The Garden Tree

The tree I planted years ago
Now measures thirty feet or so.
The trunk is long and smooth and tall
And far outstrips the garden wall.
And on the very top, the fronds
Shade several neighbours’ garden ponds.

Drunk one evening for a lark,
I started writing on the bark.
In felt tip pen I wrote a tale
To make the staunchest reader quail.
From bottom up and round and round,
The story started at the ground,
Then wound itself in spiralled glee
Toward the summit of the tree.

But now this little prank’s backfired,
The writing has been much admired,
And now, to my complete alarm,
Old women come to read my palm.

Emigration

Away from repression, the wild geese did fly,
Determined expression etched in ev’ry eye.
They sailed from old Ireland to France and to Spain,
Never to see their cruel homeland again.

And then ‘twas the famine drove millions away.
The peasants left, damnin’ the fields of decay
They sailed from old Ireland across the wide main,
Never to see their sad homeland again.

To earn half a living, the migrant set sail,
A land unforgiving set him on the trail.
They sailed from old Ireland to England’s great gain,
Never to see their poor homeland again.

And now ‘tis the weather, the sign of the times.
We’re leaving together for sunnier climes.
We’re flying from old Ireland, away from the rain,
Never to see our cold homeland again.

The State Pathologist

I am the State Pathologist, O’Dwyer is my name.
I am the expert in my field, despite what others claim.
Some say that I’m incompetent or too long in the tooth,
But the reason I’m suspended is I just can’t tell the truth.

I tell such bare-faced whoppers, sprinkled with exaggeration.
A farmer’s wife who choked to death, I called it strangulation.
The farmer was arrested and they sentenced him to life.
He still protests he’s innocent of murdering his wife.

A charred and blackened body in a house burnt to the ground-
I looked the Sergeant in the eye and told him she’d been drowned.
A man found with his throat cut and his feet and hands all tied-
My professional opinion was – a tragic suicide.

The more I practised to deceive, the more my web got tangled.
A nasty airplane accident – I said they’d all been strangled.
“A heart attack,” I ventured, of a man shot in the head.
I wrote down “Death by Hanging” of a man found dead in bed.

I think the final straw came with the body in the wood.
Its head was found a mile away, bathed in a pool of blood.
I gave the time of death around a quarter after five,
Then, kneeling o’er the torso, I exclaimed, “She’s still alive!”

I know that I’m not senile for I’m well within my prime.
So why do I tell all these fibs and waste the Gardai’s time?
It isn’t done maliciously, from badness or from spite.
I try to tell the truth, but then the words don’t turn out right.

The Minister for Justice was quite clearly unimpressed.
He raved and ranted for an hour, as though he were possessed.
He slammed the files shut and yelled “Explain yourself, O’Dwyer!”
“That’s easy, sir,” I countered, “I’m a pathological liar.”

The Eel Poem

When a dirty great eel
Makes you shudder and squeal
That’s a moray.

The Ballad of Artie Brown

Lettuce bow our heads awhile,
And pray for Artie Brown.
He’d bean a gardener till asphyx-
Iation struck him down.

He was a strong, yet peas-ful man,
Gave thanks for what he got.
Often seen down by the stream,
He used to fi-shallot.

He’d often spinach-eery yarn
To folk who’d stop and speak,
And, e’er the Good Samaritan,
He fixed the church roof leek.

We berry him with tearful hearts
And reddened eyes and noses,
And, yes, it would beetroot to say,
He’ll fertilise the roses.

He mint to do more with his thyme,
He didn’t drink or smoke.
A curse upon that herring bone
That made poor Artie choke!

Satisfaction

Adonis, bronzed and self-assured,
Stood high upon the diving board.
Feet together, supple-jointed,
Arms outstretched with fingers pointed,
Slicked-back hair and square-cut chin,
Chest stuck out and waist tucked in.

From the children’s paddling-pool,
I felt a most ungainly fool,
Rubber-ringed and lily-white
And overdosed on cellulite.
If only I could be like him!
If only I could learn to swim!

Adonis leapt, without a fault,
And did a backward somersault.
Like an arrow he descended
All his arms and legs extended.
Then, to show life can be sweet,
He missed the pool by several feet.

Sarkasm

The boat was plunging up and down,
The sea was pretty choppy.
I never thought we’d get there
In this bockety jalopy.

Everyone on board was sick,
‘Twas pitiful to see.
They did not heed my sound advice
To stand beneath a tree.

Eventually we tethered to
The harbour wall in Sark,
Mightily relieved as we
Queued up to disembark.

“Is this the way?” I asked a man,
A-standing on the quay.
“Not at all,” he countered,
“That there road goes out to sea.”

I stopped another local. “’Scuse me,
Where’s the village, please?”
“No village here,” the man replied,
“We all live in the trees.”

“When does this boat leave again?”
I asked one of the crew.
“In six years time,” he answered me,
And my suspicions grew.

“I’ve had enough of this,” said I,
“I’m tired of this malarkey.
Its plain to see that everyone
Revels in being sarky.”

Sad Story

Grigori moved from Krakow
To the lights of Ballybay.
He wed a girl from Clones
And they had a son called Jay.

Jay then moved to Sydney,
When a sheila stole his heart,
And now Grigori and his son
Are simply Poles apart.

Paddy Duff

We’ve had enough of Paddy Duff
Its time he was migrating.
He’s got the sack,
So have him back
Before he thinks of mating.

Poor Louise insisted,”Please,
My room can’t be untidy.
It must be Neil
Or else that seal.
I fixed it all on Friday!”

Now Neil said he was in bed,
And so we couldn’t blame him
He claimed the seal
Was trying real-
-Ly hard to try and frame him.

But Paddy never answered ever,
Defying us with silence.
The cheeky pup
Would not own up,
Although we threatened violence.

So, no more guff, bold Paddy Duff!
You had your chance to parley.
Your fate is sealed
With Rachel Field
Who might feed you to Charlie.

Paddy Duff, I think, was some cuddly toy belonging to Rachel, that got left in our house one time, but I may be wrong!!

Ode to the Dublin Civic Offices on Wood Quay

With windows lit, and painted white,
They are a most impressive sight.
Tall, to help the people find them,
Blocking that oul’ church behind them.
And though they’re not to all folks’ liking,
I hear no grouse from any Viking.
Built upon a steep incline,
Their architectural design
Attracts the Spanish and the Dutch,
Who seem to like them very much.
The noble folk who work inside
Are filled with fierce, civic pride
And wave with consequential ease
To us poor peasants on the quays.
And we give them a darkened stare
And wish that we could work in there.