Hide And Seek

The kitten seeks.
Warmth, play and feeding
fulfil his dreams.
He paws the page the child is reading
and prepares to pounce
on his own elusive shadow.
I am constantly putting him out.
Somehow the children know
and let him back in.
He is the star of his own show
as he flips, crouches, vaults.
But the terms are his;
he will not play ball...
unless the ball jingles.

He rests in the slimmest shaft of sunlight
or on a cosy lap.
On waking he stretches, wrestles and bites
and may curl into another nap.
This does not always suit the two girls.
I am reminded of another
three who just loved
waking their sleeping baby brother.
The irony, not lost on me;
the frustrations of a weary mother.

He purrs as if he houses
a tiny motor under his fleece
and a single mew rouses
actions to meet his every need.
Never doubt that this creature
is in charge;
He is your trainer and teacher,
you are just a pawn.
For all your adoration
you cannot reach the levels
befitting his station
so he simply worships himself.

He is only a pet to his own ends,
he cannot be bought;
he will eat and drink to his hearts content
then go without a grateful thought.
He will climb up high,
regardless of your rules,
and perch where he likes.
Small eyes are watching you
when the kitten hides.

Michael Walsh's Shoes

His first child was new,
he saw his feet go
to his father's shoes,
and his baby's toes
into his.

His father now stepped
to the pair from the time
the grandfather had left,
took his place in the line,
for now his.

I saw the pairs in my mind;
the ones not yet seen
and the ones that had died.

Pairs still to come and pairs that have been.

Tiny and shiny, knitted and fleece,
tattered and battered, slip-on and heeled,
leather and weathered, polished and laced,
safety and weighty, office and suede.

If a baby could choose
at the event of being born,
they could do worse than safe shoes
and a path that's well worn.

(Explanation: In April 2017, I met my cousin, Michael Walsh, at another cousin's house. We weren't chatting about anything profound when Michael mentioned how he had felt when his first child was born; that he had seen himself moving into his father's shoes and leaving his free for the baby. I was in bits, I left with my eyes welling up. What a beautiful sentiment and such poetry, not from me!!!, in what was otherwise a normal chat.

Michael Walsh is the twin of Cath Walsh, one of two cousins who worked on the family tree with me. My poem, Rita's Silver Box, was written after all that work).

A Bucket Of Apples

Our bells the only sound
we passed the farmyard
and stopped at the house.
One dog on guard
and one with three legs,
the combination
of the cattle grid and dogs
at their destination
made the young cyclists' day.
The long black cat indoors
was the icing on the cake.
We stayed while it poured.

The man in socks held court
on spiders, weather, cattle.

We received so much more
than a bucket of apples.

(Explanation: In August 2018, as around the same time in 2017, we opened our front door to find a bucket of apples. They were deliciously sweet. We stewed them and made tarts. Last year we didn't know who had left them at our door. This year we cycled to our neighbours' to say thanks. I felt my children were a little disappointed at not having the mystery of the year before; the wondering about who had left the apples fascinated them! But, certainly the visit to our neighbours' house more than made up for any disappointment there might have been).

Meteor Shower

A wish sent high,
a wish sent far.
A cloudy night,
a single star.

And then the scare;
no hope of prosper:
The wish set square
on a helicopter.

(Explanation: In August 2018, there were a couple of days when meteor showers could be seen in the sky. We were unfortunate in that we told the children there were going to be meteor showers only to have them staring at cloudy skies. Convinced they had wished on what they thought to be a shooting star they were devastated when their dad told them that it looked more like a helicopter than a star).

Backseat Cook

Ten years of your drooling at Darina's results,
printing instructions for future consults.
And yet, what you ate before you met me,
was pies en Bentos and Findus Pancakes á la crispy.
And yet you're an expect, a connoisseur true
as long as you're not the one making the food.
Why don't you cook your dream dinner spreads
instead of hoarding those recipes up on that shelf?
I can't fully gauge what gets me more enraged;
the elastic bands, the dust, or the yellowing pages,
but, I can tell you, truly, the worst of this scene
is how you make speeches about this cuisine;
your plans for fine dining are beyond compare,
you're always refining your ideal menu's fair.
And, oh, how you verbalise, oh, the wild zeal,
when you've set your sights on the day's perfect meal.

I've something to say, the joke's wearing thinner,
I've put in a decade and you've never made dinner.
You've eaten every repast that I've made,
but not one day has passed when you haven't raised
one of your sheets stored up on that shelf
and proceeded to lecture us all how to chef.

(Explanation: This is about my husband, and it's all true. Well, to be fair, he always makes Christmas dinner......but that's once a year so let's not be too fair. I absolutely hate hate hate cooking so I'd be happy for my husband to put his money where his mouth (and recipe collection) is, so don't let me get in your way, Martin!!!)

Nicola's Children

Then all the women felt like skittles;
lined up in rows.
And though they were strong it wasn't long
before the bowlers bowled.
As hard as it was to believe
it was worse to have been deceived
by a First World, modern state.
And bad as that was
it was worse to have gone
without knowing you could have been saved.

All of the Nicolas, denied proper care,
will never bend their heads again
for a child to pull back their hair,
to share a secret only meant for them.

(Explanation: In relation to this article, on 2nd May 2018, I heard a man called David speak on Liveline, Joe Duffy's RTÉ radio1 show, about the death of his wife, Nicola, in relation to the Cervical Check scandal in Ireland. It was heartbreaking to listen to David, but he spoke very well and gave the timeline and details of his late wife's suffering. His children have a great father, but it is tragic that they are, needlessly, without their mother.

Update on 14/11/2022: RIP Vicky Phelan)

The Oyster Farmer

The egret is settled
and the toddling brent goose
eyes the laden-down trestles
and oilskins and boots.
At one with the elements
he works with the tides,
through weather inclement
he's always strandside.
Wild winds and great lulls,
stinks of wet sand and seaweed,
he watches herons and gulls,
and pulls crabs from his sleeves.
The common sandpiper
sees the turning occurring,
and the oystercatcher
tests for any poor work done.
For all the weekends
and the middles of night
he's on the world's edge
for the dawning of light.

Two Reasons

The eighth amendment is giving me cause for concern,
I'm worried for my children when they're women in the world.

They're into Cats, the musical. For the vegetarian, our youngest,
a sausage sandwich is not unusual. She wears her lucky bracelet on her wrist.
She makes pop-up cards and reads to me every morning.
I watch her lips mouth out the words and her nose pull and fill the soundings.
The other works on secret projects and deftly crafts clay creature forms.
She knows all the wild bird sound effects and her default setting is ever calm.
She takes excellent photos and wears her pyjamas late on weekends.
They spend hours on Lego and enjoy going to the cinema with friends.
They shoot baskets, sew and knit. They often think they have invented things,
they try to feed the wild rabbits. They swim, play football, swing on swings.
They have found a number of dead shrews and keep trinkets in their pockets,
they are experts at temporary tattoos and launching vinegar rockets.
They find themselves hilarious when they say 'portaloo' instead of 'Pórt Láirge',
they like flamingos and manatees, sloths and bobcats and sparrowhawks.
They love carousels and ferris wheels, otters, walruses and seals.
They are my two reasons to repeal.

(Explanation: On May 25th, in Ireland, we will vote in a referendum to retain or repeal the Eighth Amendment of our constitution. There are many reasons to repeal. For me, my daughters are two of those reasons.)

Robin Piper

The glass replaced by curtains sewn of snow,
a small triangle the only peering space.
And there he looked up bright from down below,
a demanding look on his beady mini face.
He held his wings in a silent show of might
and took a square, no-nonsense, solid stance;
a coalman's shoulders sported by a sprite,
there was no doubt he had the upper hand.

Soon the sheep will flood the fields again
and green will free what white has blanketed.
And then this little redbreast will retake
his wild ways and shun our every bid.

A maverick dancing to his unique tune,
the only bird to sing our year of days,
he's a dawn-chorister still singing with the moon,
the robin piper tells you when to pay.

(Explanation: In Ireland in 2018, we had snow in early February and thought that was it for the year, until we were visited by what became known as The Beast From The East or The Big Snow from 28th February to 4th March. Even after it stopped snowing it would be another two weeks before we would be snow free. Here in Co. Waterford we were snowed in. 
This incident with the robin happened on 1st March and again on the 2nd and 3rd. Once the thaw set in he took himself back off our step. He's "our" robin, a regular presence in our garden. He was peeping through the gap in the snow on our kitchen sliding door when I got up that first morning. We had put out plenty of bird food but, of course, it had been snowed over. That robin didn't move until I put out some more. We have tried many times to get him to eat a bit of cheese from our hands, but, while he likes following us around, he never comes that close. The reason we tried is that my dad has a little robin in his garden who does eat from his hand and who often follows him into the kitchen and perches on the back of a chair until he gets a bit of cheese or a piece of rasher.)

Monkey See

Monkey See, monkey do,
holy monkeys throwing poo.
Ignore them or abhor them,
they know well what they do.
They're impossible to civilise,
though they dwell in marble rooms,
with no connections to real life
but plenty to baboons.
They don't pretend to make good sense,
they hide behind things creedal.
And you know their own tale of wealth
and a camel and a needle.
Monkey See, monkey do,
holy monkeys throwing poo.

(Explanation: This is my reaction to our former President, Mary McAleese, being barred from speaking at a conference at The Vatican.)

Still Life

February changes everything,
the old routine makes way,
the sounds of Thursdays no more sing
the end of our busiest day.
Our Tuesday afternoons repaid,
though I still don't have the time.
I have always hated Tuesdays
and been often justified.
I watch a glassy night sky,
crissed and crossed with streams,
growing white and fading light,
it's like a string-art piece
worked through nails on a board.

I think of Rita Rembrandt
and how she was so calm and quiet,
I remember her quoting Ingres,
"draw lines, young man, draw lines"
to Delacroix, a man after our own hearts.
She worked in ramshackle rooms,
few of the buildings were not falling apart
(Sr. Martin's foot had once gone through
the ceiling of the class below).

Spring is up and I'm still in bed,
my thoughts are back in 1994,
I can see my life-drawing sketch,
double-checking the head-to-body ratios,
though it is too late to change anything.

(Explanation: I was lying on my bed one evening and saw a number of plane streams in the sky, it was absolutely beautiful.
My Leaving Cert. art teacher was Rita O'Connell. Obviously, we called her Miss O'Connell to her face, but we called her Rita Rembrandt behind her back, not a bad nickname at all if you knew what we called other teachers. What a lady! I don't know how she put up with us.
I have been waiting for 2018 to properly start at our house, we did two rounds with the 'flu, one person at a time out of me and my two daughters. My husband got away with it, not one sniffle. So, good riddance January and please let us be back to normal from today.)

Just A Game

It all begins with a connection,
and cannot be completed without same,
it may be that you do it in small sections
or you may see only the endgame.
You may suffer the severest of frustrations
when someone else sees how it all should fit,
indeed, you might reach a point of desperation
as others finish while you're stuck on the same bit.
Sometimes you'll be sure you know the answer
until you make your move to bind the parts,
and then the join requires a strike by hammer,
but you know you cannot force a work of art.
The last piece of the puzzle can seem obvious
until you place it and you need a different aim,
the picture you want cannot exist without the edges
and you can break it if you want a change.
You can consider every option, every angle,
you can look and look until it's ineffective,
but, mostly, the best view is not a gamble,
a simple standing-back brings new perspective.
It's just a game of interlocking plots,
a pile of jumble seeking to be shaped,
it's mixed up and quite safe within its box,
but working on it will enhance your days.