Most Recent Poems

MOST RECENT POEMS
(to go to a poetry collection, click on the icon beside its title)

This page is always kept up to date, with the latest poem at the top; if nothing has been added for a while, it means I haven't been writing lately.

At the Banks of the Garavogue

At dusk, when the shadows are falling
under street lights in Doorly Park,
you pause as you hear someone calling
your name through the trees in the dark;
turning round, you will notice the funny
physique of a pitiful rogue
who asks for a smoke and some money
at the banks of the Garavogue.

The wind picks up breath, and you shiver
besides the stream and stand still
near the islet astern of the river
where the waters approach from Lough Gill.
A boatman is cursing the weather
and casts out his homemade drogue
as the ominous storm clouds gather
o’er the banks of the Garavogue.

In the distance you hear the fright’ning
thunder rolling to mark his domain,
accompanied by the first lightning.
In seconds you’re drenched by the rain,
and as the thunder comes nigh, go
as quick as you can in your brogue,
and return to the shelter of Sligo
from the banks of the Garavogue.

13-15/07/6249RT (2008 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

Pirate Song

We love each gale, we love each breeze,
the ocean and the shore,
and we have sailed the Seven Bays
from Glinsk to Mullaghmore.

We make all sailors’ dreams come true
who wish to face their fears
and bury them together like
congeneal buccaneers.

Tonight around Killaspug Point,
tomorrow to Strandhill,
thereafter to Culleenamore –
we won’t be standing still!

We kill and maim who we can find
for profit and for fun,
and if we lose some of our own,
there’s naught that can be done.

And when we sail with fellow thugs
who love to rob and shoot,
like Captain Longarm and his crew,
we cheat and keep the loot.

And when the setting sun illumes
the men who lost their lives,
we turn the vessel and set sail,
returning to our wives.

We count our blessings and our spoils
from those unlucky ships
and split it almost fairly with
a shanty on our lips.

We sing about the many things
that pirates sing about
when they conclude a hard night’s work
over a glass of stout.

October 6248 RT (2007 CE) + 3/05/6249 RT (2008 CE), added to 'The Pirate Songs of Rosses Point'

Kadambari

She is the lady of my thoughts.
In all this planet’s towns and ports
there is no woman I could find
so captivating heart and mind.

Her hair is blacker than the crows
Chowpatty lodges, and it flows
with mystically enchanting grace
around the world’s most comely face.

Her eyes are darker than the night,
and yet their sparkle is so bright
that all the rocks she looks upon
turn into temples of the Sun.

Her touch is softer than the kiss
of butterflies in vernal bliss,
who rest upon your arm and then
playfully fly away again.

Her smile and presence give me wings.
If I knew girls at all the kings’,
sultans’ and maharajahs’ courts:
she’ll be the lady of my thoughts!

March 6249 RT (2008 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

In the Days of Seamus McLaughlin

In the days of Seamus McLaughlin
we would wait in the back of his bar
till the man himself was descending
to sit with us and tune his guitar.
And he'd carefully stick his burning
cigarette between peghead and strings,
and soon his plectrum was flying
like a hummingbird spreading his wings.

Every night was a musical journey,
and through space and time we would fly,
from the Hotel California
to the Fields of Athenry.
And he'd pass his guitar on to others
who wanted to play. We'd hear songs
sung in Basque, Swahili and Irish
at our cheerful singalongs.

Towards the end he would ask the young poet
for his Ghost Riders in the Sky
(or at least the few lines he remembered),
and as the evening rushed by,
he might call for a poetry reading,
so the pipe would be put aside
as the writer took out his collection
of poems and gladly complied.

Close to after the closing hour
two Gardai wandered in one night,
and, thinking the place would be raided,
Seamus' guests got a little fright.
But they went to the counter and ordered -
they had only come in to stay
for a Guinness, went back to their squad car
and quietly drove away.

And on Tuesdays the Trad band were playing -
the guitars quickly followed the call
of the bodhrán, and soon they were joined by
the most sensual flautist of all,
by the fiddles and pipes; the musicians
and the punters got caught by the beat,
and, with or without taking notice,
everybody was moving their feet.

When the music was over, we chatted
about neighbours or life's hectic mode,
till the bell rang out for last orders:
one more smoke, and a pint for the road.
Then we slowly got up and returned to
a world of a different kind -
in the days of Seamus McLaughlin
we went home with a song on our mind.

When the Euro came in, I once mentioned
that I needed a mobile; with perked
ears he said he'd sell his for a tenner,
and I gave him ten Euros. He smirked:
'When I said it was yours for a tenner,
I meant Pound'. - I just should have known,
so I gave him another two eighty
and owned my first mobile phone.

And as soon as we laughed at first rumours
of a ludicrous smoking ban,
Seamus sold his wee pub, and we'll never
come together like that again.
Today he is playing at weddings
or in pubs round the Point, and I meet
him in town now and then when I'm shopping,
and we stop for a chat in the street.

Then we talk of the present and future,
how things should be and how they are;
but when I meet one of the others
who used to drink in his bar,
we both, caught in a spell of nostalgia,
dig up many a memory
from the days of Seamus McLaughlin,
when life was the way it should be.

January/February 6249 RT (2008 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

(For those interested, Seamus now plays in the Tree Tops Band which can be booked for functions. They are currently working on their website at www.treetopsband.com).

Don Aherno

‘I command this family, right or wrong!’
Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) in The Godfather III

They call me Don Aherno
(I don’t know why they do):
I never condemn wrongdoing
and expect the same from you.
I am this country’s Taoiseach –
in English that means chief,
the German word is Führer,
and I shall never leave.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

The public keep on whining
they can’t afford their bread,
but if they starve, why don’t they
rather eat cake instead?
No more he roams these forests,
the tiger of the Celts,
and it is time our people
learnt tightening their belts.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

Worldwide no man is dearer
as head of government,
and I have just awarded,
with all the best intent,
myself another pay rise
that has the public rage
and equals twenty incomes
on national minimum wage.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

A man in my position
sure needs no bank account:
my cash is in the attic
where it is safe and sound.
And if I give positions
to business friends on plates,
it’s not because they paid me,
but just because they’re mates.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

An anorak of Teflon
serves as my royal cloak –
though stuffed with large backhanders
it looks like I am broke.
I’m such a lucky fellow:
who else could ever say
they’ve highly paid positions
where tips outweigh the pay.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

I’m telling all my subjects
what and what not to do –
they won’t turn from their master
though they complain, but who
would dare to disobey me?
I tell them who gets fed,
and how to heat their houses,
and when to go to bed.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

I’m a self-righteous tyrant,
and yet the voters see
in me the undisputed
head of the family.
They fear the raging despot,
the grump who tolerates
no question – the unjust father
who everybody hates!
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

January 6249 RT (2008 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

The Nightmare of Christmas

I came not to send peace, but the sword.
Matthew 10:34

‘Twas the nightmare of Christmas, when all through the West
the bonfires were lit for the feast, and the best
of the harvest and cattle that plentiful year
had produced were brought forth, since a new one was near.
But their sun god had died, and the nights became long,
and he had to be wakened by fire and by song,
so he’d generate day light and warmth for each field
which it needed another harvest to yield.
And after the people had eaten their share,
they prayed to the sun god to make him aware,
and worshippers danced to the song of their priest
when Christians with torches approached from the East.
They beheaded the dancers and slaughtered the chiefs:
‘We must put an end to your pagan beliefs,
barbarian customs and godless ways!’
With this they mowed through the crowd to praise
the Lord who had brought them eternal life
by massacring children, husband and wife.
And they heard them exclaim as they killed with delight:
‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!’

The few who survived became Christians by force;
their descendants now follow tradition, of course,
and celebrate Christmas for all it is worth
when Jesus was born to bring peace to this Earth.

21-25/12/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

A World Before Man

Once buffalo roamed through the plains
who grazed there, peacefully
living amongst their families
as far as one could see.
Those herds, no matter how we try,
will not be seen again:
I hope God kept a backup world
when he created man.

The forests teemed with many birds
of every shape and size
who with their colours and their voice
delighted ears and eyes.
Their songs, no matter how we try,
will not be heard again:
I hope God kept a backup world
when he created man.

The beauty of this planet is
a pleasure of the past,
and we are told that on this Earth
nothing is meant to last.
But if indeed there’s this divine
creator’s master plan,
I’m sure he kept a backup world
when he created man.

18/12/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

The Germs

A germ is very very small –
so small it can’t be seen at all.

But it is there, and it is quick,
and when it stings, it makes you sick!

Germs love the country and the town
and can make elephants break down.

And they love dirt: they live on streets,
in dustbins and on toilet seats.

A million germs once sat around
a toilet, waiting to be found.

And soon enough a little boy
came in, and they all jumped for joy!

The germs with all their little friends
hopped on his fingers and his hands.

They danced and told how they would bring
him pain and illness with their sting.

One said: ‘I’ll sting his throat, I think,
so he can’t swallow food or drink!’

Another said: ‘I’ll sting his eye
and make it hurt so bad he’ll cry!’

‘I’ll give him fever, and I’ll drain
his body, so he’ll cringe with pain!’

‘I’ll sting his stomach in a way
that he will vomit night and and day!’

But then the germs began to shrink:
the little boy went to the sink.

‘No soap! No water!’, they all screamed,
but no one heard their cries, it seemed.

And so the germs went down the drain
and to the sewers with the rain.

They went downstream and finally
were swept into the deep blue sea.

But they’ll be back again some day,
to sting or to be washed away.

May/October 6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'Horses Can Fly'

The Turkish Knife

A brand new combat knife from Turkey
became the pirate captain’s pride
and toy until the night when Quirky
Quintillus took Black Jack aside:
‘Sir, Semi-savage Sven seems willing
to test the power of your knife:
he says your favourite sport is killing,
and that you’ve no regard for life.’ -
‘I’ll show him what my favourite sport is,
and he’ll be in for some surprise:
I’ll kick him full of rigor mortis,
and then I’ll stab him till he dies!’

And so he did. He showed his fitness
in front of the entire crew,
and in amazement we could witness
the things a Turkish knife can do.
And from that day we tried to bridle
our tongues, more than we did before.
His Turkish knife was never idle
for long, and often he would roar:
‘I’ll show him what my favourite sport is,
and he’ll be in for some surprise:
I’ll kick him full of rigor mortis,
and then I’ll stab him till he dies!’

5/10/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Pirate Songs of Rosses Point'

Irish Mothers

Straight after she gives birth, her folk
welcome the little Don
to his new home while mother cooks
and puts the kettle on.

And when he brings a girlfriend home
he calls his pure white swan,
and talks of business plans with her,
she puts the kettle on.

And when, to help them get a loan,
his dad puts, slightly wan,
the house up as security,
she puts the kettle on.

And when at last they realise
his partner pulled a con
as Gards come in to search the house,
she puts the kettle on.

And when the bailiff’s at the door,
and everything is gone
that they have worked for all their lives,
she puts the kettle on.

July/October 6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

Wagtails

A wagtail sat upon a stone
along the river bank and sang;
though ignorant, I’m sure he chose
the sweetest bird parole and langue.

Before too long, a wagtail girl
perched on a stone not far away,
and as he serenaded her,
she chirped to let him know she’d stay.

Another wagtail came along,
swooped down beside her, and without
stopping ascended to the skies:
of his success there was no doubt.

Without a thought she followed him
into the air, as if she’d known
him from the days when they were eggs,
and left the singer on his own.

He kept on singing to himself,
as if he’d done that all along.
I left him sitting on his stone –
it’s far too well I know that song.

May/October 6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

Elsinore House Rules

Welcome to Elsinore, my friends
and fellow pirates, here
you can relax with one who spends
his loot on wine and beer.
Here is sufficient food, and booze
the ocean for to drown:
be welcome, but take off your shoes
and keep your voices down.
My wife is fussy when it comes
to noise and dirt, I say,
she even nags about my crumbs
at breakfast every day.
And, under pain of death, no word
of how we earn our bread,
cos if my Elsie ever heard
about it, I’d be dead.
Be careful what you say and when,
there is too much at stake:
my wife thinks I’m a fisherman
who’s had a lucky break.

In velvet cushions we shall sink
from many a raid and theft,
from golden chalices we’ll drink
which the Armada left,
some rough tobacco we shall smoke
after a hard night’s work,
get snug in Night’s forgiving cloak
to drink and never shirk.
But careful what you say and when,
there is too much at stake:
my wife thinks I’m a fisherman
who’s had a lucky break.

She is as soft as ripened fruit
unless you wear a beard,
but if she’s crossed by any brute,
she is the one who’s feared.
She trusts you not, to say the least,
no sailor hates you more,
and if it wasn’t for the priest,
she’d show you all the door.
Be careful what you say and when,
there is too much at stake:
my wife thinks I’m a fisherman
who’s had a lucky break.

14+26-27/09/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Pirate Songs of Rosses Point'

The Poet’s Blessing

As Paddy labours in the churchyard,
he thinks of all the cash he spent –
it’s rent day, and he won’t be able
to pay a quarter of the rent.

He minds the poet’s grave. The silence
of dawn is broken: he can hear
a busload of American tourists
arrive, which gives him an idea.

Under their watchful eyes he slowly
kneels down as if he were alone,
prays for the soul of the straying poet
and puts a coin upon his stone.

Not heeding all the tourists, Paddy
goes back to work some yards away,
only returning to the poet
after he’s finished for the day.

There he collects the coins the tourists
have left; the poet’s statue winks,
and after Paddy pays his landlord,
there’s still enough for several drinks.

20-21/09/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

Freedom

A moment of compassion
led John, at Life’s last stage,
to take his little bluebird
out of his little cage.

And at the open window
he held him in his hand:
‘For many years you’ve served me,
a singer and a friend.

‘But I have been too selfish
and can no longer bear
to see you caged’, he whispered
and threw him in the air.

The bluebird hit the pavement,
splashing some passers-by;
caged for so long, he couldn’t
remember how to fly.

11-12/09/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

Father Duff’s Confession

Forgive me, Your Grace, for I have sinned. My parish
was such a tranquil place to be,
full of that peace that other priests may cherish
and all that f...ing amity.

Hearing confession in Gibraltar nurses
contempt for sinners on their knees,
their little jealousies, small flaws, mild curses
and petty infidelities.

Then I met Father Flynn. My head went dizzy
on hearing what he’s dealing in:
though his confession box was always busy,
he’d never heard a venial sin.

His parish was a charming fishing village
called Rosses Point whose folk at least
confess to murder, plunder, rape and pillage
each time they’re talking to their priest.

I envied him! Two sea miles from Gibraltar
the world was wild and virtue dead;
I took the crucifix down from the altar
and hit it hard across his head.

Now I am priest in Rosses! My transgression
has changed my life, and I have learned
to love the holy sacrament of confession
and see their absolution earned.

And when I walk the beach, Small Paul might meet me,
or Two-armed Nathan, and in glee
Black Jack and all his gang would come to greet me
and take me with them on a spree.

I talk too much, Your Grace. The state of bearing
this knowledge I shan’t leave you in;
besides, I’ve always loved that ring you’re wearing.
Forgive me, for I’m about to sin...

5-10/09/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Pirate Songs of Rosses Point'

The Ballad of Two-armed Nathan

Gather round to hear the story
of a man who meant no harm,
how in battle, cruel and gory,
our friend Nathan lost his arm.

Once we sailed the bay on business
when a cutter came our way;
heedless of the seriousness
of a sight we see each day,
we approached the coast guard vessel,
holding out a pile of cash,
not expecting any hassle,
but their captain was a fresh
face who didn’t know the custom.
When the coast guards came on board,
seeing that he couldn’t trust ‘em,
good old Nathan drew his sword.
But one coast guard, faster, bolder,
with a little servant’s hump,
cut his arm off at the shoulder
which fell deckwards with a thump.
Gather round to hear the story
of a man who meant no harm,
how in battle, cruel and gory,
One-armed Nathan lost his arm.

He, as fiery as twelve spices,
grabbed the dagger with his left,
cut the coast guard into slices
to avenge the armèd theft,
then, just like his pirate brothers
loving bloodshed, gore and fun,
killed their captain, and the others
realised the best man won.
They apologised sincerely
for our suff’rings, wounds and cuts,
and the deck revealed most clearly
that they certainly had guts
and were heading for the gutter,
with no unharmed man around:
we cut holes into their cutter,
and we sent them to the ground.
Gather round to hear the story
of a man who meant no harm,
how in battle, cruel and gory,
One-armed Nathan lost his arm.

‘You’re a hero, One-armed Nathan’,
we all shouted. ‘With your gift
you’d defeat the wily Pathan!’,
but the hero looked quite miffed.
‘One-armed Nathan, what’s the matter?’,
asked Old Pete, as I recall.
‘I don’t like that fact, and better:
I don’t like that name at all!’
Once the gaping wound was serviced,
Nathan with his arm was gone,
took it to the taxidermist,
had it fixed and sawn back on.
‘May King Herod’s fate befall me,
if I bear that name’, he swore:
‘None of you shall ever call me
One-armed Nathan any more!’
Gather round to hear the story
of a man who meant no harm,
how in battle, cruel and gory,
Two-armed Nathan lost his arm.

31/08+1/09/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Pirate Songs of Rosses Point'

Dark Corners

I love dark corners. Though they say
the creatures of the dark
are evil, and to stay away
is best, I seek their spark.

They told me that all darkness hosts
a gathering of sons
of Lucifer of whom the ghosts
are the most harmless ones.

‘The dark is where I’ll always roam –
I’m not afraid’, I sneered,
‘because dark corners are my home,
and I’m the one who’s feared.’

30/08/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

The Thistle

In Killyvale there stands a thistle.
In sunshine and in rain
he still recalls the joyous whistle
he heard from many a train.

Oft he would ponder: ‘I can’t take it
much longer in this barren land,
I’ll take the train with which I’ll make it
to Crock or even Ballysand.’

Yet he had second thoughts and faltered
each time the train went by -
thinking of home, his plans were altered:
‘I’ll give it one more try!’

But this time he’s determined. Humming
a tune (though lacking skill),
he swears: ‘I’ll take the next train coming –
honest to God, I will!’

Now that was fifty years ago. The
conductor’s evil streak
made sure he never got to know the
line was shut down that week.

And if you pass the Killyvale way,
in sunshine and in rain
you’ll find him standing at the railway
and waiting for a train.

29-30/08/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

Dead Man’s Point

Their captain barked that they were late,
and that they mustn’t hang about!
The crew did nurse their dying mate;
meanwhile the tide was rolling out,
and since he didn’t move, they said
it was most likely he was dead.

They buried him beneath the sand,
but, just in case, left out his head,
and placed a bottle in his hand,
and in the other a loaf of bread,
bade him farewell with tear-filled eyes
and sailed away ‘neath solemn skies.

We watched the scene from Elsinore,
and when their ship was out of sight,
we checked the barrow on the shore,
unearthed him in the fading light,
made sure the hapless lad was dead
and poured his wine and broke his bread.

26+28/08/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Pirate Songs of Rosses Point'

Sailors of the Shore

When stars come out at night time,
we meet at Elsinore,
for this is just the right time
for stocking up our store.
We hoist the Jolly Roger,
and those who cross our way,
the vessels with each lodger,
won’t see another day.
Set sail! We’re fearless traders
who plunder and explore,
we are sadistic raiders
and sailors of the shore:
when vicious winds are blowing,
we’re sailing and we’re rowing,
and when the cock is crowing,
we’re back at Elsinore.

We sail the wicked ocean
and challenge Neptune’s pow’rs,
we kill without emotion
and take what is not ours -
be it a local trawler,
the galleon of a king,
we will be taking all her
goods and her lives and sing:
Set sail! We’re fearless traders
who plunder and explore,
we are sadistic raiders
and sailors of the shore:
when vicious winds are blowing,
we’re sailing and we’re rowing,
and when the cock is crowing,
we’re back at Elsinore.

Yes, we embrace the savage
commitment of the gales,
the hurricanes that ravage
and tear apart our sails.
So coast guards, get the message
that you can’t stop our game,
for we have found the passage
to riches and to fame!
Set sail! We’re fearless traders
who plunder and explore,
we are sadistic raiders
and sailors of the shore:
when vicious winds are blowing,
we’re sailing and we’re rowing,
and when the cock is crowing,
we’re back at Elsinore.

24-26/08/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Pirate Songs of Rosses Point'

The Bells of St Columbus

The bells of St Columbus
have tolled for me: I burn
the bridge of Life, becoming
a pilgrim of no return.

The halls of St Columbus
are teeming with the seeds
of philosophic flowers
nobody ever heeds.

The yard of St Columbus
is haunted by the shades
of those who once were human
and now are renegades.

And if you keep on doing
the things your teachers do,
the bells of St Columbus
will soon ring out for you!

July/August 6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

The Caves of Rosses Point

In the caves of Rosses Point
whale is served and torches lit,
for tonight we shall anoint
our new captain. Turn the spit,
pass the jug of ale around
with a jolly burping sound!

Two-armed Nathan wove a crown
out of seaweed and a rose,
Small Paul repossessed a gown
from the Spanish King: he knows,
noble clothes for noble men
should attire each noble plan!

Our good fortune had declined
till Old Pete, the Iron Bar,
unheroically resigned,
dying of pneumonia;
now Black Jack, with firmer hand,
leads our merry killing band!

And we shall not be deprived
of sweet pleasures in our den:
our first shipment has arrived
with a Spanish galleon.
There’s chorizo we can dine
on and lots of Spanish wine!

With tobacco in pipes of clay,
straight from the Americas,
we will celebrate this day
underneath the Rossian stars,
for tonight we’ll rock the joint
in the caves of Rosses Point!

July/August 6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Pirate Songs of Rosses Point'

Fear

The pubs have closed their doors, and people stay
at home. The town is still, the streets deserted,
the daunting silence echoes from the hills:
none dare disturb the calm before the storm.
The storm would come? It always came before,
this time will be no different. – One holds one’s breath
and quietly prays behind drawn curtains.

The town awaits a funeral tomorrow:
a man whose death will waken vengeful spirits
and bring to life the demons of the present,
the future and the past. Today arrives
the violently grieving family.
He will be laid to rest tomorrow morning,
the town to unrest in the night.

Dawn breaks. One listens to the news: last night
an empty house was burnt, and there have been
a few small fights. - The funeral, however,
is yet to come; the Gards have seized some weapons
that had been hidden in the cemetery.
Still, all is passing off without a battle:
this time, one thinks, we got off lightly.

But this is not the end of it. Give it
a week or half a year, and we shall see
another funeral; for everyone
they kill, two of the others have to die,
continuing the cycle of death, tradition
of two large families who have no purpose
save that of killing one another.

15-20/08/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

Adolescence

At the weekend the family goes to the lake
with their lunch boxes, soft drinks and snacks,
and the children spread out to play at the beach,
and the adults sit down and relax.

You wish you were either but know you are neither:
you’re invisible through and through,
and the ones most unlikely to understand
are the ones in the same boat as you.

4/08/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

Evensong

When at dusk your shadow lingers
in the forests where we wait,
we, the sombre Stygian singers,
sound the hollow note of Fate.

Zeus remains our trusted drummer
as the force of Day takes flight:
we’re the birds of little summer,
we’re the harbingers of Night!

26/07/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

Playing God

Why shouldn’t God play dice? How does he pass
the idle hours in between creations,
after his angels went to sleep or work,
and he desires some adult entertainment?

Why shouldn’t God play dice? It is a vice
to gamble when relying on the outcome,
but here’s a man who couldn’t lose at all –
and if he did, he’d have no trouble paying.

Why shouldn’t God play dice? Has he no right
to improvise whenever he’s creating,
can he not do whate’er he wants to do
without requiring scientists’ approval?

22+25/07/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

The Girl with the Purple Hair

When they told me the girl was a tree witch
I ran off to the forest and shinned
up a birch for a glance at her cleavage
and her purple hair in the wind.

Like the dewdrops adorning the heather
in the morning when all things remain,
I enjoy the most turbulent weather
with her purple hair in the rain.

How I long for a happy tomorrow
and the peace I can never find
with the weight of this planet’s sorrow
and her purple hair on my mind.

29/04+1/05/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

The Ghost

This evening Tiddles counted sheep,
and very soon he fell asleep
with just his heartbeat in the room:
(-) Boom! (-) Boom! (-) Boom! (-) Boom!*

But he wakes up and turns around
because he hears a spooky sound.
Is someone else inside the room? -
Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom!

So he’s hiding deep under his blanket and sheet,
and he feels how his heart starts to quicken its beat.
He’s afraid that a ghost may have entered the room;
Ba-ba-boom! Ba-ba-boom! Ba-ba-boom! Ba-ba-boom!

Then he turns on the light and sees
the curtains moving in the breeze.
There is no ghost inside the room -
Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom!

So Tiddles counts his sheep again,
and soon he falls asleep again
with just his heartbeat in the room:
(-) Boom! (-) Boom! (-) Boom! (-) Boom!*

* (-) indicates a pause of one syllable in length

The intention of the poem is to point out how rhythm relates to (and derives from) the heartbeat, and how it can get faster with increasing excitement/activity.

14-17/04/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'Horses Can Fly'

Premonition

The green and yellow of the season render
the music to a symphony of dreams;
not a good year for daffodils, it seems,
but those that grew show off in perfect splendour.
The waves caress the shoreline in a tender
embrace, the propagating grassland teems
with merry birds, rejuvenating beams
of a forgotten sun awake the slender
daisies who had been sleeping for so long
in Winter’s black and unforgiving shade,
the brambles that were dead are twice as strong,
and where the poet’s viewing spot is laid
he calmly listens to the skylark’s song
- these are the days when tragedies are made.

April 6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'

A Song in Times of Famine

Potato blight in Ireland – we all know what that spells:
not just the spuds are blighted since we have nothing else!
Who still has strength to labour, if just for bed and board,
is tending well-fed cattle to feed his British Lord.
But do not feel disheartened to know our fate is sealed,
for soon we shall be resting in Widow Touhy’s Field.

All those who can afford it sail to the Promised Land
or the invader’s country to feed their people, and
will anxiously be waiting for news with bated breath,
grateful for all his children who didn’t starve to death.
But you and I are going where walls of earth will shield
us from the coming turmoil in Widow Touhy’s Field.

The fancy folk are buried amongst the gulls and swans:
the Catholics in the Abbey, the others in St John’s,
where monumental coffins protrude from shallow ground
and ancient skulls and bodies lie scattered all around.
But we shall hear sweet music when harvesting our yield,
and crows will be our consort in Widow Touhy’s Field.

14-21/02/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

The Scrapyard of Man

When we don’t feel complete, and we’re cracking
up because we are lost, we can find
the essential parts we are lacking
on the Scrapyard of Mankind.

Many come to this secret location
who for their relief find a valve,
or some wings for their imagination,
or a door to their innermost self.

Some buy leads to ignite their numb spirit
or a pipe for a quiet smoke,
or a wheel if they like to stir it,
or, just for the laugh, a choke.

Some have come to obtain a spare tyre,
for their soul a mirror to see,
give their partner a brake or acquire
a bonnet for their bee.

I myself got a headlight that searches
for my way, but I now understand
that, just like you can’t trust a new purchase,
you can’t trust something bought second-hand.

3-5/01/6248 RT (2007 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Working for the Lidl People

To lead you away from your life and your comforts
and make certain you won’t be aware you’ve been trapped,
they’ll give you assurances (keeping straight faces)
intending to keep you but not to be kept.

To trust them is one thing you’ll quickly be cured of,
to fear them you’ll learn, and you’ll learn that your strife
to be treated as human must fail since you’re chattel:
they’ll be draining your blood, they’ll be draining your life.

Late at night when you sleep like a log after burning,
they’ll drag you out of your bed, and they don’t
have qualms as they drive you all god-given hours -
for some they may pay you, for others they won’t.

They call you at night when you’re on your vacation,
they call you at night when you’re sick, and I’d say
they wouldn’t think twice as you lie on your deathbed
to tell you you’ll have to come in for the day.

Don’t mention your rights since they do not exist here,
and fairness is something you’ll learn not to miss;
the only law are the orders they give you,
for the law has no place in such places as this.

You’ll have to be there whenever they need you,
while you, as their slave, have no needs of your own.
You both signed a contract; for you it is binding,
your body is theirs and your soul is long gone.

Your eyes are cast downwards, your spirit is broken,
and as zombies, not living nor dead you must dwell;
and if we were given the choice once again now,
we’d surely be choosing Hell!

January 6248 RT (2007 CE)

Hibernation

When the birches turn red in November
and the salmon are ceasing to leap
and the streams fill with rain from the mountains
it is time for all creatures to sleep.

To escape both the cold and the darkness
man and beast close their eyes to the world,
for the world now is dreaming and waiting
for the craturs that Nature has furled.

And when colour returns to the forests
and the salmon are seen in the lake
and the daffodils herald Life’s triumph
we should think about whether to wake.

11+19/12/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

The Last Islander

Where herons stalk the playful fish
in the waters of Lough Gill,
there sleeps a densely wooded isle
of calm where time stands still.

They’ve called it Beezie’s Island since
the aging widow came
to live here, and not many folk
recall its proper name.

To get her pension, she would row
to town, and afterwards
you’d find her in the kitchen where
she’d sit and feed the birds.

The robins, squirrels, crows and swans
who ate out of her hand
and every animal around
considered her their friend.

All visitors were welcome who
respected Beezie’s pets,
and only one of them got barred
for throwing stones at rats.

When blizzards raged throughout the spring
of forty-seven, she
stayed on her island though she knew
how risky it would be.

The frozen lake had cut her off;
the smoke soon ceased to rise
from Beezie’s chimney, and her friends
sought ways to bring supplies.

Guardai and locals hired a truck
to haul a boat and fill
it with some firewood, coal and food
at the shoreline of Lough Gill.

A dozen men carefully pushed
the boat across the lake,
ready to jump aboard in case
the fragile ice should break.

Huddled in sheets between her cat
and dog they found the old
lady; her pets had died before
of hunger and of cold.

Taken to Sligo General,
she soon became a star:
to meet the Lady of the Lake
folk came from near and far.

One evening, just outside the door,
as Beezie fetched her comb,
she heard a nurse suggesting they
should put her in a home.

Beezie discharged herself that night
and rowed back to her isle
where she had breakfast with the friends
she’d missed for quite a while.

Though over ninety, she was full
of vigour and of wit;
she did not suffer from old age,
nor did she die of it:

One Christmas season, as so oft,
some of her friends from town
came to cut wood for Beezie’s fire
and found her house burnt down.

No one has dwelt upon the lake
since the old lady’s gone,
but in all things that crawl and fly
her spirit still lives on.

(Photograph by Gertrude O'Reilly)

September/October 6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Little Friend Behind the Door

Little friend behind the door,
as you strut across the floor,
gently measuring your pace,
I admire your pride and grace.

With a twinkle in your eyes
you take care of midges, flies
and our other tiny friends
whom a weird creator sends.

On your endless legs you sneak
up to them to take a peek;
as your patient playmate waits,
you approach him on all eights.

Furry pal, as soft as wool
and bizarrely beautiful,
you are such a pretty sight,
I could watch you day and night.

When you’re where you shouldn’t be,
on my hand I’ll gingerly
put you where you were before,
little friend behind the door.

August/September 6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

The Adults’ Playground

Where all greeting is competing
while the old and wise are messing,
in the middle of that riddle
lies the truth in blue cheese dressing.

They barter their oath at the market
for that wind chime they urgently need,
then they’re selling the bricks of their houses
the mouths of their children to feed.

As we smirk at every kirkhead
in the playground of the grown-ups
we can witness all the witless
adults bowing to their blown-ups.

They celebrate Death as their saviour,
they put their balm where it hurts,
they took the L out of Christmas
and dressed it in polka-dot skirts.

They’re forgetful, not regretful,
just like little Hip-Lun-Mivvin;
as they sell you they will tell you
it’s the real world that they live in.

24/08/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Lighthouse Keeper

Being a lighthouse keeper
is all one needs to be:
to live in peace and quiet
while keeping an eye on the sea,

To watch the changing colours
of the ocean and the sky,
the undecisive tide as
the world of blue rolls by,

To sit there in the evenings,
having a pipe, a drink,
and to decide at leisure
who’ll live and who will sink.

25-29/07/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

In the Morning

The crimson streaks of morning
stretch low across the skies:
the sun sent his red riders
to tell us he will rise.

Then get your spirit ready
to share, to take and give,
and shed a thought to those ones
who aren’t allowed to live.

17/07/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

The Birch and the Mountain

Mountain:
My bidding must be done, tree!
I’m ancient, large and tall;
I dominate the country
while you are weak and small.

Birch:
It seems that you’re not thinking
ahead; it won’t stay so,
for you’re forever shrinking,
and I’ll forever grow!

11/07/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Lough Nasool Unplugged

Two score two years ago, the summer I
was born, not e’en a little pool
remained where, out of turn, a lake went dry:
they’d pulled the plug on Lough Nasool.

One score one year ago, the summer I
first came to Sligo was quite cool,
yet, out of turn, the mystic lake went dry:
they’d pulled the plug on Lough Nasool.

This summer I keep wondering about
the coming lesson in Life’s school,
for something’s up, of this I have no doubt:
they pulled the plug on Lough Nasool.

10/07/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

On My Return to Derry After Eighteen Years

The tanks have gone, the walls remain.
It’s been too long; I did refrain
from coming here, I have to tell,
the town that I have loved so well,
not for the people I did meet,
but armoured cars in every street.

The friendliest people worked their charms
and welcomed me with open arms
to this quaint place when first I came;
yet I would never say its name,
and that’s because I never knew
which party I was talking to.

The one thing that I could not bear
was seeing soldiers everywhere.
At every corner of the town
they held their guns, marched up and down;
I feared, as I walked down the road,
they’d shoot or something might explode.

Those days are gone; for good, we hope,
since people now have learnt to cope -
one listens to the other side,
and hands are crossing the divide:
I took the bus, just like before,
to see the friendly folk once more.

And when the place and time was right,
I went into that magic night
of pleasures I’d enjoyed before
that the Republic knows no more:
a crowded pub, a pint, a smoke,
a live band and the casual joke.

A group of youngsters joined me there
and asked me who I was, from where,
and what I do; they got my stout
but spurned me when it was my shout,
saying: ‘We all want you to feel
welcome in Derry, that’s the deal!‘

Hungover I returned again
from my best weekend since the ban,
but I’ll be back there, I can tell,
before they ban the fun as well
and make us smoke on yard or lane:
the tanks have gone, the walls remain.

21/02+8/07/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

The End

Now, my friend, we close the curtain
on the future of the past,
and the die that should ascertain
our envisioned doom is cast.

We have challenged Fate maturely
from our castle in the tree,
but the comets’ lot is surely
not what it’s cracked up to be.

There’s no aspidistra flying,
there’s no smoking at the bar,
and the dreams we had of dying
play at every cinema.

10-11/05/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

The Mystical Lady of Hennessy’s Corner

‘Twas Christmas Eve for the guys from An Post
who’d returned from their rounds to the store,
full of chocolate and cake and the Christmas drinks
they were served at many a door.

John, too, stumbled out of his van; on all fours
he crawled to the office, but when
he was told he forgot a delivery,
he had to crawl back to the van.

He climbed in and headed for Ballintogher
where even the wind makes no sound,
where there’s only dark woods and no living soul
for dozens of miles around.

The woods of Ballintogher
are treacherous and deep,
and no one dares examine
the secrets they may keep.

He turned at a corner, a song on his lips,
looking forward to biscuits and tea,
when a magical force changed the course of the van
and wrapped it around a tree.

The Gards soon arrived, and, testing his breath,
grew as pale as the wintery sky:
‘Dear God, you’re as drunk as a sailor’, they screamed,
‘you may kiss your licence goodbye!’

‘I swear that I had not a drop while I drove,
but after the accident
a lady appeared from among the trees
and approached me, a glass in her hand.

‘She was stately and young, with flowing red hair,
and she wore a transparent gown,
and she helped me up, and she told me: “You need
a brandy to calm yourself down.”

‘I emptied the glass in one go, and she filled
it up once more, combed her hair
and vanished into the woods again,
like she was never there!’

The woods of Ballintogher
are treacherous and deep,
and no one dares examine
the secrets they may keep.

Since then drivers stop there on Christmas Eve,
and they wait, as the sun slowly sinks,
for the Mystical Lady of Hennessy’s Corner
to bring them their Christmas drinks.

17-20/02/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Who are These That Ride in the Shadows

Who are these that ride in the shadows
with the sign we all know in their palms,
those whose eyes and whose bodies are hollow,
with the ten-horned child in their arms?

Who the horses that leave not a hoof print
in the snow or the sand or the mud,
who don’t even slow down in their gallop
when up to the bridle in blood?

And, pray tell, who are these that are watching
and conclude this occurrence must mean
it’s the end of the world; what, I wonder,
would they think if they’d see what I’ve seen?

28/01/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

A New World

We took the last bus to Atlantis
and boarded for Hy-Brazil,
and Ziggy, the praying mantis,
just looked at the sea and got ill.

We set sail in the looming sunset,
we sailed for a day and ten nights;
all that time we were watching the nuns at
the stern who were mending their tights.

And the merchants of doom set the table
for the crew at the end of the trip;
they came down, and they opened the stable,
and we hurried to get off the ship.

And the mist on the island grew denser
as we looked for a place of our own,
but we knew that the vapour dispenser
would be empty before we were grown.

And after two years and a battle
of wits we enjoyed the blue skies,
and Ziggy was minding the cattle
while we were minding the flies.

10-12/01/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Creations

They eat all things they can get hold of
and know no manners and no shame,
they urinate at every corner
they pass to stake their petty claim.

By making noise to wake a graveyard,
the poor neglected creatures try
to gain attention by annoying
the neighbours and the passers-by.

They jump around like they’ve been bitten
by flees or demons, though they may
prove that they’re clever by retrieving
the things that others throw away.

They stick their nose in all excreta
that others dropped in any place,
then they’re returning to their owner,
sit up and lick his hand and face.

Each one of them has done and tasted
the sickest, vilest thing there is:
as God has made man in his image,
man has created dog in his.

5+10/01/6247 RT (2006 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

When Rock’n’Roll and I Were Friends

The First Revival was the first
I saw of him; I waited long.
Of all regrets it is the worst
that I was born too late – his song
was still the same, but I recall
the Fifties had a better sound,
yet I am grateful after all
I met him while he was around:
the world was music and romance
when Rock’n’Roll and I were friends.

His ballroom was the place to be
where time went backwards and stood still:
I rocked with Chuck and Jerry Lee
and walked with Fats on Blueberry Hill.
The legends lived; they’d never die
as long as we kept rocking on!
We danced in the Hall of Fame, and I
felt cherished by the Pantheon
when Johnny Cash and I shook hands
and Rock’n’Roll and I were friends.

Those were the days, and far too few,
when red-haired Gina stroked my hair
at Rockabilly Ballyhoo
and led me to the dance floor where
we danced so wild, so fast, so tight;
I think I never danced that much!
She left with someone else that night,
but I still feel her body’s touch,
the magic sparkles of that dance
when Rock’n’Roll and I were friends.

He has retired, but I still see
him every now and then in town;
we’d share a joke or pleasantry,
and as I’d listen with a frown
he’d tell me of his plans to go
back into business very soon,
some night when all the lights are low
and lovers worship the Blue Moon.
‘When’s that?’, I’d ask. – ‘Well, that depends...’
Yes, Rock’n’Roll and I were friends!

20-21/12/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

The Frogmaster’s Initiation

There is a limit to inflation,
especially on Friday when
I’ll get my first imagination
and have to seek the vulture’s den.

And I shall then translate a saga
from modern Hybrid into Greek
under the influence of lager,
but there’s a Wednesday in each week.

I am a men who needs a mission,
like braving social etiquette,
but then the lack of malnutrition
will quickly put an end to that.

There’s nothing wrong with being bitter
for one whose bed’s not made of hay:
for those who live in gold and glitter
life has a thousand shades of grey.

And who are they? The animation
of little men, half king, half gnome;
they have their luggage at the station
and leave their overcoats at home.

Their railroad tracks are quite amazing -
jump on my train of thought and find
the hairy demons who are raising
the bushy brow of humankind.

The day after forever beckons
the ancient future as of late,
and with the love that waits and reckons
let us remember how to hate.

When all is dead that has been living,
simply because if failed to please,
we will remain the unforgiving,
we still will have our memories!

6/12/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Payback Time

White man, the million trees that fed
a people for a thousand years,
the forest of their life is dead
since you have claimed it for your peers;
you have completed your grand theft,
chopped the last tree for lumber, not
forgetting its last fruit and left
a desert in its place. This spot
will feed its people nevermore;
now they come knocking at your door
for help to get them back on track:
don’t give them alms! Just pay them back.

Not only did you take their few
resources like their food and trees,
you even took their people, too!
Abducted from their families,
the slaves were forced to work and breed
like cattle to create your vast
fortunes, and once these men were freed,
you left them penniless. The past,
you claim, once dealt with, counts no more;
now they come knocking at your door
for help to get them back on track:
don’t give them alms! Just pay them back.

You rob the land, the gold, the oil,
the coal, all goods of any worth
from every place your hands can soil,
from every country on this Earth,
then point at those that you deprive
of wealth and dignity and say:
I’ll loan you what I robbed, but strive
to pay your interest every day!
With nothing left, they pay no more,
and now they’re knocking at your door
for help to get them back on track:
don’t give them alms! Just pay them back.

And you who owe the white man naught
except the finger, when at last
all debts are settled (what a thought!),
you’ll live in comfort, and the past
will seem an unrelenting trial
rewarded by eternal bliss,
by growing wealth and fortune while
the white man thirsts and starves since his
‘developed countries’ are no more;
he will come knocking at your door
for help to get him back on track:
don’t give him alms! Don’t let him back!

I always believed the terms developing countries and developed countries to be as incorrect as they are patronising, and the proper distinction should be between exploiting countries and exploited countries.

4-5/12/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Why Atheists Have One More Reason To Be Pro-Life

Pro-Life is usually associated
with people who subscribe to a religion
such as Christianity, and who are taught
to think that way and who may think or not.
And I don’t talk about those hypocrites
who justify, decree or execute
post-natal murders for their own religion,
be it that of a god or race or nation,
I talk about the few ones who believe
in equal rights for all of their God’s creatures.

And yet, though they oppose the selfish slaughter
of human beings, their belief still renders
hope for the child in some unspecified
time in the future when, as they believe,
he or she will be rising from the dead.
We atheists don’t share that faith and therefore
have one more motive to defend their lives;
the reason to be pro-life shouldn’t be
religion or the deep disgust at lefties
but a profound respect for human life!

We don’t believe that there’s a second chance,
a second life for those who die in wombs,
we don’t believe in that divine accountant
who, with one stroke, will set the balance straight:
we don’t think there’s a possibility
of justice or of reconciliation
in the spiritual word, and that is why
we should feel even stronger when it comes to
the right to live on Earth, because we know:
we only live once - that’s if we live at all!

28/11-2/12/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Childhood

Teach me how to watch and talk
so that I may speak my mind,
show me where it’s safe to walk
till the time that I will find
my own way with watchful eye:
take my hand and let me fly!

And I’ll take you up with me
to the sky, and while we soar
high above the world, you’ll see
things you’ve never seen before
as the clouds are rolling by:
take my hand and let me fly!

25/11/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

The Peace of the Dunes

When the bustle and noise of the city around
pierce my mind with their beat and monotonous sound
and the voice in my head sings her ominous tunes
I retire from the town to the peace of the dunes.

Where the buttercups melt in the sun, where the skies
and the bluebells that silently ring in my eyes
spread the sound of a higher serenity
I lie down to the song of our lady the sea.

For pacific souls in Atlantic domains
this gate to the other realm still remains:
in the sun’s gentle light and at night the pale moon’s,
there is nothing on Earth like the peace of the dunes.

August/September 6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Little Old Lady

Little old lady climbed up a tree,
little old lady, weak as can be.

Little old lady got up the trunk,
little old lady, still full of spunk.

Little old lady, poor little wench,
little old lady sat on a branch.

Little old lady leaned on a twig,
little old lady, losing her wig.

Little old lady reached for the sky,
little old lady thought she could fly.

Little old lady fell off the tree;
little old lady, wish you were me.

August/September 6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'Horses Can Fly'

Lucky Escape

The square has left the town and runs
up to the distant hills;
the streets pursue him, shoot their guns
but only scratch the mills.

The town hall watches silently,
the houses cheer the square,
the shops insist without them he
won’t make it anywhere.

It’s on this square’s where autumn holds
her jolly fair each year,
where local merriment unfolds
like it was always here.

The magistrate who owns the town
once won a poker game
against her when the blind was down,
and was the blind to blame?

She had the chance to strip, but though
autumn strips flow’r and tree,
she would not strip herself, and so
they both came to agree:

That he could take what he desired
from her, any place and time;
he took the things she most admired
and didn’t give a dime.

And autumn hung her head in shame
and claimed it wasn’t fair,
but he maintained that in this game
he won them, fair and square.

The streets chase with a roundabout
the square who tries to hide;
a little market place jumps out
and pulls him to the side.

And in a nesting box at ten
he scored with her right there;
she was a born piazza then,
but now they are all square.

20+22/08/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

By Any Other Name

A wise man said that which we call a rose
by any other name would smell as sweet.
What’s in a name? As everybody knows,
it is the thing and not the name that’s sweet.

What if the ancient Romans had been less
romantic in those rustic days of yore,
if they had found it growing where an ass
had left its smelly mark not long before?

They would have called it dungthorn, and today
it would be used on chocolate box designs,
and girls would count and boastfully display
the dungthorns they receive on Valentine’s.

From every corner of the world we know
people would come to Kerry just to see
and celebrate the highlight of the show:
the crowning of the Dungthorn of Tralee.

If a corrupt official was about
to be exposed but sees the telltale die,
the public would remark that he came out
smelling of dungthorns – what a lucky guy!

A poem without dungthorns couldn’t win
a woman’s heart nor instigate her lust,
and I would tell you life has always been
a bed of dungthorns for the upper crust.

Our amorous encounters then would be
under the dungthorn – we must be discreet,
and we would say a dungthorn, naturally,
by any other name would smell as sweet.

30/06+10/08/6246 RT (2005 CE),added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Billy the Bowl

There is someone lies dead in the bushes,
left with naught save his body and soul;
someone else arms it down to the Liffey
with the loot of the night in his bowl.
One can still hear the rusty wheels screeching
as his silhouette rolls out of sight,
and the corpse of his victim grows colder
as he vanishes into the night.

He was born on the wrong side of Dublin
without legs, which made him stand out;
a compassionate blacksmith provided
a wheeled bowl so he could move about.
He was liked and renowned as a beggar,
but since begging does not pay a bill,
he exploited alternative incomes,
not depending on people’s good will.

All those silver-spooned folk in their coaches
did not know of a mendicant’s strife,
and as life had been tough with young Billy,
young Billy got tough with life.
Every night he would down a few whiskeys,
then the legless vagrant would lie
in the thicket and wait for a lady
or a nobleman to pass by.

With his plaintive voice he’d be calling
out for help to get out of the ditch;
when a victim bent down to assist him,
he’d be grabbing their throat and hitch
their head in his bowl where he’d strangle
them till all signs of life had ceased,
take their money and other possessions
and return to the bottle, well pleased.

Before leaving the scene, as his trademark
he’d roll over their head once or twice,
and then swiftly return to the shelter
to indulge in his gambling vice.
So whenever you hear someone calling
in distress when you’re out on a stroll,
run away, don’t look back, and remember:
none escaped who met Billy the Bowl!

In 1786, Billy the Bowl was convicted of (a rather crude case of) attempted robbery. However, many people believed that this was not his first time; some suspected that his previous victims had been too embarrassed to come forward, others supported the more morbid theory that they didn’t live to tell the tale, creating the legend of the mass-murdering invalid.

2-3/08/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Sub Rosa

He silently watches her boarding the train
with all of the others, with whom she’ll remain
throughout the whole journey they’re ready to start,
the haute école rider who burns up his heart,
who’s vainly amused at the way he must feel
whose laughter is fake but whose tears are real.

The pitiful clown, the director’s young wife:
the queen and the pauper of circus life -
she deems him unworthy of shaking her hand.
He goes with the animals - they understand
his woes and vexations on which he’d discourse:
he sits on a box, and he talks to her horse.

A gentle voice answers – he pricks up his ears,
and out of the shadows the rider appears;
she leans on her horse as the siren-in-chief
and tenderly smiles as she shares in his grief.
Her words of compassion seem kind and sincere
and mellow his heart to a meadow of cheer.

She lowers her voice so they cannot be heard.
There’s no need to tell him to breathe not a word;
the others would laugh, and the girl would deny
there ever was more than her passing him by.
She looks in his eyes and she sees that he knows:
their grand conversation is under the rose.

He sits in the silence his goddess has left;
the morrow will see him of friendship bereft
when she will not grant him as much as a glance.
But still he will cherish – forever, perchance -
this moment of joy he can never disclose:
this grand conversation was under the rose.

22+26/07/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

Inspired by the Jack B. Yeats painting This Grand Converstion was under the Rose

Cobweb

See how it glitters in the sun
after all rain and thunder:
a skilful architect has done
his best to shape this wonder.

The cobweb is a dainty thing,
yet tough and indurating,
and creatures travelling on wing
may find it captivating.

Those trapped resist their hidden lord
with rage and apprehension,
tighten the net and pull the cord
to catch their host’s attention.

The struggling insects lose their nerve
and soon accept they’re beaten;
once paralysed, they will observe
themselves being wrapped and eaten.

This is the web of life for you,
and as you fight and languish,
each move just brings you closer to
the eight-legged god of anguish.

23+25/05/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'Fixing a Hole in the Ocean'

The Bystanders

We gazed at the sea and debated,
as they burnt our town to the ground,
the beauty of God’s creation
in everything around.

We basked in the sun that the Maker
made to bring light and life to this earth
as they butchered our friends in their houses
and spilled their blood on the hearth.

When they poisoned our water and cattle
and the others prepared for the worst,
we sat and admired the sunset,
and now we hunger and thirst.

19/04/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Finale

And has this planet room for two?
We watch the darkness as it glows;
in everything we say or do
we see the velvet curtain close.

And yet, and yet we must abide
within our world, just you and me:
we must be moving with the tide
of a perennial galaxy.

Only one of the prophecies
can ever be fulfilled, and so
the birds are singing in the trees,
and one of us will have to go.

16+19/04/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Worlds

She stood at the door of the caravan
and stared at the radiant sky
when he drove to college in his
first convertible.

She sat on a box in the car park
and peeled the potatoes for supper
when his limousine brought him to church
on his wedding day.

She played with her kids in the alley,
dressed in anything others could spare,
when he went to his child's First Communion
in his favourite suit.

She lay in a grave by the roadside,
unmarked, with no headstone nor flowers,
when the mourners followed his hearse
all the way to the churchyard.

March/April 6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

To Those Resting in Carrowmore

You watched over your Queen and gave
your best to let her rule the wave
and all it is enclosing;
how does it feel, oh ancient brave,
when cows are gazing on your grave?

You have been fighting for Queen Maeve
when men and women didn’t shave
nor trimmed their hair for fashion;
how does it feel, oh ancient brave,
when cows are grazing on your grave?

You have been resting in your grave
for many thousand years and save
your strength for her arrival;
how does it feel, oh ancient brave,
when cows are lazing on your grave?

March 6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Hero’s Welcome

You’re a hero made to measure
from the consecrated place,
and we’re grateful for the pleasure
to have met you face to face.

You have found the one solution
to the problem no one knew:
welcome to the institution,
we have been expecting you!

Leave your keys at the reception,
leave your worries at the door
and hand over that contraption
the director asked you for.

You have made your contribution
to the future we went through:
welcome to the institution,
we have been expecting you!

Nice young girls will entertain you,
nice young men in clean white coats
will sufficiently sustain you
with analysis and oats.

You prevented the pollution
of our doctrine from the pew:
welcome to the institution,
we have been expecting you!

18-19/02/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Travel Companion

We all who are hiding her corpse in the cella
are temples of secrets too sacred to tell,
and those who were born with the Grey Arabella
will die with the Grey Arabella as well.

She teaches why man won’t be human nor clever,
why pleasures weren’t meant for disciples of her,
why only despair will be lasting forever,
while all of us listen without demur.

She gave us a backbone, a solid patella
and a bedridden spirit with whom we must dwell,
for those who were born with the Grey Arabella
will die with the Grey Arabella as well.

Phlegmatically chairing our minds’ torpid senate,
she always is with us – we still feel alone,
endure all the pains that are known to this planet
and make the world’s suff’rings our very own.

There’s no Before Midnight, still each Cinderella
must dance for the queens in the Ballroom of Hell,
and those who were born with the Grey Arabella
will die with the Grey Arabella as well.

17/02/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Theban Villanelle

At the location of the Sphinx
near the deserted Theban wharf
you’ll always find a little minx.

Nobody listens to their shrinks,
to Richard Wagner or Carl Orff
at the location of the Sphinx.

For inspiration, friendship, drinks
and holidays in Oberstdorf
you’ll always find a little minx.

It’s hard to stay in shape, methinks,
for any girl and polymorph
at the location of the Sphinx.

Her bust was shaped by man and lynx,
and once you brushed away the swarf,
you’ll always find a little minx.

Don’t overestimate your jinx
and make an ogre of a dwarf:
at the location of the Sphinx
you’ll always find a little minx.

9/02/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Silence

Born nineteen years after the monster
had gone and left its lair in ruins,
living with sixty million victims
who never talked about those days,
each time I saw an elder woman
or man, I wondered where they were.
I felt like screaming (but bit my tongue):
What did you do when you were young?

The priests, bus drivers, tramps and judges,
waitresses, dustmen, politicians,
retired couples on the park bench
or the old teacher at our school
may have appeared quite harmless – still
one never knows for sure, and often
I felt like screaming (but bit my tongue):
What did you do when you were young?

Three of the villains took their lives,
the remaining twelve were executed.
All others got away as servants
who followed orders; in the meantime
they died of (or are dying of)
old age, and it’s a shame I can’t
believe these people have to face
their judgement yet.

28/01-8/02/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Pride and Achievement

The Gnomes sat at the campfire
and passed the cup around
while smoking the tobacco
their busy wives had found.

‘We are proud men’, their chieftain
declared, ‘what makes us great!’
With this he nudged his neighbour:
‘What are you proud of, mate?’

The Gnome who sat beside him
just raised the cup and smiled:
‘I’m proud I slew that badger
who tried to eat your child!’

The Gnomes in turn were drinking
the wine their chief supplied
while listing the achievements
that filled their hearts with pride.

‘I’m proud I put up the barrier
that keeps away the mice,
and proud to see those flourish
who ask for my advice.’

‘I’m proud I build the burrows
in which our folk are safe
and all the dams that shelter
our village from the wave.’

‘I’m proud I pick the tubers
that feed our families
and the nutritious mushrooms
I find amongst the trees.’

‘I’m proud that I am writing
the songs you sing (or try)
and all the hymns and ballads
we’ll be remembered by.’

The last of them had nothing
to add but raised the cup;
his lack of motivation
could never shut him up.

Waving the flag of Gnomia,
he, with his mouth afoam,
screamed with endearing madness:
‘I’m proud to be a Gnome!’

28/01-6/02/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Paradise of Darkness

The Paradise of Darkness
lies at the barren shore
of the fetches’ isle whose starkness
welcomes the weak and sore.

Where crows and vultures flourish
in many a sapless tree,
all dreams that you may nourish
become reality.

Old ghost ships in their rancour
spread terror, dread and fear;
a lot of vessels anchor,
but none departs from here.

You’ll lie upon the rubble’s
rough surface sunlight shuns,
forgetting your small troubles
since you found bigger ones.

It always is December
round the dark tow’r of rue,
and in its darkest chamber
your nightmares will come true.

January 6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Trolls of the Woodland

The trolls of the woodland in Phoenix
aspire to evolve into elves,
and the trigger to this aspiration
is they have no respect for themselves.

So they’re tying soft wings to their shoulders
and, while flapping their arms up and down,
they are jumping from cliffs at the ocean,
each one wearing a delicate crown.

My old granny is scanning the seashore
for their bones amongst driftwood and spam,
and she sells them for scrap to the army
where they make damn good soldiers of them.

14/01/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Under the Lotterbush

We sat under the lotterbush
with daisies in our hair;
its flowers blossomed as we kissed,
and spring was in the air.

The lotterbush was where we met
when heart called out to heart,
and it was here we pledged our love
and said we’d never part.

The lotterbush sheltered our love,
and since it died away
no plant has grown, and not one flow’r
has seen the light of day.

But when I close my eyes, all things
that matter are still there:
I sit under the lotterbush
with daisies in my hair.

30/12/6245 RT (2004 CE) and 4/01/6246 RT (2005 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Doorstep of the Gods
- A Bohemian Odyssey -

Left on the doorstep of the Gods, he never
knew who he was and what he was about,
and so he looked for ways of finding out
rather than roam his guardians’ cloud forever.

One morning, just before the Earth was rising
and after having coffee with the stars,
he packed his toothbrush and his mem’ry jars
which held the arts of dream and self-surprising.

A gentle weirdness settled on the mountains
as a new trial galaxy was hedged,
the birds went to their worlds, and fully-fledged
deities gathered daisies at the fountains.

They didn’t notice him as he was crawling
past them across the pixie field with care -
or probably they did but were aware
he had to find the planet of his calling.

He took the night train to a constellation
on the horizon of the universe;
he heard men say their pray’rs and women curse
behind the styles and trolleys at the station.

And in the middle of the bustling city
the skilful carpenters pursued their trade,
and as he watched, the craft that they displayed
spoke out to him, a voice sincere and witty.

Soon he had learned their art and was respected
as one who wove his magic into ships
and carts; always a song upon his lips,
he build the chariots the Prince selected.

Invited to the court, he found the beauty
of life in wealth embezzled from the mob,
but when he caught him singing on the job,
the Prince himself released him from his duty.

Instead he was employed to play the lyre
before the Lords, the Princes and the King,
but as they picked the songs he had to sing,
he fled their world to find his mind’s desire.

And after many years of frugal squand’ring
he settled in the nursery of stars
and in that galaxy of chocolate bars
gave birth to what he called the child of wand’ring.

‘Who are you? And make sure you’re not mistaken’,
he whispered in his ear and gently smiled,
‘because it’s easy to mislead a child
onto the path the elders would have taken.

‘You may become a carpenter or singer
because I am, and let your true gifts fade;
maybe you are but choose another trade
‘cos your old man’s a carpenter and singer.’

The autumn planets shed their wisdom lightly,
enfogged in ages of the universe;
he went where gods and demigods rehearse
their Judgment Days and let their grace shine brightly.

He laid his son, as the last leaves were falling,
into a basket made of willow rods;
he left him on the doorstep of the gods
and sought again the planet of his calling.

5-14/12/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Detox Man

A demon on a mission,
too hideous to tell,
the red-eyed apparition
that you have called from Hell,

The Detox Man will find you
when you’re asleep at night,
and he’ll sneak up behind you
to wake you with a fright!

The Detox Man will get you
just when you think that things
could not get worse; he’ll set you
straight with the fits he brings.

He’s utterly appaling,
unwavering and grim;
you almost feel like calling
the beast that conquers him.

The Detox Man will take you
where no man went before,
he’ll burn and chill and break you,
and then you’ll burn once more.

He’ll torture, poke and sting you,
and once he’s through with you,
the Detox Man will bring you
back to the world you knew.

November 6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Ballad of Lawless Ronan

This is the tragic story of Lawless Ronan who
opposed the King’s commandment as everyone should do.
He broke the law, no question; but one, as we all saw,
ought to be lawless where the straitjacket is the law.

The monarch in his wisdom banned lying at the beach
as it makes dirty subjects, and he declared that each
offender would be punished severely who was found
with body parts knee-upwards touching the sandy ground.

Sun worshippers were raging, beach wardens did complain
that with this law their business would plummet down the drain,
but they were told that people could still go on a hike,
go swimming, fishing, surfing and anything they like.

The King warned that each warden who’d dare defy the ban
would lose his beach to others and pay a fine; that’s when
it dawned upon the wardens that help was out of reach,
and they put up the signs now: NO LYING AT THE BEACH!

But one of them was standing up for his clientele,
removed the signs and waited; there was no chance in hell
the law could be enforced if all wardens disobeyed
the edict that would ruin their profitable trade.

The constables came running and brought him to his knees
who never put a stop to the daylight robberies.
One only saw them when they themselves had robbed someone:
this was the first law ever enforced by them bar none!

Rather than stand united and disregard the ban
to make the law’s enforcement impossible, again
the other wardens grumbled, discussed their colleague’s fate
or hid behind the bushes and whispered: ‘Get ‘em, mate!’

So Lawless Ronan had to embrace what monarchs teach,
pay fines and put up posters: NO LYING AT THE BEACH.
He was an unsung hero, unsung he’ll be no more:
we’ll praise his unavailing courage from shore to shore!

Ronan Lawless was one of the few brave publicans who openly defied the smoking ban; unfortunately his example wasn't followed by others.

5-8/10/6245 RT (2004 CE)

Who

Where are they going,
those who stand by?
What are they showing,
those who deny?

When are we leaving,
we who must scorn?
Why are we weaving
clothes that aren’t worn?

10/09/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Approaching the Equinox

For trees the word is winter,
for clouds the word is gate,
and every sword’s a splinter
in dolphins born too late.

I never asked the seasons
to care for bread or milk,
but they must have their reasons
who dress in shirts of silk.

It’s nice to dress a reason
in silk to make him look
presentable, and treason
will get him off the hook.

But where the streams are wilder
and where the salmon leap,
fatalities are milder
and puddles dark and deep.

At Hazelwood the salmon,
convinced that they are cursed,
swim with a slice of lemon,
preparing for the worst.

9/09/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Our Home

On the roof of the world there are swallows
who all chirp from the depth of their breast,
there are sparrows and crows who are jousting
and the stork who is building his nest.
The odd squirrel collects the odd acorn
that got stuck in the tiles, and the sky
wears his friendliest blue for his creatures
with his light fluffy clouds sailing by.

In the garden most colourful flowers
are inviting the children to play,
and the living room sees happy people
as they rest at the close of the day.
Of all those who examine the basement
none comes back, yet the host stays polite;
he gets orders and thoughts in his bedroom
from the voices he hears in the night.

In the basement the gremlins are dwelling,
spraying carbon monoxide through cracks
in the ceiling; they poison the water
in the pipes and launch vermin attacks,
whisper slogans and chants through the floorboards
of the bedroom to kill and destroy:
they prepare for the day they take over
to get rid of all beauty and joy!

But even the gremlins are fearful
of the place that no tenant dare name,
for to think of (or mention!) the attic
brings disaster, misfortune and shame.
You may hear a strange scream, someone howling,
the strange silence that follows all woe -
but nobody knows what is up there,
and nobody wants to know.

8/09/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Moon Galley

Let’s sail to the Moon after midnight
when the tide of the spirits is low,
for tonight is We’re-lifting-the-lid night
in the valley of Where-I-will-go.

Let’s sail to the Moon in my galley
made of wood gained from breathing your skin
as he smiles on the hills and the valley
of the bountiful country I’m in.

Let’s sail to the Moon with the lyre
that won’t play on the Occident’s ships,
with the chill of the song of desire
as the veil separating our lips.

Let’s sail to the Moon, let us nestle
in the nook we abandoned too soon,
let’s lie down in the stern of my vessel
as we dance to the pulse of the Moon.

31/08/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Tinkey Lullaby

Tinkey tinkey, have a drinkey:
every drink from me is free
if you’re coming home with me.

Tinkey tinkey, buy a minkey:
you may wear it for a bit
till I peel you out of it.

Tinkey tinkey, if you thinkey
that we’re doing what we ought,
you think more than I’d have thought.

Tinkey tinkey, sleep a winkey;
when you’re back from Lethe’s shore,
you won’t know me any more.

17/08/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Birth of God

Son, the questions you are asking
are beyond your understanding;
where we’re from is hard to answer,
where we go to no one knows,
and with the dismal story of our people
a child your age should not be put to sleep.

Many hundred years ago our
forefathers have roamed the country,
led their cattle to new pastures
every now and then and brought
their family or tribe along; they worshipped
the gods that their own fathers served before.

But the growing population
caused a lot of other peoples
to migrate, take all lush pastures,
settle down and work the land
till finally no place was left where nomads
could rest and graze their cattle for a while.

Yet one family was lucky
as they were allowed to settle
on the fertile soil of Goshen
in the Kingdom of the Nile,
tax-paying subjects of a genial Pharaoh;
word spread, and soon all families were there.

Over many years they managed
to gain influence and power,
even to become advisers
to the Pharaoh and his court,
treasurers of the fabled gold of Egypt
and generals expanding his domain.

As the gods were feared, the priesthood
were the ones who ruled the country;
therefore Pharaoh Akhenaten
banned all gods bar one: the Sun
or Aten was to be the sole creator
in Pharaoh’s monotheon at the Nile.

Soon each reference to Amun
and the deities beside him
was removed, their names were chiselled
out of History; the priests
who could escape the sword went into hiding,
Thebes was deserted and its temples robbed.

Akhenaten built the city
Akhetaten for the Aten
and appointed us, his trusted
councillors, the Aten’s priests:
we were to organise the new religion,
its rituals, its creed and offerings.

Yet the subjects of the Pharaoh
ridiculed his silly concept:
Why would man and beast be struggling
if there only was one god,
how could the planet’s driving force of discord
have been created by one pow’r alone?

Ay, his Grand Vizier and uncle,
urged him to restore the other
gods and to abolish Aten;
Akhenaten wouldn’t hear
of it, but then our halcyon days were over
when Akhenaten died, no one knows how.

Tutankhamun, his successor,
was a boy, so the rapacious
Grand Vizier now ruled the Kingdom -
he brought back the ancient gods,
erased each trace and symbol of the Aten
and slew the priests who didn’t get away.

We still sacrificed to Aten
in the caves where we were hiding,
but we openly refused to
worship any other gods;
though we were persecuted and imprisoned
and even killed, we never lost our faith.

As he came of age, the Pharaoh
rediscovered the religion
of his father. First he worshipped
secretly and hid the priests;
when he reintroduced the cult of Aten,
his skull was smashed and Ay was back in charge.

He destroyed the Aten’s city,
massacred the priests and servants
he could find and quickly buried
Tutankhamun; the young King
and everything that had remained of Aten
were jammed into the tomb which then was sealed.

Many of our folk suggested
that we leave the hostile Kingdom,
but we had no place to go to,
so we had to stay and hide
our god from everybody else, for even
speaking of Aten meant a person’s death.

As his name could not be mentioned,
the believers called him Yahwe
(‘He whose name can not be mentioned’),
and we prayed to him each day
that he’d deliver us from persecution
and let us worship free and openly.

When the Nile turns red in springtime
and the birds sing in the palm trees,
everybody knows that Nature
has rung in another year
of teeming fish and overflowing harvests
that fill the granaries up to the brim.

But that year the Nile was redder
than it ever was, more shallow,
and its surface close to boiling,
teeming with dead fish, and some
Egyptians claimed it was the curse of Yahwe,
demanding that we all be put to death.

And as Egypt’s drought continued,
tension rose against our people
who were blamed for flies, eclipses
and increased mortality;
our call grew stronger for a forceful leader
who would restore us to our rightful place!

Atenmoses was our High Priest
who had lived in exile after
having murdered one of Amun’s
priests. He now returned and said:
‘They’re scared of Yahwe! We shall turn the tables
and threaten them until they let us be!’

Shortening his name to Moses,
he approached the grumpy ruler;
Ay, distracted, barely listened
to the lunatic who claimed
his god had turned the Nile to blood and even
blocked out the sun and slain their families.

In Midian he had witnessed
the destruction of the harvest,
and he figured that the locusts
soon would travel to the Nile.
He prophesied: ‘Locusts will take your harvest
unless you let us worship whom we want!’

Ay was bored and yawned, but Moses,
led away by soldiers, shouted:
‘And the plague will take a member
of each family this year!’ -
They threw him into prison and forgot him,
but children died, and then the locusts came!

Rotting corpses filled the delta
and could not be moved; the locusts
darkened Egypt’s skies, and no one
saw their hand before their eyes:
now Ay remembered Moses and gave order
to bring the lunatic before his throne.

‘It appears your god has power
over Egypt as he showed us;
you shall be allowed to worship
any god you like as soon
as you have cleared the fields and skies of locusts
and stopped the plague that kills our families!’

Moses, falling to his knees, gave
thanks to Yahwe, and he praised him
for the multitude of wonders
that had proved him god of gods;
he then petitioned him to end the suff’rings
of Egypt since he had achieved his goal.

Nothing happened. Moses gathered
Yahwe’s other priests who helped him
to erect a stony altar
where they sacrificed a lamb;
once more they thanked their god and prayed to Yahwe
to end the drought, the locusts and the plague.

But the children kept on dying
and the locusts multiplying;
Ay got restless, and his people
chanted: ‘Kill them! Kill them now!
They either can’t control their god, or Yahwe
does not have any powers after all!’

They threw stones, and nervous soldiers
waited as their tense commander
looked at Ay who slowly nodded...
‘Kill those mad heretics now!’ -
Army and people raged and stormed against us:
the sole escape route left was the Red Sea!

Never looking back, we hurried
towards the shore, jumped in the water
and implored our god to help us,
but we didn’t stand a chance:
the army killed our children, men and women,
their escapees were butchered by the mob.

We were swimming in our brothers’
blood, a handful of survivors,
and of those who reached the middle
of the Red Sea, many drowned;
of the ten thousands who had fled from Egypt
only a few have reached the other side.

So today we roam the desert,
nomads once again who have no
home and who must live as outcasts,
and we’re bound to wander on
until we find a people who are weaker,
kill them and have a country of our own.

11-13/08/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Morrigu

Wherever there is concord,
wherever there is need,
wherever bards are encored,
she spreads the evil seed.

She preys on others’ slackness,
the bird who everywhere
into the dark brings blackness
and to the dead despair.

She angrily raged through the
island with her shrill voice
and finally came to the
weird county of my choice.

But she’s a bird of passage:
once my ordeal is through,
with one more urgent message
I’ll send her back to you.

7/08/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

A Marching Tune

A one, a two - a marching tune
to keep your mind beneath your feet,
to keep your loyalty immune
and stamp your orders in the street.

A one, a two - turn left, turn right
as we command you; think not, go!
The enemies you have to fight
are evil cos we tell you so.

A one, a two - salute before
superiors“ (Superior? Ha!
Could anything on earth be more
ridiculous than soldiers are?)

7/08/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The World of Immenhof

Oft I escaped my childhood self
where harmony I’d find:
the films about a pony farm
enchanted my young mind.

The carefree life on Immenhof
was where my psyche dwelt:
this was the childhood of my dreams,
this was the Heile Welt.

A generation afterwards
I found the sunlit shore
of Lough Nasool who called me twice
and who will call once more.

The coppices, the hills and lakes,
I noticed, overjoyed,
bring back the happy memories
I raised from celluloid.

This is the world of Immenhof
that I so much desired,
but though I’m, like we all, a child,
my childhood has expired.

3-7/08/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

How to Deal with the Skibby Men

Since I was born, they’ve done my head in:
they meddle with my toys
and dart across my brain and bedroom
to look for secret joys.

The skibby men go through my drawers
and tear my home apart,
destroy the stuff they have no use for
and put it on a cart.

I stand and wonder in amazement
at all the bits they find
which I deemed lost or non-existent
in the Burren of my mind.

And every now and then they journey
down the forgotten track,
and I’m at ease, but in the evening
the skibby men come back,

Unloading from their trucks the heavy
scrap iron of my soul,
they throw it in my memory’s landfill
where Beauty takes its toll.

But when their day is done, they sometimes
light campfires in the dark,
sit on the corners of my pillow
and answer my remark:

‘We didn’t come, so we shan’t exit,
we’re barely here but last:
we all are fathers of the future
and children of the past!’

3/08/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Epitaph for Socrates

He was unreasonably vain,
though reason was his vanity,
but hunger of a world gone sane
is for the world’s insanity.

3/08/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Country Song

They’re sitting at the table
with empty heart and mind,
not really there, unable
to struggle or to find.
There’s many a silent moocher
with his eyes fixed on his drink
and his back turned towards the future
who only drinks to think.

And as he keeps on drinking
to the state of mind he’s in,
he also keeps on thinking
of the life that should have been.
And it’s here they drink their potions
to forget their hopes and fears
with a fistful of emotions
and a pocket full of tears.

The piano man keeps playing
with poignancy and phlegm,
and sure it goes without saying
that he is one of them.
The barman never mentions
a family or wife;
some bet their meagre pensions
on whether he’s a life.

And when he ceases trading
and dims the gloomy light,
they leave and soon are fading
in the dreaded peace of night.
And it’s here they drink their potions
to forget their hopes and fears
with a fistful of emotions
and a pocket full of tears.

3/07/6243 RT (2002 CE) + 16/07/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

This Day Remembered

How do we know a door is open,
how can we see a bird is free?
The question’s answer is the question;
if you’re confused, don’t bother me.

When autumn holds a mental harvest,
the trees turn over a new leaf
and bend their branches to the sunset
like anarchists who face their chief.

And when the world and all is over
and peace again has found a way,
we will be gathered round the campfire,
remembering this scarlet day.

14/07/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Dionysus' Day

Dionysus' Day on the tenth of July
is the day when all passionate lovers comply
with desires they usually tend to dismiss:
he will grant her a wish after she granted his.

On Valentine's Day their true love they display,
but the moment of truth’s Dionysus' Day,
when lovers who heed Dionysus’ will
the secret desires of their partners fulfil.

6241 RT (2000 CE) + 10/07/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Bonfire

The traps of understanding
are set, the orchids lit,
and there will be no mending
of what our thoughts commit.

From Skreen to Polynesia,
from Bombay to Loch Ness,
from Cairo to East Frisia
man sees the stars, I guess.

And yet a clouded vision
begets a clouded mind
and leads to the collision
with every world behind.

The conscience that befell you
will not move in, I fear,
but who am I to tell you,
and who are you to hear?

Of all things bright and pretty
there’s one thing that remains
after the death of Pity:
a bonfire in our brains!

5/07/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

First Impression

The first I saw of Sligo
that chilly night in June
was the Cathedral’s tower
beneath a bright full moon.

Whichever forces drew me
were powerful and strong:
I’d finally encountered
the feeling to belong.

3/07/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Fairy Tale of the Golden Scraps

The King’s men visit every day
and take our wine and bread,
our water and our meat away:
the lords have to be fed.

‘A happy lord has happy serfs’,
they tell each man and child;
our lords are happy, but we serfs
have never even smiled.

And so we went to see the King,
appealing at the gates
to give us what is ours and bring
some food back to our plates.

He scrutinised our rags: ‘I see
where you are coming from,
but it is not that simple; we
must show a bit aplomb.

‘I’m sure you think your lords are bored
and idle; that’s not so,
for there is more to being a lord
than you will ever know.

‘They gave you work; with due respect,
demanding more is rude,
and they can certainly expect
a bit of gratitude.

‘You know you ought to feed your lords
who sit around the spit,
and he’s a thief who eats or hoards
the tiniest little bit.

‘But once your lords have had their fill,
which will be soon, perhaps,
round overloaded spits you will
be eating golden scraps.

‘The more they have, the less they need,
but if you’re taking back
what’s theirs, the noose of your own greed
will tighten round your neck!’

And so we starve from day to day
and watch disgustedly
our masters’ barbarous display
of greed and gluttony.

They stuff their face with food galore
all day and all night long -
‘They cannot possibly eat more’,
we think; they prove us wrong.

They eat until their stomachs split
while watching us collapse
as we still kneel around their spit
and wait for golden scraps.

16-27/06/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Clock

With every breath he took in life,
a-tic, a-toc, a-tic, a-toc,
he felt a restless beat inside,
the ticking of an inner clock.
When as a child he played alone
or was asleep or having fun,
the clock inside kept telling him:
It must be done, it must be done!

When he grew up to be a man,
a labourer of rising stock,
he felt obliged to pay his dues
and tried to satisfy the clock
by keeping time and working fast,
yet all his efforts were outrun
by that device commanding him:
It must be done, it must be done!

The working rhythm took its toll,
and still the clock kept racing on,
so he decided to ignore
its beat, pretending it was gone;
but when he stayed in bed till noon
or lazed inertly in the sun,
the clock inside reminded him:
It must be done, it must be done!

It ticked and ticked as he grew old,
accompanied his dying breath,
and once again it picked up speed
to mark the moment of his death.
And if there is an afterlife,
it will continuously run
inside the spirit of a man
who still won’t know what’s to be done.

1/06/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Remembered Classes

Firstly, there is the working class:
with every building,
street, bridge and fountain
the future will remember.

Secondly, there’s the artist’s class:
with every painting,
song, film and poem
the future will remember.

And then we have the ruling class:
taking our money,
spending our money,
it soon will be forgotten.

26/05/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Unmerciful Servant

When Ireland was the land of famine,
a lot of men escaped their fates
by setting sail and populating
Australia, Britain and the States.

But now that one can live in Ireland,
they guard their coast and keep at bay
the handful who are seeking refuge:
‘This is our country - stay away!’

24/05/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Incestry

Evolution works through constant changes,
crossing creatures of each type and race:
any species that refused to mingle
disappeared from Earth without a trace.

Ancient royal families were staying
to themselves and married their own kind:
getting weaker by the generation,
all their lines eventually declined.

Nature’s a perpetual creator
and improves its creatures all the time.
Racism is incest; if continued,
man will be extinct before his prime.

23-24/05/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Children of Lir

What kind of curse is that? To be
a swan, rambling from lake to lake,
seems more desirable to me
than being man of human make.

How often did I close my eyes
and wish I could be living on
the water under azure skies
and fly as deftly as a swan.

23-24/05/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Partaking

Take part by taking any part you like:
Life is an opportunity for few,
and any of the blows that Fate may strike
might be a blow for you.

15/05/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Ploughman’s Plight

Don’t deafen to the Ploughman’s Plight;
he has been fighting for his right
since Time began and longer,
and those who think he’ll be content
since his success is evident
could not be any wronger.

In days of old he walked behind
the ox to drive the plough and whined
about his exploitation
by his own ox; the one he broke
in listened, bore and pulled the yoke
till dying of starvation.

In their spare time the oxen got
together, and to ease the lot
of ploughmen, they constructed
ploughs with a comfortable seat
from which the ploughman dangled his feet,
pressurised and conducted.

The ploughman’s only duty now
was keep a straight line with the plough,
but chagrin kept remaining -
so oxen did invent a set
of ploughs that drive themselves, and yet
the ploughmen kept complaining.

And now it doesn’t matter what
they do, and if they work or not;
they have the time for hopping
on other oxen’s ploughs without
their own ox ever finding out,
and much more time for shopping.

When at the setting of the sun
at last his tiring work is done,
the ox collects his wages;
he buys himself a soup (at best),
the ploughman gets to spend the rest -
it’s been that way for ages.

And after work they’d meet in pubs,
and some of them in oxen’s clubs,
to get some peace and quiet;
ploughmen would bang against their doors,
demanding membership, and cause
disturbances and riot.

And finally they got their way:
there’s no more oxen’s club today
that ploughmen couldn’t join,
yet ploughmen founded many a club,
and if an ox dares to show up,
they kick him in the groin.

The oxen live till sixty-five -
who at that age is still alive
retires from Duty’s call;
ploughmen reach eighty years and more,
and they retire at fifty-four
(that’s if they work at all).

The ploughman has a set of rules
and will, helped by TV and schools,
enforce it and defend it:
he’ll teach the little bull calves how
to earn their money with the plough
and ploughkids how to spend it.

Some ploughmen would insist to pull
the yoke themselves; they’d find no bull
or want their independence.
Their colleagues wouldn’t understand
their attitude but give a hand
as equal rights’ defendants.

An ox, though, who would want to drive
a plough would be lampooned for life:
‘There is no point in rowing,
this proposition is a joke:
a ploughman may well pull the yoke,
but oxen can’t be ploughing.’

Some bulls carry their yoke alone;
one ox whose envy had outgrown
his fear of ploughmen’s bile
took action, trying to enforce
his right to legally divorce
his ploughman in a trial.

The judge, an ox, ruled loud and clear
(his ploughman whisp’ring in his ear):
‘I’m granting you permission
to leave your ploughman, but you will
have to give him your wages still,
your children in addition.’

To multiply the property
of ploughmen, oxen have to be
drafted for many a battle;
some of the ploughmen launched a fight
not for the duty but the right
to kill and die like cattle:

‘Ploughmen who want to die and kill
may do so on their own free will,
but not as slaves of nations,
because it’s equal rights we sought,
and we’d be stupid if we fought
for equal obligations.’

An ox, in case of perils, can’t
fail to obey the ploughmen’s chant
and save the lives they cherish:
‘Ploughmen and children first!’ (It fits:
they put themselves before the kids
and let the oxen perish.)

Now oxen, set your victims free
and join their force: the ploughmanry
in every land and nation
continue fighting for their right,
so let us heed the Ploughman’s Plight
and cease their exploitation!

January & May 6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Mother of all Fates

Since man began
to count his own achievements,
betrayals and bereavements,
he also counts his mates.

And while the smile
of lovers is misleading,
we think that we are breeding
a species that relates.

One call ends all
the visions that could enter
our brainpans’ creamy centre,
and every dream deflates.

Today we pay
the price for not embracing
ourselves as we are facing
the Mother of all Fates.

4/05/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Feeding the Ducks on the Green

The Countess on the barricades
saw, as her snipers spread,
a man with a brown paper bag
he carried on his head.

As he approached the Green, she ordered
her men to hold their fire:
‘He’s gonna feed them bally birds’,
she guessed from his attire.

He was the park keeper; she told
her men to clear the way
so he could look after the ducks
and feed them twice a day.

Those who did not agree with her
could hear their chief declare:
We, comrades, do our duty here,
as he does his down there!

Would it not be hypocrisy
if we would use a war
to stop a man from doing what
we claim we’re fighting for?

4/05/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Carina

The first time that I saw her
she wasn’t anywhere
with eyes full of young vigour
and daisies in her hair;
minueting to the music
of Dionysian flutes,
she only wore a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

She dances to the carols
of nightingale and lark,
she dances in the sunlight,
she dances in the dark;
light as the dandelion’s
slow-drifting parachutes,
she only wears a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

And when she walks the pastures
where crows and cattle feed,
embraces rain and thunder
or sleeps amidst the reed,
and when she lifts the chalice
or tastes of mellow fruits,
she only wears a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

The last time that I’ll see her
she won’t be anywhere
with eyes full of young vigour
and daisies in her hair;
with her I shall be leaving,
returning to my roots:
she’ll only wear a garland
and knee-high leather boots.

1+4/05/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

Beltaine

She is not dead! She is not dead!
the Naiads chant; the lilies ope,
and last year’s violets lift their head
with doubt and hope.

She is not dead! She is not dead!
the meadow and the gorse refrain,
and every swallow that had fled
is home again.

She is not dead! She is not dead!
the crows who graze amongst the lambs
sing and the swans who make their bed
twixt reeds and dams.

She is not dead! She is not dead!
The daisy dominates the scene,
and every moonstone birch is clad
in vernal green.

She lives! She lives! the bells ring out
the joyful tiding to be spread
like wildfire as the sparrows shout:
She is not dead!

February + 1/05/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'The Eye of the Beholder'

The Omelette Promise

They tell you that to make an omelette
you have to break some eggs,
but there is more to making omelettes
than simply breaking eggs.

The world is full of broken eggs,
and yet in Life’s canteen
where we’re fed up by many a cook
no omelette can be seen.

Let’s sack these chefs of humankind
and live on fruit and trout:
we’ve had no omelette to this day,
and we’ll be grand without!

29/04/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'From the Year of the Quiet Sun'

At Heaven’s Gates

The skies are closed for lunch. The sun is in
a conference and cannot be disturbed.
You’ll have to wait. Another drop of gin
for Peter, the receptionist; he burped
several times now, but to quench his thirst
seems quite impossible. Then, after hours,
you ask him for your turn. He tells you first
you must pick a number, and he show’rs
his throat again. You see on the display
that there are hundreds more before you. As
you wait your turn, your thoughts take off and stray
to what you left behind, and to the mess
that was your life... Newcomers constantly
squeeze on the bench beside you: ‘Sorry, Ma’am!’ -
Then, checking the display once more, you see
your number has been up already; damn!

26/03 + 25/04/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'From the Year of the Quiet Sun'

Crime and Government

We are this country’s future and have none,
depend on social welfare or are paid
minimum wage, and when our day is done
we’re happy to support the barman’s trade,
to meet the lads and ask them what is new,
to have a smoke and drink a pint or two.

We get our cheques on Thursdays, and before
this government came into power, we
were skint on Tuesday nights, and we’d explore
our options, pick a pocket, nick a key
or rob a frail old lady so we might
be able to go out on Wednesday night.

But prices, charges and stealth taxes soared
above the stratosphere; accordingly
our payments were reduced as a reward
for all our votes, and in the meantime we
are skint on Friday nights; we’re stealing cars
and stab weak pensioners in front of bars.

Each new deduction from our meagre cheques,
each time they triple prices in the shops,
each time you introduce another tax
on smoke and drink, there’s work for extra cops,
and certainly you’ve made us understand
that this is the beginning, not the end.

You’re setting the example: just like you
we’re more aggressive towards the weak and poor;
determined to go out each night, we do
what’s necessary - call us immature,
but if these prices rise again, we must
start our excursions Thursday nights, I trust.

17/04/6245 RT (2004 CE)

Early Bird

The fledgling wants to stay in nest
all day, but Mother Bird stays firm:
‘At cockcrow vermin tastes the best -
the early bird catches the worm!’

But as he spreads his wings, he’s hit
by a worm-eaten branch and cries;
the damage renders him unfit
to keep on living, and he dies.

The worms that populate this place
rejoice and gladly spread the word
and leave their holes and crawl a race:
the early worm catches the bird!

16/04/6245 RT (2004 CE), added to 'From the Year of the Quiet Sun'

Funny Crossbones

Once upon a time there was
a lady on a ship with flaws,
but as the waters gathered round her,
a stately pirate vessel found her.

The pirates pulled the girl on deck
where mouth-to-mouth she didn’t lack,
and from the time she did recover,
the maid became the first mate’s lover.

The men were getting drunk and gay;
only the first mate stayed away
until, exhausted from the action,
he joined the vessel’s bingeing section.

And here he sang and drank again
with Captain Longarm and his men.
Her head appeared above his porter’s;
he said ‘I’ll bring you to our quarters.’

The woman told him on the spot:
‘Not with a breath like that you’re not’,
smiled at the captain and retired
with the new cabin boy he’d hired.

This instance made the pirates think,
and many now stayed off the drink -
hoping to get a turn, they’d quarrel,
intrigue and even get immoral.

One evening Captain Longarm went
on deck; she’d chosen him to spend
the night with her, leaned at the railing
and asked about the art of sailing.

Instead of sounds of sins of flesh
the shipmates heard a