t scare me,”
He said fearlessly
“But her father’s the toon magistrate.”

Oedilf Limericks

2008-09-07T21:51:00.003+01:00

This is an interesting site I came across by accident. The aim of www.oedilf.com is to provide a definition for every word in the dictionary in limerick form! So far they've got as far as da-. Here are a few I submitted - the words in bold are the definition words

McCartney, you won’t be a star
If you take up that old bass guitar.
You need to play lead
If you want to succeed
And become a big rock ‘n’ roll star.

A woodsman said conspiratorially,
“I demand that my grave’s marked arboreally.
In eternal slumber,
Surrounded my lumber,
I want this!” he snapped dictatorially.

In mediaeval Europe, black plague
Killed millions from Cork to The Hague
King Edward the Second
Died too, it was reckoned,
Though some say he just became vague.

An otherwise fine doctor would not
Inject, for he was not a good shot.
The one time he tried,
Sure, the patient near died
When the needle, off mark, caused a blood clot.

When a cow in Wisconsin became a bull,
The owner thought this might be claimable.
“Oh the courts will decide
If the last owner lied,
Or whether ‘tis God who is blamable.”

Francis Drake’s circumnavigation
In England caused great consternation.
The flat earthists suspected
His tale was injected
With great leaps of imagination.

The Roman historian Sallust
Walked barefoot o’er a quayside of ballast.
Though he rubbed on some cream
Once aboard the trireme,
The soles of his feet became calloused.

A confederate soldier outspokenly
Declared that the guns should have woken Lee.
When their fury was vented,
The soldier relented.
“I take it all back,” he said brokenly.

Aboard a Berlin-bound Lufthansa,
There performed a world-champion break-dancer.
‘Pon his head he gyrated.
“What a nut!” someone stated,
But the lad was too dizzy to answer.

The daffodil

2008-08-10T03:40:00.001+01:00

‘Twas not his twice daily carafe o’ dill
That rendered the poor Earl of Stafford ill.
“The wrong plant was crushed,”
The Earl’s physic gushed.
“Oh what laxative powers has the daffodil!”

Submitted to the Washington Post in a limerick competition

The shoe

2008-08-05T23:23:00.002+01:00

“I am not a clog from old Amsterdam,
A slim patent leather from Italy.
In fact, I’m not terribly sure who I am,”
The world-weary footwear thought bitterly.

“I am not a boot from the town of Beirut,
Nor a brogue from the Siwa Oasis.
The shoes that I meet on the well-trodden street
Think I’m not fit to tie up their laces

“Always I must roam, trying to seek out a home,
My sole’s in a restless condition.
I constantly feel that I’ve no time to heel
But I have to continue my mission.

“From the great Russian Steps to the Golden Gait Bridge,
The corns and the chilblains accrue,
But I just give a chuckle when I feel I might buckle,
For I am the Wandering Shoe.”

Arthritis of the ear

2008-08-02T11:33:00.002+01:00

Arthritis of the ear is sad to witness,
Grandad tries to wiggle without joy
He dreams he has the former aural fitness
That he had when he was but a boy.

Arthritis of the ear’s a sad condition,
Independent waggling might well hurt.
Old age accelerates this with attrition,
Ears remain immobile and inert.

Arthritis of the ear’s a sad affliction,
Terrible for those who must go through it.
Grandad cannot cope with this restriction
And uses fingers manually to do it.

The secret

2008-08-02T11:31:00.001+01:00

I’ve carried round this secret now for ages
And kept it very close against my chest.
It’s never been transcribed on diary pages,
Never been remarked upon in jest.

This secret has grown heavy on my shoulders,
It’s made me a neurotic nervous wreck.
It feels as though a bag of heavy boulders
Has been fastened most securely round my neck.

It’s mine and it will likely stay mine only,
I could not bear to publicise my guilt.
Carrying it around is very lonely
But beans, I always say, should not be spilt.

So do not ask me what it is I’m hiding,
For I have now become the secret’s slave.
There’s no way I will ever be confiding.
I’ll very likely take it to the grave.

An attack of dryness

2008-08-01T23:09:00.001+01:00

“It seems, your Royal Highness,
You are suffering from dryness,”
The physic said with visible regret.
“The cure for this affliction,”
He went on, with more conviction,”
“Is – how can I put this? – getting wet.”

“Wet?” the King exploded,
Like a prize bull cruelly goaded.
Are you, sir, a complete psychopath?
You’re consumed by arid slyness,”
Carried on His Royal Highness.
“I sentence you to go and have a bath.”

Dirty old truck

2008-08-01T23:05:00.002+01:00

He drives around the town in a dirty old truck,
Chatting up women and trying his luck.
Whatever his chat-line, he sure has the knack,
For the women all nod and climb up in the back.
He’d make a small fortune if he wrote a book
About driving round town in his old pick-up truck.

I was there at six o’clock

2008-08-01T22:59:00.001+01:00

I was there at six o’clock
But where the hell were you?
I had on my brand new frock
Of white and royal blue.
I could get no answer
From your phone, you dirty chancer.
Now you have the cheek to knock
As chancers often do

Joan told me she saw you
Walking out with Ce-li-a.
I’d do anything for you
But you chose to go with her.
The world knows she’s a trollop
And I’ll soon give her a wallop
But clearly I must bore you
If she’s who you prefer.

I was there at seven o’clock,
Re-touching up my face
But Celia from Castleknock
Was walking in my place.
Like a dog I panted
And you sure took me for granted
But it was a mighty shock
When you touched second base.

Get away from my front door
Or I will surely scream.
Dad was right about you, for
He warned me you would scheme.
And Dad is in the kitchen
And I see the curtain twitchin’,
So stay around a little more
And you will see some steam.

I was there at eight o’clock
You dirty, rotten cheat,
Watching all the people flock
To Clancy’s up the street.
But now my heart is jumping
And you’re going to get a thumping,
Better run around the block
Or end up ‘neath a sheet.

Sucker

2008-08-01T22:57:00.002+01:00

The winds do not blow.
They are sucked by a man
On a hill in Japan
And blown into a can
And then fed to a crow.

The man may perspire
But his lungs are still strong.
He’s done this so long
In his ochre sarong,
He’s beginning to tire.

Now bloated and gay,
The crow just gets fat.
He wears a lead hat
With a peak long and flat
So he won’t blow away.

“One day,” says the man,
“I will up and go home,
Maybe travel to Rome
With my paper and comb
And paint like Cezanne.

“Then my crow will grow lean
And the winds will die down
And the people will frown
In the country and town
And ask what it might mean.

“They’ll consult all their books,
But they never will know
‘Bout this aerated crow
And why winds will not blow.
Oh this job really sucks.”

Flock of sparrows

2008-08-01T22:53:00.002+01:00

I passed a flock of sparrows today
And – bless their little hearts –
Tail-feathers shaking,
All were making
Little sparrow farts.

Someone stole our mountain

2008-08-01T22:47:00.003+01:00

Someone stole our mountain, it was there but yesterday.
They think they might have come at night
and carted it away.

We now can see a village, there, across the flat terrain,
Yesterday ‘twas hid okay
but now the view is plain.

No more we have a mountain, behind which we can hide,
And now we see the greenery’s
the same on either side.

We’ve quickly come to realise just what a mountain does –
We’re hidden from their Peeping Tom
and they are hid from us.

So if you’ve seen a mountain that is only new installed,
Please send it back in a flat pack –
the product’s been recalled.

Please send it quick as possible, perhaps by UPS.
DHL will do as well
or Federal Express

Deer stopped play

2008-07-07T15:26:00.001+01:00

After we’d washed up and dried up the delph,
We’d go to the park, my son and myself,
And walk down the paththat we knew well would take us
To the pitches now silent on those fifteen acres.
On those fine summer evenings, he’d practise his shooting
In case Mr. Ferguson started recruiting.
Aim for the corner, go hard and go low,
The place where the goalie does not want to go.
And when he got tired, I’d throw the ball high.
“A bullet from Bierhof!” he’d valiantly cry
As he leapt like a salmon and flexed his young
To leave this poor keeper a sad, flailing wreck.
One time we were playing and who should appear
But a herd of the Phoenix Park’s world-famous deer.
Those amiable bucks and their dewy-eyed does
Soon brought our brief game to a premature close.
In ‘mongst the gathering, I heard my son say,
“Whaddya reckon, Dad? Deer stopped play?”

Betty’s inquest

2008-07-01T09:26:00.001+01:00

“Oh, she had guts,” the witness crowed
At the inquest of poor old Betty.
“They were spilled all over the road
Like a plate of wet spaghetti.”

The long strip of asphalt

2008-07-01T09:24:00.002+01:00

This long strip of asphalt is really psychotic,
His jaw firm and steely, his eyes quite hypnotic.
He strangled a laneway one night in its bed
Then kicked a poor avenue twice in the head.
A road in the centre was taken aback
To suffer a terrible frenzied attack.
He drowned a short detour while taking a bath –
Consensus is, he’s a complete cycle-path.

The Yoga teacher

2008-07-01T09:20:00.001+01:00

The Yoga teacher shook her head
When offered an injection.
“The tooth will out,” she calmly said
“But on mature reflection,
The pain I feel will surely end
Through natural sedation.
By concentrating, I’ll transcend
Dental medication.”

Aliens

2008-07-01T09:19:00.001+01:00

Oh those who seek out UFOs
And alien interference,
Take a tip from one who knows
And cease from this adherence.

They’re here already – living proof
Of alien expansion,
All together ‘neath one roof –
The Girls of the Playboy Mansion.

One final snore

2008-07-01T09:16:00.001+01:00

One final snore and then no more!
She sat upright in bed.
No sign of life” The sleepless wife
Discovered he was dead.

She gave a frown, then settled down,
Not caring once to weep.
God bless those who yearn only to
Enjoy a good night’s sleep.

She shouldn’t have laughed

2008-07-01T09:14:00.001+01:00

She laughed when I said that we’d lost one nil
In that pretty little way she had.
I guarantee you, she’d be living still
If she hadn’t made me so mad.

I mourned her, as her severed head
Dropped lightly down the shaft.
Oh no, my love would not be dead
If only she’d not laughed.

The Charge of the Light Brigade

2008-07-01T09:12:00.001+01:00

The Charge of the Light Brigade – did it exist?
Revisionists are to the fore.
They say that, in fact,
No criminal act
Took place in that terrible war.

They say things weren’t quite what they seem,
The sequence is somewhat unclear.
They deny the event
Had a criminal bent.
They claim that there’s no crime ‘ere.

Driving down an empty N3 at five o’clock in the morning

2008-07-01T09:10:00.001+01:00

Is this the same road
That I’ve sat on and cursed?
Stuck behind a wide load
That can’t seem to find first?
The same road in the mornings
Where ‘slow’ is okay?
Where motoring warnings
Advise ‘keep away.’
The same road with lane-hoppers
That play double-dare?
Who’ll one day come croppers
On this thoroughfare?
The same road with folk bridling
And drumming their fingers?
Where engines are idling
And time slowly lingers?

Le Nom de Plume (de ma Tante)

2008-06-28T17:54:00.003+01:00

She was quite a troubled young belle,
Who hailed from the city of Nîmes,
And I was a gay ne’er-do-well,
Far away from my home town of Sneem.

This bittersweet mademoiselle
Appeared in my life like a dream.
She told me her life was sheer hell,
Which I thought was a little extreme.

“Sue, c’est le nom qu’on m’appelle,”
She lied, as we sat by the stream.
And despite her untruths I still fell
For the mis’rable Sue de Nîmes.

Writers Group homework - names or nicknames

Kilkenny

2008-06-02T21:11:00.002+01:00

Photo: www.virtourist.com/europe/kilkenny/20.htm

To the Cathedral church of St. Canice,
I wandered with Quarrelsome Janice.
To the top of the tower we ascended,
Where the views of the city were splendid.
But Quarrelsome Janice railed strenuously
‘Bout problems she raised disingenuously,
And soon she became quite hysterical,
Using language distinctly unclerical.
Now the foot of the tower of St. Canice’s
Is where the poor Quarrelsome Janice is.

Another Arts reception

2008-06-02T21:06:00.002+01:00

It’s another Arts reception,
Clinking glasses red and white.
Another fraudulent deception
Full of navel-gazing shite.

Give me taties plain and filling,
Give me cabbage thick and green,
For this critic isn’t willing
To splash out for haut-cuisine.

Pubs with small alcoves

2008-06-02T21:03:00.001+01:00

Pubs with small alcoves
And dimly lit corners
Should put up bright signs
Which specifically warn us
That finding the toilet
May be somewhat tricky
For people like me
Who have eyesight that’s dicky.

National Breast Day

2008-05-06T17:27:00.001+01:00

It was today the breasts appeared
Aroused from winter’s slumber,
And how my inner heart was cheered!
A thousandfold in number.

For months, they’ve been locked out of sight,
Entombed in winter woollies,
But now they’ve burst into the light,
Those rounded hills and gullies.

No more encased in outerwear,
Encased in coats and fleeces,
They’re now exposed to sunlight’s glare
And dark abruptly ceases.

Big ones, small ones, ones that bounce
About on different levels.
Once the bishop would denounce
The flaunting of these devils,

But the first warm day of every year,
I reckon, is the best day.
The day when all the breasts appear –
Hats off to National Breast Day.

Poetry Festivals

2008-05-06T17:16:00.003+01:00

It’s a clique,
So to speak,
These august poetic readings,
If you’re in,
You can grin
And relax throughout proceedings.
If you’re part
Of the heart
Of the free verse literati,
Then you’ll know
Where to go
For the very latest party.
And it does
Not help us
On the outside dumb and jealous,
That you’re kind
And inclined
To be straight in what you tell us.
As we wait
By the gate
And we dally and we dither,
What we crave
Is a wave
And a nod that says come hither.
As I watch,
Sipping Scotch,
With my writing fingers trembly,
How I yearn
In my turn
To be part of the assembly.

Bank Holiday Monday

2008-05-06T17:08:00.002+01:00

A day too rare
With thick warm air
And ne’er a cloud in sight.
No breeze dispels
Those cut-grass smells
And all is close and bright.

As in a trance,
The midges dance
Around my choc’late sundae.
Again, again,
I check for rain,
This May Bank Holiday Monday.

At the tree

2008-04-02T11:02:00.002+01:00

To this tree I sadly wander,
Sit and in reflection squander
Many hours, in which I ponder
Life’s long road from birth to tomb.
Holly, swerving ‘pon that Honda
To this tree that spelt her doom.

‘Neath these branches, grandly spreading,
Watching leaves now lightly shedding,
Here I rest, on compost bedding,
Contemplating life anew,
Where we sat and planned our wedding
‘Ere that blast of chill wind blew.

Trees? Oh chop ‘em down and burn ‘em!
True, I started once to learn ‘em,
But this giant at my sternum
Could be alder, elm or yew.
Maybe cedar or laburnum –
Frankly, I don’t have a clue.

Holly, she was just my elder.
On a date I often held ‘er,
Took her palm and gently smelled ‘er
Perfume daubed upon her wrist.
Much more pop’lar than Imelda,
With whom I’d once had a tryst.

Unlike Olive, plane but tender,
Dad a Cypress moneylender,
Mam an Aspen gender-bender,
Hazel eyes and chest nut big.
Willowy she was and slender,
But she did not give a fig.

As I said to Rowan and Edward.
This ashen girl from Holyhead would
Go like any girl so red wood,
Spruce in imitation fir.
Now alas, she’s merely dead wood.
In her box, I think of her.

“Life’s a beech,” she told the vicar,
In a life like Alan Wicker,
But she was too fond of liquor
And missed the turn doing ninety four.
The bike was sick and I was sicker
But sadly she was sycamore.

Another bash at the tree homework

The true meaning of Easter

2008-03-23T10:19:00.002Z

Standing on tiptoe and stretching their legs,
They’d build up their towers of lush chocolate eggs.
With faces transformed by great smiles of delight,
They measured success, not in numbers, but height.
With Aero and Bountie and Crunchie and Flake,
They’d go for the spindliest tower they could make
And squeal in alarm as it started to sway,
Unstable through adding that last Milky Way.

And I’m sure, deep inside, they were fleetingly sad
‘Bout the single, dark choc’latey egg that I had,
Which I kept by my chair in the usual place,
Resisting the urge to start stuffing my face.

But while the twin towers were razed to the ground,
My solit’ry egg was intact and still sound,
And when their last eggs had been eaten with haste,
I’d smile at my hungry and slender-toned waist
And reach for my egg in my ponderous way,
While the others looked on with an air of dismay.
And I’d break off small pieces and moan with delight
At each languid and luscious and succulent bite.

One year, they removed all my choc’late, I’m told,
Replacing the wrapper back into the mould,
And when I reached down for my moment in time,
They laughed till they cried at their terrible crime.

Those eggs, so unhealthy and way over-priced,
Prove Easter is centred round chocolate, not Christ.

The unlikeliest hero of all

2008-03-20T21:37:00.001Z

Raise a wand to the honour of Severus Snape,
Whose loyalty meant that he could not escape
A terrible death by a monster who thought
That he was the servant of Lord Voldemort.
Was ever a hero so wrongly misjudged/
Was history ever so grievously fudged?
Too late did the annals decide to reshape
The sad twisted story of Severus Snape.

He was scorned and despised; he was hated and jeered,
Suspected of treason as Voldemort neared.
But still he determined to guard Harry’s head
And all for the love of a woman long dead.
He was the unlikeliest hero of all
With cold, piercing eyes and a Slytherin drawl.
Yet Hogwarts remembers that black flowing cape
And honours the valiance of Severus Snape.

Meeting at the tree

2008-03-20T21:33:00.002Z

You and me
By the tree
In the park.

By the oak,
‘Neath the cloak
Of the dark.

You’re me mot.
I’m your bloke.
O’er the knot
On the oak,
Carve our mark
In the bark
For a lark.

In the park,
You and me,
By the tree.

O’er the knot
Carve our mark
In the park.

You me bloke?
You me mot?
Want a smoke?
What you got?
‘Neath the cloak
Of the oak
In the dark.

Matches spark
And we smoke
‘Neath the oak.

There we squat,
Smoking pot
In the dark.

You and me
In the park
By the tree
For a lark.
Have a smoke.
You’re me mot.
I’m your bloke.

More homework for the Phoenix Writers Group - "write something about a meeting and / or a tree"

Farewell my darling

2008-03-19T09:58:00.002Z

Our lives were off-track.
We had long ceased to grow.
We were riddled by flak
And she wanted to go.
I was taken aback
By this unforeseen blow
But her old Almanac
Said it had to be so.

There’d been plenty of craic
In those days long ago
When we drank Armagnac
And she called me her beau.

There’s no point looking back,
I declared to poor Jo,
As I dropped the large sack
To the river below.

The Five Senses

2008-03-19T09:52:00.001Z

“This site,” said Justice Smelling
At the open planning hearing,
“Contains a tasteless dwelling
Which, one feels, is unendearing.”

Homework for the Phoenix Writers Group. "Write something on the five senses."

The St. Patrick’s Day Parade

2008-03-17T09:04:00.002Z

I feel I ought to praise
Some great Being so divine
For the many joyous days
In this mundane life of mine.

For the day my spindly arms
Lifted up the Cup on high,
For the day my partner’s charms
Blotted out the moon and sky,

For the day my kids were born,
For my visit to Beijing,
For the wondrous Matterhorn
Shining bright in early spring,

For Shels’ 96 Cup win,
For that day in Alton Towers,
For the day that we moved in
To that tiny house of ours.

But my fav’rite ever day
Was the day my kids relayed
That this year, was it okay
If we skipped the Grand Parade?

Flood rising

2008-03-10T16:28:00.004Z

The waters kept rising.
Wasn’t too surprising,
Someone built an ark which was very enterprising.
Ma and pa were baling,
Little Jem was wailing,
Hopper found a door and decided to go sailing.
Jeepers creepers!
The water’s getting deeper.
Climb onto the roof, ma, the floodbanks are failing.

Cars were being swept away,
Sightseers kept away,
Old Mr. Venous in his bedroom slept away.
The wind came squawlin’,
Little Jem was bawlin’,
Hopper sailed by with a sheet of old tarpaulin.
Climb the spire,
The level’s getting higher.
Better watch out, ma, the rain keeps a-fallin’.

Helicopters buzzin’
Ten to the dozen,
Old Mrs. Shiels was rescued by her cousin.
Kitchens were brimmin’,
Street lights a-dimmin’,
Hopper floated by with a door-load of women.
Shake and shiver,
Main Street’s a river.
Hold onto your hat, ma, I think we’re going swimmin’.

Frogs were a-croaking,
Little Jem was soaking,
Old Mr. Venous thought that we were joking.
Night owls hooted,
Main Street was muted,
Down at the plaza, the shops were being looted.
Head for the high lands,
Rooftops are islands,
Stories of drownings were urgently refuted.

The tempest was raging,
Ma was quickly aging,
Storm wasn’t tired of the war that it was waging.
Pa looked staggered,
Hopper seemed haggard,
Cops shot a looter, said he was a blackguard.
Adrenalin pumping,
Fishes were jumping,
Mayor in his dinghy strutted and swaggered.

Poor Farmer Baker
Who owned the hundred acre,
Looked out the window and prayed to his maker.
Pa was scowling,
Little Jem was howling,
Hopper never tired of the women he was towelling.
There went McCreevy
With a stolen TV,
Chief of Police said he favoured disembowelling.

Water kept flowing
To wherever it was going.
Little Jem laughed at the bubbles he was blowing.
Pa seemed affected,
Shopping mall’s protected,
Mayor was only thinking of getting re-elected.
Folk couldn’t win,
Hopper’s done in,
Grab a rubber ring, ma, high tide’s expected.

The torrent was flying,
Pa started crying,
Said it would be months till the house started drying.
Ma was worn out,
Front gate torn out,
Hopper’s bold prediction really had been borne out.
All the Bible thumpers
Were queuing up to jump us,
Poor Farmer Baker couldn’t get his corn out.

The Mayor was bloodied,
The waters got muddied,
The bar was closed because the cellar had been flooded.
The army dropped butter
Onto our gutter,
Old Mr. Venous battened down the shutter.
Watch out, bud,
It’s one hell of a flood.
“Best night of my life,” I heard Hopper mutter.

In the dead of night

2008-03-09T09:07:00.000Z

The cheesy moon shone brightly
In the lazy summer heat.
A comet, fleet and sprightly,
Flashed across the blackened sheet.
The crickets chirped contritely
To the low nocturnal beat,
As her severed head rolled lightly
Down the peaceful cobbled street.

Bus lane bounders

2008-03-09T09:06:00.000Z

I’m sitting in a jam
And it’s furious I am,
Watching cars fly down the bus lane at great speed.
My brake pedal’s on the floor
For a quarter hour or more
And I feel I’m getting very mad indeed.

I’ve no problem sitting pretty
In the centre of the city
If I knew that everybody did the same.
But to watch them all fly by
Makes me hang my head and cry.
Do these people not possess an ounce of shame?

Of course no traffic cop
Jumps out to make them stop
And give these ******* ******* their desserts.
They just speed on blithely by
With a twinkle in their eye,
And Lord, I’m telling you, it truly hurts.

Of course I have been tempted
To join in with those exempted,
Succumbing to what jealousy induces,
But I know that I’d be caught
By a most officious sort
Who wouldn’t give a fig for my excuses.

So I’ll sit here in this traffic
With my language strong and graphic
As all around poetic justice flounders.
And my engine will be boiling
And my gaskets will need oiling
As I observe these brazen bus lane bounders.

Twas a shame that she died when she did

2008-03-09T09:05:00.000Z

‘Twas a shame that she died when she did,
Falling foul of the ‘lectrical grid,
She had so much potential,
She was so influential,
‘Twas a shame that she died when she did.

If only she’d seen the loose wire,
How her star could have soared so much higher,
But the wire became live
And she didn’t survive.
If only she’d seen the loose wire.

If her husband had mended the plug,
‘Twould’ve needed no grave to be dug.
She’d have ironed his pants
With a cursory glance,
If her husband had mended the plug.

‘Twas a shame that she died ironing pants,
A victim of cruel circumstance.
At the end of the day,
‘Twas an unseemly way.
‘Twas a shame that she died ironing pants.

The song of a despairing father

2008-03-03T21:21:00.001Z

As a father, I’m perplexed
About whom she’ll bring home next,
What lamb she’s going to lead up to the slaughter.
I am sure the next poor victim
Will soon rue the day she picked him.
Is it so hard to marry off a daughter?

There has been all shapes and sizes,
Some quite normal, some surprises,
But ultimately none has cut the mustard.
Whether gorgeous hunk or dolt,
She is bound to find some fault
To sour the fruit that’s stewing in the custard.

There’s been doctors, there’s been students,
Lecturers in jurisprudence,
Movie stars and scurrilous reporters.
There’s been schoolboys, there’s been oul’ lads,
There’s been saints and there’s been bold lads
And one I think had several great-granddaughters.

I am sure if Jesus Christ
Could in some way be enticed
To come back down from up above to court her.
I am sure that even He’d
Find it quite tricky to succeed
In meeting the requirements of my daughter.

It seems the male population
Doesn’t match her expectation,
Breath smells bad or nasal hairs need trimmin,’
Oh the list is getting daughter
For my fussy, single daughter.
I daresay after men, she’ll start on women.

I just sit here in my roost
And I’m politely introduced
And sometimes they will shake my hand and smile.
And if I seem a trifle distant,
Bit stand-offish and resistant,
Its ‘cos I know they will not pass the trial.

If I engage in conversation
As an elderly relation,
I feel as if I’m wasting precious breath.
In a week, or little more,
He’ll be promptly shown the door
And I’ll be inching nearer to my death.

To gods Christian and Norse,
I’ve prayed that one might stay the course,
That one of them might live to tell the tale.
If one pacifies the dragon,
Then by God we’ll share a flagon
Of the finest of the country’s real ales.

If only one could subdue her,
He need no longer call me ‘sir,’
I’d praise his name through this and many lands.
He could take my house and car,
Run my tab up at the bar,
If only he would take her off my hands,

But till then I’ll sit and pray
As each new suitor has his day,
Not knowing he’s a number not a name.
Perhaps I’ll smile politely,
Share a witticism lightly –
But if I do or not, it’s all the same.

Sixteen years

2008-02-26T19:13:00.000Z

It’s sixteen years, my wife declares,
To my most disbelieving stares,
Since we were here in Galway last.
Sixteen speeding years have passed
Since we pushed through those bustling streets
And bought the children sticky sweets
To bribe them into keeping going
With their pace forever slowing.
Sixteen years since sudden rain
Drenched four of us with deep disdain
And forced us in a bland café,
Where we were mugged the tourist way.
And later in the Skeffy Arms,
The Coke glass slipped from sweaty palms
And stained the dress so newly bought,
Which drew from me a sharp retort.
And then we had a blazing row
(Still unsurpassed from then till now)
In which the others on the stage
Gazed awestruck at our righteous rage.
And now we’re in the present tense.
It’s sixteen years since those events.
Oh tribal city of maroon,
Why did we come back so soon?

Shopping with my wife

2008-02-26T19:12:00.002Z

Standing around while my wife looks at blouses
And dresses and knickers and untapered trousers
And angora scarfs and machine knitted sweaters
And pinstripe pyjamas and flavoured french letters
And swimsuits and corsets and bras with no strapping
And multi-pack briefs that have far too much wrapping
And handbags and knee socks and terylene blazers
Umbrellas and perfumes and stockings –
Ah jaysus!

The fields

2008-02-26T19:12:00.001Z

As the bumping, grinding train
Left the town of Athenry,
The visible terrain
Changed to fields as we chugged by.
And young Notcher, chin in hand,
Moved by such a wondrous sight,
Pointed long at said fields and
Remarked ’pon their lack of height.
Unlike others we had seen,
Such as those in Ball’nasloe,
These, so luscious and so green,
Laid particularly low.

Speed

2008-02-26T19:11:00.000Z

Older people tend to go
To places like old Ballinasloe,
But younger people have a blast
And up the tempo in Belfast.