Christy O'Donnell. all kinds of Humour in Poetry.
Tuesday 21 August 2012
Christy O'Donnell ,Humour in Poetry.: bardic poet reading in the whitehouse bar
Christy O'Donnell ,Humour in Poetry.: bardic poet reading in the whitehouse bar: by kind permission of donal o siodchain i posted these which could be a gem to all who like traditional bardic poetry from one of the last g...
Christy O'Donnell ,Humour in Poetry.: ang to manhood
Christy O'Donnell ,Humour in Poetry.: ang to manhood: coming of age for a young lad in the 70's also a priest visiting with the what appeared to be wrong intentions no PREY here Age to manhoo...
ang to manhood
coming of age for a young lad in the 70's
also a priest visiting with the what appeared to be wrong intentions
no PREY here
Age to manhood
The sun has not yet risen when he is up out of bed,
Silently he rises he has chores waiting ahead,
The fire must be lit with the sticks that he gathered,
In a house full of children to which none he has fathered,
The table must be set and the porridge put on the gas,
All things in their place for when the get ready for mass,
When this is done he must silently wake the brood,
Feed them their breakfast making sure they are good,
He calls them one by one from out of their sleep,
And slowly half aware down the stairs they creep,
To the kitchen to where the morning meal will be found,
They all know better then to make a single sound,
It’s a morning ritual having become habit as such,
Today is Sunday and they must all attend church,
Weekends were always a bit harder then most days,
When he could wander about at times in his own haze,
But then there was homework to help out with from school,
He had to be cleverer then most he would not be a fool,
Everyone helped out throughout the week,
Even the shy ones and those who were meek,
But Sunday after the Saturday night before,
When loud voices and fights and slamming of door’s,
This was a day when what was left in their wake,
Was best left sleeping for the children’s sake?
He was twelve going on thirteen,
But Sunday was a day where he could always be seen,
The spuds were peeled and the meat in the oven cooking,
When they got up hangover raging no need to be looking,
He’d learned you see there was always a fight,
Over something or other from a Saturday night,
And it went on into Sunday as chores were left undone,
No one else available so he became the one,
So at the ripe old age of thirteen he’d do all that he can,
This is the age he recalls that he became this man,
And as years passed and time just flew,
He still tries to make things easy doing whatever he can do.
05 Aug. 12
No PREY here.
He came to visit the house of my mother,
As he did I imagined with many of the other’s,
It was a weekly thing and he seemed to bring fun,
There were smiling faces on most everyone,
He was the newest man of the cloth a parish priest,
And whenever he called there was always a feast,
Apple cakes baked in a nice hot oven,
And almost a full one in his mouth he was shoving,
Isn’t it a sin I thought harbouring ideas of greed,
You wouldn’t have thought it the way this man would feed,
It was a regular thing week after week,
And I soon noticed the sisters were playing hide but no seek,
So I chose to answer him at the door this fine summer’s day,
It was usually the sisters but they had gone to play,
Good day father I said as I opened the front door,
But he just passed me by he never did that before,
He greeted the mother, who was sat at her table,
And spoke for a few minutes yet he appeared a little unstable,
Would you like some tea I said and a deliberate mistake?
Or is it something stronger for you I should make,
Here I was thinking long and hard to myself,
There would be war if anyone went near the father’s top shelf,
Well he shook hands with the girls and had no time for the boys,
Even at fourteen us lads could spot all of his lies,
Whenever he shook hands he would always try to linger,
And tickle them softly with his little finger,
We knew this for each of us asked our own group of sister’s,
All said the same he’s no priest he’s a molester,
At the end of the week when he was to make his call,
He’d have a job passing me without notice in the hall,
Made aware of things that I knew nothing of before,
If he called he would be shocked at my mother’s door,
But call he did having made sure she was out,
Sure I dropped him to his knees on the doorstep with a clout,
A letter went out this day to your boss,
Now pack your bags and away with you ya coss,
Call no more to this house for your dues and free meal,
No more in this parish will you prey on and feel.
04 Aug. 12
also a priest visiting with the what appeared to be wrong intentions
no PREY here
Age to manhood
The sun has not yet risen when he is up out of bed,
Silently he rises he has chores waiting ahead,
The fire must be lit with the sticks that he gathered,
In a house full of children to which none he has fathered,
The table must be set and the porridge put on the gas,
All things in their place for when the get ready for mass,
When this is done he must silently wake the brood,
Feed them their breakfast making sure they are good,
He calls them one by one from out of their sleep,
And slowly half aware down the stairs they creep,
To the kitchen to where the morning meal will be found,
They all know better then to make a single sound,
It’s a morning ritual having become habit as such,
Today is Sunday and they must all attend church,
Weekends were always a bit harder then most days,
When he could wander about at times in his own haze,
But then there was homework to help out with from school,
He had to be cleverer then most he would not be a fool,
Everyone helped out throughout the week,
Even the shy ones and those who were meek,
But Sunday after the Saturday night before,
When loud voices and fights and slamming of door’s,
This was a day when what was left in their wake,
Was best left sleeping for the children’s sake?
He was twelve going on thirteen,
But Sunday was a day where he could always be seen,
The spuds were peeled and the meat in the oven cooking,
When they got up hangover raging no need to be looking,
He’d learned you see there was always a fight,
Over something or other from a Saturday night,
And it went on into Sunday as chores were left undone,
No one else available so he became the one,
So at the ripe old age of thirteen he’d do all that he can,
This is the age he recalls that he became this man,
And as years passed and time just flew,
He still tries to make things easy doing whatever he can do.
05 Aug. 12
No PREY here.
He came to visit the house of my mother,
As he did I imagined with many of the other’s,
It was a weekly thing and he seemed to bring fun,
There were smiling faces on most everyone,
He was the newest man of the cloth a parish priest,
And whenever he called there was always a feast,
Apple cakes baked in a nice hot oven,
And almost a full one in his mouth he was shoving,
Isn’t it a sin I thought harbouring ideas of greed,
You wouldn’t have thought it the way this man would feed,
It was a regular thing week after week,
And I soon noticed the sisters were playing hide but no seek,
So I chose to answer him at the door this fine summer’s day,
It was usually the sisters but they had gone to play,
Good day father I said as I opened the front door,
But he just passed me by he never did that before,
He greeted the mother, who was sat at her table,
And spoke for a few minutes yet he appeared a little unstable,
Would you like some tea I said and a deliberate mistake?
Or is it something stronger for you I should make,
Here I was thinking long and hard to myself,
There would be war if anyone went near the father’s top shelf,
Well he shook hands with the girls and had no time for the boys,
Even at fourteen us lads could spot all of his lies,
Whenever he shook hands he would always try to linger,
And tickle them softly with his little finger,
We knew this for each of us asked our own group of sister’s,
All said the same he’s no priest he’s a molester,
At the end of the week when he was to make his call,
He’d have a job passing me without notice in the hall,
Made aware of things that I knew nothing of before,
If he called he would be shocked at my mother’s door,
But call he did having made sure she was out,
Sure I dropped him to his knees on the doorstep with a clout,
A letter went out this day to your boss,
Now pack your bags and away with you ya coss,
Call no more to this house for your dues and free meal,
No more in this parish will you prey on and feel.
04 Aug. 12
Friday 10 August 2012
bardic poet reading in the whitehouse bar
by kind permission of donal o siodchain i posted these which could be a gem to all who like traditional bardic poetry from one of the last greats in our fair land please feel free to comment on this site
eireann go braith
eireann go braith
Thursday 9 August 2012
real life real poetry for anyone who can read and likes a good laugh especially in this recession
when times were tough they were really tough and when there was no one or nothing left to have it fell on whomever was at hand to do all they could just to make life easier there is a contrast between these 2 poems where the need to help out is greater then the need to be caught out ha hope ye like them
christy o donnell
Age to manhood
The sun has not yet risen when he is up out of bed,
Silently he rises he has chores waiting ahead,
The fire must be lit with the sticks that he gathered,
In a house full of children to which none he has fathered,
The table must be set and the porridge put on the gas,
All things in their place for when the get ready for mass,
When this is done he must silently wake the brood,
Feed them their breakfast making sure they are good,
He calls them one by one from out of their sleep,
And slowly half aware down the stairs they creep,
To the kitchen to where the morning meal will be found,
They all know better then to make a single sound,
It’s a morning ritual having become habit as such,
Today is Sunday and they must all attend church,
Weekends were always a bit harder then most days,
When he could wander about at times in his own haze,
But then there was homework to help out with from school,
He had to be cleverer then most he would not be a fool,
Everyone helped out throughout the week,
Even the shy ones and those who were meek,
But Sunday after the Saturday night before,
When loud voices and fights and slamming of door’s,
This was a day when what was left in their wake,
Was best left sleeping for the children’s sake?
He was twelve going on thirteen,
But Sunday was a day where he could always be seen,
The spuds were peeled and the meat in the oven cooking,
When they got up hangover raging no need to be looking,
He’d learned you see there was always a fight,
Over something or other from a Saturday night,
And it went on into Sunday as chores were left undone,
No one else available so he became the one,
So at the ripe old age of thirteen he’d do all that he can,
This is the age he recalls that he became this man,
And as years passed and time just flew,
He still tries to make things easy doing whatever he can do.
05 Aug. 12
The railway stables
Watching an old mare that was ready to foal,
We noticed that the workers on the railway line had a goal,
They were putting two pump houses together for the company,
Working day’s on end to finish them in the sun you see,
They toiled for 3 weeks to get them just right,
Working long hours in the warm sun light,
Having finished they then got them ready for an electric cable,
When the thought struck me they’d make a very fine stable,
So it was decided that on this very night in the dark,
We’d dismantle them and in my backyard them we’d park,
While it took us all night both my friend and I,
If all else failed we would give it a damn good try,
And gone they were the very next morning,
The workmen stood there aghast and yawning,
From out of his bed my friend was pulled by his feet,
Three hefty garda to the courthouse he was given a seat,
Not on your own did you perform this dastardly deed,
Nor could you have done it for greed,
You will be held until your partner in crime here appears,
And if he fails to show I’ll guarantee you’ll be in tears,
So up with my hand from the rear of the court,
I’m here judge it’s myself to you I report,
Then a message was handed to the judge from his Clark,
And having read it all we heard was his bark,
It’s a thirty pound fine and the railway want to know,
The details of the robbery and want ye both their workers show,
Just how 2 young lads’ barley skin and bone,
Can do what ye did with those sheds ye took home,
Ye are sentenced to the company to show exactly how ye did,
Dismantle and transport those sheds that ye hid,
And how in gods name did you both in one night,
Do the work it took 3 men 3 weeks to get right,
So instead of being sent to a borstal or jail,
They paid our fine and we told them our tale,
Then back to the judge who was waiting in court,
The company gave us both a glowing report.
07 Aug. 12
christy o donnell
Age to manhood
The sun has not yet risen when he is up out of bed,
Silently he rises he has chores waiting ahead,
The fire must be lit with the sticks that he gathered,
In a house full of children to which none he has fathered,
The table must be set and the porridge put on the gas,
All things in their place for when the get ready for mass,
When this is done he must silently wake the brood,
Feed them their breakfast making sure they are good,
He calls them one by one from out of their sleep,
And slowly half aware down the stairs they creep,
To the kitchen to where the morning meal will be found,
They all know better then to make a single sound,
It’s a morning ritual having become habit as such,
Today is Sunday and they must all attend church,
Weekends were always a bit harder then most days,
When he could wander about at times in his own haze,
But then there was homework to help out with from school,
He had to be cleverer then most he would not be a fool,
Everyone helped out throughout the week,
Even the shy ones and those who were meek,
But Sunday after the Saturday night before,
When loud voices and fights and slamming of door’s,
This was a day when what was left in their wake,
Was best left sleeping for the children’s sake?
He was twelve going on thirteen,
But Sunday was a day where he could always be seen,
The spuds were peeled and the meat in the oven cooking,
When they got up hangover raging no need to be looking,
He’d learned you see there was always a fight,
Over something or other from a Saturday night,
And it went on into Sunday as chores were left undone,
No one else available so he became the one,
So at the ripe old age of thirteen he’d do all that he can,
This is the age he recalls that he became this man,
And as years passed and time just flew,
He still tries to make things easy doing whatever he can do.
05 Aug. 12
The railway stables
Watching an old mare that was ready to foal,
We noticed that the workers on the railway line had a goal,
They were putting two pump houses together for the company,
Working day’s on end to finish them in the sun you see,
They toiled for 3 weeks to get them just right,
Working long hours in the warm sun light,
Having finished they then got them ready for an electric cable,
When the thought struck me they’d make a very fine stable,
So it was decided that on this very night in the dark,
We’d dismantle them and in my backyard them we’d park,
While it took us all night both my friend and I,
If all else failed we would give it a damn good try,
And gone they were the very next morning,
The workmen stood there aghast and yawning,
From out of his bed my friend was pulled by his feet,
Three hefty garda to the courthouse he was given a seat,
Not on your own did you perform this dastardly deed,
Nor could you have done it for greed,
You will be held until your partner in crime here appears,
And if he fails to show I’ll guarantee you’ll be in tears,
So up with my hand from the rear of the court,
I’m here judge it’s myself to you I report,
Then a message was handed to the judge from his Clark,
And having read it all we heard was his bark,
It’s a thirty pound fine and the railway want to know,
The details of the robbery and want ye both their workers show,
Just how 2 young lads’ barley skin and bone,
Can do what ye did with those sheds ye took home,
Ye are sentenced to the company to show exactly how ye did,
Dismantle and transport those sheds that ye hid,
And how in gods name did you both in one night,
Do the work it took 3 men 3 weeks to get right,
So instead of being sent to a borstal or jail,
They paid our fine and we told them our tale,
Then back to the judge who was waiting in court,
The company gave us both a glowing report.
07 Aug. 12
Thursday 2 August 2012
its always a mans fault and a funny jack and jill story turned into a poem
Jack and Jill
Here’s a little story about jack and Jill,
For whom everything in life was always up hill,
They had no kids but a fair and comfortably life,
Jack went to work Jill stayed home the dutiful wife,
When things went awry as they sometimes tend to do,
Jill as always never knew just what she had to do,
In her life it seemed there was always a drama,
Nothing was easy it took ages to calm her,
Then she discovered that she was going through the change,
Oh for god’s sake this was for old people not her she felt strange,
As with everything Jill did she knew what was best,
Hormone replacement she would put that to the test,
Without reading the instructions which might do her no harm,
Instead of one hormone patch she put 2 on her arm,
While jack slipped out early to work the next day,
He gave her a call for he had something to say,
She berated him loudly over waking her with the phone,
Piss off jack she said go back to work and leave me alone,
Hormone replacement he thought who is she fooling,
And wiped his mouth as he was now drooling,
And his tummy was now beginning to give him pain,
Going home to hormone Henrietta for comfort was in vain,
Again he tried telling Jill that he just wasn’t well,
I’m suffering daily she shouted I’m in menopausal bloody hell,
And with a little ache you spent your day to me making calls,
Yes he replied and now I have a pain in my balls,
It’s to bed with me Jill said you will be ok in the morning,
Try being a woman she said as she went upstairs yawning,
To bed they both went with jack still complaining,
I’m for the doctors in the morning if this pain is not waning,
As she turned to advise him to now turn out the light,
She saw his bare ass and laughed with the fright,
Your aches and pains jack are no more then a farce,
For there’s one of my hormone patches stuck onto your arse,
He should have known better with Jill for a wife,
It was drama after crises throughout their whole life.
30.07.2012
Inspired From a tale by Donal O Siodhachain
Mans fault
Apparently all women’s problems start with men,
And foolishly I ask oh really since when,
For instance she says mental stress,
And to this I must wholeheartedly confess,
It takes me 20 minutes to get ready to go out,
And I do it and feel no need to shout,
And what about menstrual cramps then she moans,
As on and on about how painful they are she groans,
Yet if I have a cramp I go out for a walk,
I don’t feel the need to get on the phone for hours to talk,
And still there it is the dreaded menopause,
Sweating for no reason does not warrant a round of applause,
My answer to that is simple and plain,
Your man is on a pause it’s why he never complains,
For every ailment that is known to mankind,
It is named after some woman I think you will find,
Some of which are really quite scary,
Do I have to mention Typhoid Mary?
And a venereal disease called Saigon rose,
Not everything in the world is mans fault as it goes,
But if you sit long enough put men before any word,
Your questions will be answered this I have heard,
From time beginning men have tried to p-lease,
But you made us put our name in front of every disease,
And now you complain the men just don’t care,
It’s all about us and we are never there,
It’s our fault it rained on the wedding day,
Is there anything else you want to blame us for I say?
Take a look at the letters in your species before man,
And split them up into a sentence if you really can,
Woe man is what you will see before your eyes,
Here in front of you not up in the skies,
And it seems to be woe from when he is first born,
For women will berate him louder then a fog horn
So for every ailment that has men before its name,
Look at the 2 letters before men there’s who to blame,
So in future if you want to blame man kind for woes,
Remember where the first 2 letters of that word goes,
Here’s a little story about jack and Jill,
For whom everything in life was always up hill,
They had no kids but a fair and comfortably life,
Jack went to work Jill stayed home the dutiful wife,
When things went awry as they sometimes tend to do,
Jill as always never knew just what she had to do,
In her life it seemed there was always a drama,
Nothing was easy it took ages to calm her,
Then she discovered that she was going through the change,
Oh for god’s sake this was for old people not her she felt strange,
As with everything Jill did she knew what was best,
Hormone replacement she would put that to the test,
Without reading the instructions which might do her no harm,
Instead of one hormone patch she put 2 on her arm,
While jack slipped out early to work the next day,
He gave her a call for he had something to say,
She berated him loudly over waking her with the phone,
Piss off jack she said go back to work and leave me alone,
Hormone replacement he thought who is she fooling,
And wiped his mouth as he was now drooling,
And his tummy was now beginning to give him pain,
Going home to hormone Henrietta for comfort was in vain,
Again he tried telling Jill that he just wasn’t well,
I’m suffering daily she shouted I’m in menopausal bloody hell,
And with a little ache you spent your day to me making calls,
Yes he replied and now I have a pain in my balls,
It’s to bed with me Jill said you will be ok in the morning,
Try being a woman she said as she went upstairs yawning,
To bed they both went with jack still complaining,
I’m for the doctors in the morning if this pain is not waning,
As she turned to advise him to now turn out the light,
She saw his bare ass and laughed with the fright,
Your aches and pains jack are no more then a farce,
For there’s one of my hormone patches stuck onto your arse,
He should have known better with Jill for a wife,
It was drama after crises throughout their whole life.
30.07.2012
Inspired From a tale by Donal O Siodhachain
Mans fault
Apparently all women’s problems start with men,
And foolishly I ask oh really since when,
For instance she says mental stress,
And to this I must wholeheartedly confess,
It takes me 20 minutes to get ready to go out,
And I do it and feel no need to shout,
And what about menstrual cramps then she moans,
As on and on about how painful they are she groans,
Yet if I have a cramp I go out for a walk,
I don’t feel the need to get on the phone for hours to talk,
And still there it is the dreaded menopause,
Sweating for no reason does not warrant a round of applause,
My answer to that is simple and plain,
Your man is on a pause it’s why he never complains,
For every ailment that is known to mankind,
It is named after some woman I think you will find,
Some of which are really quite scary,
Do I have to mention Typhoid Mary?
And a venereal disease called Saigon rose,
Not everything in the world is mans fault as it goes,
But if you sit long enough put men before any word,
Your questions will be answered this I have heard,
From time beginning men have tried to p-lease,
But you made us put our name in front of every disease,
And now you complain the men just don’t care,
It’s all about us and we are never there,
It’s our fault it rained on the wedding day,
Is there anything else you want to blame us for I say?
Take a look at the letters in your species before man,
And split them up into a sentence if you really can,
Woe man is what you will see before your eyes,
Here in front of you not up in the skies,
And it seems to be woe from when he is first born,
For women will berate him louder then a fog horn
So for every ailment that has men before its name,
Look at the 2 letters before men there’s who to blame,
So in future if you want to blame man kind for woes,
Remember where the first 2 letters of that word goes,
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