Monday 15 December 2014

Remnants Of A Star

Another year for the elderly tree,
its sheen was passed expired,
its trunk was close to absentee,
its tinsel long retired.
As the branches bent in curtsey
it seemed as if it prayed
for mercy, blessed mercy,
to be put in a tree grave.
To this end it seemed it stretched
a finger to the socket,
we supposed to end its misery
by igniting like a rocket.

The baubles that remained
had lost their shine and shimmer,
the angels scratched and stained
and the Santas void of glitter.
There were bows defying gravity,
while clinging by a thread,
that used to be so velvety
and the brightest ruby red.
Two bells, that began as a pair,
no longer ding-a-linged
and a robin in need of repair
perched tailless and de-winged.
What might have been a candy cane
was shackled by a frill,
as if it was being detained
against its wish and will.
A homemade snowman, dangling high,
betrayed its cardboard core
and used its one remaining eye
to focus on the floor.
Bangers from old crackers
-pulled in olden days-
hung in rips and tatters
as they dissolved into decay.
A Magic Tree air freshener
(from Nineteen Eighty Three)
took pride of place, dead centre,
like a prized collector's piece.
The fairy lights hadn't worked
for many, many years
and the reindeer decorations
looked like they were close to tears.
Atop were remnants of a star,
we'd no choice but to knock it
adults now the children are
and only want to mock it.

It was easy to be all talk then
and now I hear my kids
declare, out loud, in public
how their tree at home's in bits
and we don't even have a second
to put on a good show,
just rewards, I reckon,
for my laughing years ago!
It may happen as it did,
as in McCarthy's new for old,
that I'll save ours from the skip
due to the memories it holds.

How lucky will we be if old age befalls our stars,
if our trees lose all their green and our children adults are
and they bring to mind occasions from their bygone days
and they remember funny things and they salute and celebrate
and they sing of five gold rings and they toast us all who gave
them times to add to memory to savour as we say
another year for the elderly tree before it's cast away.

(Explanation: I wrote a poem for my uncle & aunt, Billy & Teresa, years ago (possibly 2004) called 'Adults Now The Children Are'. Looking at our Christmas tree this year reminded me of the poem but I can't find it, it must have been on the old PC that packed up a few years ago. It was written after my cousin and I had had a few drinks in Billy & Teresa's house and had begun questioning the idea behind the beautiful artificial Christmas tree out in the porch and the pathetic-looking one in their front room. (Neither of us had children then). We got a heartwarming explanation from Teresa that they'd had it for all their own children's Christmases and she liked to put it up for their grandchildren. She also said she threw it out in a skip once but went and rescued it the next day. We had a great laugh that night laughing at the little old tree and disregarding Teresa's attachment to it, sorry Teresa! Just the other day in Tesco my nearly 4-year-old commented on the store's tree and shouted, "it's giant, not like ours"!

I've added this post to Dr. How's Science Wows's seasonal linky. For the other posts click here.

Update on 18/12/2014: My uncle has been in touch to tell me that the tree is out in a skip right now...but he's not sure that it won't be rescued before the skip is collected after Christmas!) 


Sunday 7 December 2014

Paddy

I noticed when we heard the bell and someone got the door
that it was easy then to tell if the caller'd been before.
And if we heard the question, "is this Pat McCarthy's house?"
I felt it so respectful that they'd called to see his spouse.

Fifty-eight years ago at the crack of dawn
Mary took Paddy northside to Mount Nebo in Grawn*.
They'd got married in one ceremony with Anna and Pa too
and the O'Sullivans laid breakfast on for guests of brides and grooms.

One plus seven children and known both sides of the Lee,
Mary packed both their bags for their hols up in Kilkee.
They had a camper vehicle, they called it the Luv Bug,
she paid ten pounds ESB each week and he drove a coach for work.

(Explanation: My uncle, Paddy McCarthy, passed away on 07/11/2014. He was 80 years old and had had a good life. I couldn't make the funeral but went to see him laid out at his home, RIP Paddy, 1934-2014.

*Grawn is a colloquial Cork term for Gurranabraher.)

Thursday 20 November 2014

Pissing In The Wind

Fizz or juice? Kirsch or gin?
Water won't be what I'll choose to drink
Pissed and pie-eyed, I'll be grand
and I'll ignore your letters

Make your claim, I'm alright:
Drizzle or storm I can shower outside.
Placard-armed, you're outmanned
and I'll hope for rainy weather.

La la la la la la la la,
hot vodka bottles at night.
La la la la la la la la,
neighbours take fright
at outdoor bather in sight.

Mary Lou? Joan Burton?
I'll be like you, I'll just hold it in.
Trapped in cars or on sit ins:
I'll pee myself wherever.

(Explanation: There have been a number of effective protests to the introduction of water charges in Ireland. I've particularly enjoyed some of the placard slogans like 'Only our rivers run free' and 'I'll have my bath outside'. I wrote this poem to the tune and rhyme of Paul McCartney's We All Stand Together.)

Monday 17 November 2014

Madra A Rún

Poor Madrún, we're mourning you
and we feel contrite.
Not for the death of our best pet
but for the sheer delight
we've discovered in our hair-free abode,
the scents that were smothered by air of the dog.
We know for certain you had a good life
with more perks and benefits than I
who pandered to your wants and needs.
We will not recall the last few weeks
but will recollect how you treated socks like food
and how every skirting board is chewed,
how you loved a thorough comb right from head to feet,
how you made this house a home and never liked the lead.
We will remember a great dog that
ate only the best and often sat
on the window sill or on a cushion,
a freeloader 'til the end, every whim
catered to for poor Madrún.

(Explanation: We had to put our little dog, Madrún, down last week. He was with us for all 8 years of his life.)

Wednesday 5 November 2014

Every Cloud

I explain to my girls that cirrus clouds can be like curls
or horses' flyaway tails,
that stratus clouds are made like a sheet, a foggy veil,
that cumulus clouds arrange like fluffy cotton balls.

Then I notice two faces not at all in thrall.
They look at each other and back again,
they look like their mother hasn't answered them
at all.

I get another chance to clarify:
"Which clouds are the ones where unicorns fly?"

(Explanation: My girls(ages 5 years and nearly 4 years)asked me about clouds yesterday. I misunderstood and answered about clouds when they were actually asking about things they've seen on My Little Pony or read in fairy tales.)

Monday 27 October 2014

A Little Tart

Like a knife through my heart is the sight
of my husband with a little tart by his side.
He thinks I don't know, that he's covered his tracks,
that I've not seen him go right to the back
of my secret store of the Snickers and Twix,
the chocolate galore, oh he's taking a risk
when he goes back for more.

Now that he's stumbled on my precious hide,
now I've been rumbled I'll turn a blind eye
because there's the danger that he may have seen
how I've munched through the stuff that is for Hallowe'en.
He may also have noticed my trove of fine crisps
and the Freddos and Roses that I claim don't exist.
I'll move them of course, bit by bit, on the sly
and cut off the source of his bit on the side.

That's how it begins, one tart here, one tart there, 
tin foil cups binned, resealing the tear.
He must have a hunch, sure, that there's only tract
for one secret muncher in our double act.
I know, on reflection, that it cannot be he,
I need my confection all kept for me,
I need the Maltesers to enhance the odd mocha,
the poor trick-or-treaters may be left with Berocca.

For now, I'll allow it while I look for a place
to hide what I cherish, I'll lock it away.
The mince pies mislaid, it may well break his heart, 
and he'll miss his affair with that little tart.

(Explanation: My secret stash of all things sweet was recently discovered by my husband who, said nothing, just sneakily helped himself to a mince pie and made it look like nothing had been taken. I hate mince pies, they're only there to make it look like the collection is for Christmas when, in fact, I keep it stocked up all year long and dip into it for a chocolate fix when I need it. The reference to there being nothing left for the trick-or-treaters except Berocca tablets was something funny my cousin's wife said in 2010.  Úna and I were both pregnant at the same time and were talking about eating the bowls of goodies at our respective doors before any trick-or-treaters arrived.)

Friday 24 October 2014

In My View

The farmer's field is in our vision
A scene of sheep, nothing hidden.
I sip the coffee and am sad to know
this will be cut off when our trees all grow.
Commotion erupts in the slow-moving view,
emotion interrupts my morning brew:
The ram was set to ram
but the ewes were on refuse.
Some outran him, sought to ban him,
one couldn't lose him, instead bemused him
with go and start, bound then sit,
so up he'd hop but found no grip.
She appeared to be complicit, then become aloof,
he veered and bit, and hit by throwing a left hoof.
She wasn't flustered, just not sold.
A hundred others joined the fold,
she ran with them and used the cover,
left the ram to choose another.
She stayed well back and watched him choose
and then relaxed as willing ewes
stood still to mate, set and prone.
I just can't wait for the trees to grow.

(Explanation: I saw this unfold before me this morning. I wish very much that I could unsee it!)

Friday 10 October 2014

Wave The Thistle

Bonnie bonnie Scotland,
when will be see your like?
How proud you stand
with your demands,
no threats of force or strike.
In a world full of unrest you took
full calmy to the polls
to wave the thistle for Hollyrood
and wake the shamrock, leek and rose.
Should old acquaintance be forgot?
In Robbie Burns' name.
Such absorbing news as we watched
Scots rise up and Scots wha hae
and made them all think again.

(Explanation: On 9th September 2014 I wrote this poem after Scotland voted against independence and to stay part of the United Kingdom. I doubt I was the only Irish person riveted by the build up to the voting day, it was fascinating. In all the turmoil and bad news from all corners of the earth I found it, not just interesting, but a relief, to have the TV and radio buzzing with something other than death and disease.)

Saturday 13 September 2014

Nuddy Leitrim

I woke last night in deep despair, a nightmare in my mind,
I was naked as a newborn babe, there were no clothes to find.
I felt the squeeze of September's breeze on my downbelow:
I was at the nudist conference in dear old Drumshanbo.

I nearly fainted as I looked and took in the whole sight,
I wished I was in Kerry where they dress by day and night.
I thought of Sheemore occupied by nudists al fresco
and how Finn MacCumhail might turn and rise and head back to Glencoe.

And then I realised that 'twas no dream about undress
and of all the naked naturists there I looked the very best.
Then I raised my glass to Lough Allen Spa, the only place to go
if you want your ass uncovered where the Shannon waters flow.

(The Irish Naturist Association is celebrating 50 years of naturism. They are booked into the Lough Allen Spa in Drumshanbo, Co. Leitrim. This poem can be sung to the tune of Lovely Leitrim.)

Saturday 6 September 2014

Féileacán

Transparent wings
of coloured scales,
daring swings
and downward sails
are a far cry
from butterfly.

The stain
of a festival
in the Irish name
fits the bill.
Is teideal an dáin
é féileacán.

Multiple kaleidoscopes
this year:
Reds, whites, heliotropes
career
as Red Admirals
and Painted Ladys
pied en diagonale
in dainty batterie.
A Peacock proper
displays no feathers
and a Small Copper
Monets the heathers
like a still life variation
of a Speckled Wood's confrontations.

A winner adjective
is army as given
to a caterpillar collective:
Larvae security driven
to maturity perfective.

(Explanation: We are currently enjoying an abundance of butterflies, notably more than last year. This August was the first time (in my memory, we definitely had even more butterflies around when I was a child)I saw a Small Copper which, although I have tried to explain otherwise, my children think is a baby butterfly.)

Wednesday 3 September 2014

Dead Lucky

Don't get sick in Brazil
unless you're set for death.
And maybe make a will
asking for a double check.
Pack up all you'll need;
toothbrush and a towel,
something nice to read,
and a suit for being laid out.
You won't need to buy
a body bag yourself,
if they think you've died
they'll get one off the shelf.
And they're very good
at stuffing orifices tight,
they'll pack the cotton wool
and tie your left leg to your right.
Be sure to have a saint revered
to help you fight your corner:
Irma Dulce played a blinder here
once the funeral was paid for.

(Explanation: Last month in Salvador, Brazil, Valdelucio Concalves woke up in a body bag after doctors in the hospital he was in declared him dead. Inspired by: www.mirror.co.uk article)

Wednesday 13 August 2014

Mister Fog

Bad and all that the forecast doesn't always predict,
and that snow has often been and passed before Met Éireann alludes to it.
Bad and all when they say it'll be raining cats and dogs,
what bugs me is when they say there'll be patches of Mister Fog!

That's how it sounds to me, and my child asked yesterday,
why Mister Fog was a he and had Mister Sun gone away!
So, here's my point, forecasters, I hope you get the gist:
With your Meteorology degrees and masters why can't you say "fog or mist"?

(Explanation: Since I was a child I have heard the weather forecasters' "mist or fog" as Mister Fog and, yesterday, that's how my nearly 5-year-old heard it too so we can't be the only ones!)

Friday 25 July 2014

Summer 2014

Return me to the choking heat of seeming lifeless air
where bees and butterflies compete for heady panicled buddleia.
Elderflower has peaked and gone, strawberry now reserved,
blackcurrant steeped and stacked upon gooseberry too preserved.

Snare my singing soul at its sweetest sound.
Pluck the ringing carpel while it does abound.
Reversion is the death knell, not yet told,
conserved in right this moment, not yet old.
Trap me too in glass or freeze me in my prime.
Keep me sealed, set fast until next summertime.

(Explanation: This Summer is just lovely, with the past few days being particularly balmy. At roughly this time every year I think of the Winter ahead and how I'd like to hibernate through it. I also think of getting older and convince myself every year that I am now in my prime! We still have a lot of Summer 2014 ahead but the majority our fruit-picking and jam-making here is done for this year.)

Tuesday 8 July 2014

They Give The World Its Stars

No ifs or buts or maybes, there is no mystery:
When you birth a baby you change the course of history.
A brand new member of the human race to bring
goodness, hope, and love, and how the world needs all those things.
Give the mothers credit as they give the world its stars.
Without them we are static, there's no raising of the bar.
How dark our days without new babes to keep us truly blessed.
The mothers, without doubt, supply our brightest and our best.

(Explanation: I think mothers change the course of human history with each baby born, this one is for mothers everywhere)

Friday 4 July 2014

Smell The Flowers

Nothing physical to show is no indication.
Exertion can be slow to reveal its vindication.
Use your minutes wisely but remember as you do,
thinking, sleeping, smelling flowers all contribute too.

Breathing is activity so congratulate yourself,
as you inhale and exhale you are using your time well.

Musing on ideas, soaking up the sights,
being the overseer of small children flying kites,
dreaming with your eyes open, placing a small bet,
watching fruit scones rise and checking jam is set.
Sleeping in 'til nine, putting up your feet,
sipping sparkling wine in the height of Summer heat.

No need for manifest, no records required.
In waking hours work and rest, sleep when you are tired.
Dismiss all competition, set your own pace,
Be truthful to your mission, run in your own race.
(This doesn't mean you get to always win the medal,
it simply deems comparison totally irrelevant.)
Sharing every aspect decreases your own stores
of energy and affects what people hope to know.

The hours go fast, so be happy with your lot.
The time is going to pass whether you use it or not.

Be mindful. We need oxygen, we can't survive on rhyme.
So, sometimes, let the grass grow to pass away the time.

(Explanation: I think there seems to be an increasing emphasis on 'doing', with suggestions about using every second of your life constructively to have something to show for it. It's not that I disagree with these ideas, I am a natural record-keeper, but I also think an emphasis on just being alive without going a million miles an hour and documenting every second mightn't go astray every now and then. In my own experience some of my best ideas have been born out of letting my mind wander.)

Sunday 15 June 2014

Their Dad

How they ignore him, scold him loudly
and adore him, love him proudly,
wreck his stuff, make demands,
call his bluff and hold his hands,
test his nerves and call him names
through tennis serves and chasing games,
delegate building of wooden tracks,
beg for swings and piggy backs,
reprimand him, then make up
and command him to wake up,
look for money, shout for lifts,
say he's funny, make him gifts,
take what's his and make it theirs,
offer less and brush his hair,
make him run for miles and miles,
just for fun and small girl smiles,
order biscuits, daily, nightly,
give him kisses, hug him tightly.

(Explanation: It's Father's Day today. My two girls have a great dad who they adore, this is for Martin.)

Friday 6 June 2014

Bon Secours

Holy Mary, mother unmarried, blessed by Angel Gabriel's call
to be the chosen one who carried a baby born to lead them all.
Catholic leaders, priests and nuns, claiming virtues and morals true
mark public enemy number one as "unmarried" mothers who
must be stripped of dignity and freedom, locked away from the world
convicts of ultra vires treason, ripped from baby boys and girls.

Bon Secours means good help translated.
May bon secours never reach my dog:
Unmarried mothers can be incarcerated
but animal rights are enshrined in law.

(Explanation: Just when you think there can't possibly be any more church scandals in Ireland the so-called Mother And Baby homes abuse of single mothers and their children hits the headlines. It's not really news because it was already known about but it has taken decades to get any attention. The collusion of Church and State is one aspect of it but there is also a wider collusion of parents, relations and community members of the pregnant women and girls who were sent to these places. The Journal Article & datbeardyman blog post.

Re-shared in March 2017, on foot of the news about the remains of   over 700 babies and children found in septic tanks on the property of the Bons Secours Mother & Baby Home in Tuam, Co. Galway. Those words 'mother and baby' combined with 'home' are so much at odds with how the Bons Secours nuns actually treated their captives).

Bang On Trend

What they've got in the UK and China,
Brazil and Turkmenistan,
can be found on our own fair island
but it's a place you won't get a tan.
It's not as far as you'd think,
not Germany, New Zealand, The States.
It's where they no longer mine zinc
and where Persephone waits.
Sinkhole fame for all of these sites,
Kilkenny has tunnels to mend,
mining wakes Hades to fight:
Up The Marble! You're bang on trend.

(Explanation: If I were to try and catalogue all the witty comments of @pauldunphy on Twitter we'd be here forever. However, the one that relates to this poem is a tweet of his in which he said to someone he knew who had been caught in a sinkhole, "you're bang on trend." After establishing the person was fine you just have to acknowledge that witty remark!
Kilkenny People article & The Telegraph article)

Friday 14 February 2014

Perfect Me

How come you never realise that no-one rings your phone?
And yet you seem to agonise about the right ringtone:
You test at loudest beeping so they can hear nextdoor
and then keep them from sleeping with your endless fog-horn snore.

Do you ever think how all the plastic and the tin
that you pile in the sink gets to the recycling bin?
And I've another question that I'm sure is a no-brainer:
Who is the serial leaver of tea bags on the drainer?

It causes me to see bright red when my face is strewn with hair
because you wiped your just-shaved head with the towel we're meant to share.
How happy in your choice of mate you must surely be,
you chose well and sealed the fate of dear old perfect me.

(Explanation: I wrote With Love To My Antonym for my husband on Valentine's Day 2010. This is an update for Valentine's Day 2014. I think we have towel issues!
Inspired by: Martin O'Sullivan)

Tuesday 28 January 2014

Vermin On The High Seas

Rats on a ghost ship we are cruising,
keeping on our toes, no time for snoozing,
we all need to eat but we've got no food in.
Vermin on the high seas.

Watch out World: We're non-stop breeders,
we're out of control and we've got no leaders,
we're nibbling at each other because we're feeders.
Vermin on the high seas.

When we get to land we'll all be manic.
We'll be biting off your hands so you should panic
We're looking for new meat and we're borderline satanic.
Vermin on the high seas.

(Explanation: I have been entertained by the commentary surrounding the whereabouts of the Lyubov Orlova and its 'crew' of rats. Some clever clogs set up a blog for the missing ghost ship.
I wrote this to the tune and rhyme of Irish Rovers' Drunken Sailor.
Inspired by: Where is Lyubov Orlova? & Drunken Sailor .

Update on 27/03/2014: I think they landed in Sweden!

Update on 19/02/2020: The rats are back in the news, still sailing!)

Tuesday 21 January 2014

When Nappies Ruled

Back in time us three flew
to babies crying when nappies ruled.
Transported by awful doses
of streaming eyes and runny noses,
restless sleep and picky eating,
bright red cheeks and non-stop needing.
Three days all told and yet I
feel steam-rolled, knackered and resigned.
How'd you and I muddle through
when babies cried and nappies ruled?

(Explanation: My two children had three days of sickness between them until today. They can do so much themselves now that it was a shock to my system and I can't believe we actually got through the days when one was a newborn and the other a toddler.)