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the big C word

The day the big C called.

Three hundred and sixty five days, that’s the time they said,

Within that time, the doc says, for sure, I will be dead,

The big C, has finally knocked upon my door,

And within one year, I will be, no more,

So I’ll drink one last brandy, smoke my final cigarette,

Pray of all I know, they will never, me, forget,

Hope some friends will call, help send me on my way,

Sons and daughters all, will by then have found their way,

All I have seen and done, will see me smile, until the end,

My children left behind, a mothers love I send,

Good company I’ve kept, times we laughed and smiled,

A good life I’ve had, to womanhood from child,

A year he says, use it, as you see fit,

There is little more to do, little time to dwell on it,

So decisions are to be made, I’m asked to make a will,

For after I am gone, when of this life, I’ve had my fill,

Twelve long months, for myself to just decide,

If the years I have lived, were rough or smooth a ride,

If there were, more happy times than sad, in all that I have done,

To make them understand, I love each and every one,

Fifty two weeks, to get my act together, and ease the way,

For a seat at the bar in heaven, a wee brandy served each day,

Not so much to ask for, and I couldn’t ask for more,

The good company of all, whom I have loved, and gone before,

But whatever happens, on the day I go to rest,

When ye lay me out, be sure, I look my best,

Raise a glass of brandy, toast me on my way,

I’ve lived, I’ve loved, I’ve laughed, and enjoyed each and every day.

just me

Just me

I was born in the early part of nineteen sixty three,

And to this day I live in total amazement,

How? did I make it to this age and still be me?

It’s nothing short of a miracle, heaven sent,

I survived teething, on a led painted cot,

Landing on my head, when I climbed out of bed,

Didn’t starve, from all those things I had not,

Informed to firmly, keep my tongue, inside my head,

Learned early on that drugs, would keep me out of control,

Stayed there for a while until I discovered booze,

Discovered you had to over eighteen, to drink, so I stole,

Seemed easier, as I was out of it, and didn’t have to choose,

Thought anyone over twenty was really old,

Until I reached twenty and I changed it to thirty,

No way was there a single thing I could be told,

Thirty soon became forty,

Passed the millennium, everyone said the world would end?

Couldn’t believe it when I awoke with a hangover,

Self-infliction and a few pints would soon have me on the mend,

Had a purpose in life and nothing seemed to be a bother?

Worried about everything that I, couldn’t control.

Controlled all I could and still worried,

Became a family, a unit, felt whole,

Still worked, hassled, harried and hurried,

Made it through the 60’s, 70’s, 80s’, 90’s and the rest,

I look around me, I see people young and without a clue,

Of what it is to be put to the test,

Things the younger generation will say, they never knew,

For all must be handed to them on a silver platter,

They cannot learn a skill set that we older ones acquired,

How or where it comes from doesn’t seem to matter,

In order to live, you must cope and survive it’s required,

Thank heaven I was born in nineteen sixty three,

I’ve gotten this far and I’m glad, I turned into just me.

pennsylvania we hear ya

Pennsylvania we hear ya

Oh, he’s coming, the head of Catholicism, let’s all meet him in the park,

Show him how good we are, let’s all have a lark,

Show him there’s no hard feelings, foe the damage his lot have done,

Stealing so many childhoods, hiding all his buddies, every one,

Send them to the missions, where no one will ever know,

Off to Pennsylvania, where their horror stories grow,

But their leader, he is coming, to visit one and all,

And we are paying for this privilege, we won’t help the ones who fall,

Now he might just be a good man, I cannot say for sure,

But when his lot were asked for help, they firmly shut the door,

Hid the priests who were preying, on the parish kids whom they perceived,

No one would ever listen to, they wouldn’t be believed,

In among the families who were broken and ignored,

Outwardly showing compassion, to darkened places, the abused were lured,

But to Ireland he is coming, the chairman of their board,

While the Vatican in its banks, our offerings it will hoard,

Still around the pews, their basked it is sent,

We pay for their escape, yet not one of them repent,

Oh now these missions are educated, no longer quiet on the floor,

All are beating the same path, to the churches door,

And still the ranks are closed, yet hiding in plain sight,

Hoping those abused, will either die, or give up the fight,

In Ireland we’ll spend millions, to welcome the papal crown,

Hide every bad thing they did, have a party in every town,

The head of the largest paedophile ring in the world, is coming to the park,

Why not throw our kids at him, let’s all despair, continue hiding in the dark,

Pennsylvania is not alone, their predicament is nothing new,

But every cent put in that basket, helps them bury what we know is truth.

a quiet night in squires

A Quiet Night in Squires

On an evening in august, as the light began to fade,

I called herself unto me and said, this day was almost played,

As we sat and thought, we had little else to do,

So to the pub we went thinking a quiet drink or two,

As we had our first, sure, the squire himself appeared,

And all was quiet, in this pub, that is revered,

Some friends they came to join us, as we sat and had our beer,

In walked a bunch of Canadian people seeking cheer,

Turned out they are good singers, and want to hear a song or two,

Who better to oblige them, then a poet and teacher true?

Competition it was lively as Canada went into the lead,

Yet as Irish we dug deeper, more beer was all we’d need,

There was singing, there was talking, one and all forgot the time,

Closing was for half eleven, but half one rang out the chime,

The Irish poet he rose up and read out one of his ode’s,

The squire he had left, and his wife now held the court,

Sing on she said ye’re no bother, why would I stop ye now,

Sure tis way past closing time, and I enjoy the crowd somehow,

On and on we went, singing songs to beat each other,

Until a draw it was declared, by a 95yr old singer’s mother,

No more poetry no more singing, the night was coming to an end,

Out for a quiet evening sixteen people, had now made friends,

The songs ring out as ever, towards upscale music eighty five,

Proving yet again, Canada and Ireland are truly alive,

To Judy and your group, who happened upon, a quiet local bar,

Ye made a quiet night of contemplation, into a bright and shining star,

May ye travel well and true, be safe in everything ye try,

It was a night we’ll all remember, this we never can deny,

A restless night who’d have thought we’d meet,

Neither Canada nor Ireland, have tasted singing defeat.

i knew your real name

I knew your real name

I knew your real name, we all did,

But I never used it, seems lame and you weren’t one that hid,

At 3 o clock in the morning, in a dark field,

As you poked the embers, waiting on a foal that wouldn’t yield,

We christened you did my pal sonny and I,

Forever more to be called Winnie,

You were so very young back then, to be out watching horses,

Waiting on some mare to drop her foal, and I’d say horses for courses,

We’d laugh wait till dawn, telling jokes or lies, whichever sounded best,

Time went by really slowly, who knew that life would force you, to the ultimate test,

Yet there you were, sat with the best of our time, around the camp fire,

Never complained, never moaned you were tired,

Time passed and life goes by, but everyone knew your name,

Those who didn’t, made me smile, as they asked us to explain?

But how do you explain friendship and a good heart?

For all who knew you Winnie, you will never depart,

I remember you poking the embers with a broken stick,

Eyes wide open you never missed a trick,

Gone now to that great fire in the sky,

Urging lost friends not to cry,

The fight is over, your time sadly has come,

There will never be another you, no one,

I knew your real name, I will recall it fondly to my end,

You were our very own Winnie Clark, to so many, a true friend,

(rip Maureen)

today there is light

Today there is light?

As I awake each morning, I pray there is light,

Shining on all, with struggle in life,

Brightening the day, sharing delight,

Sadly I awake, to a morning of strife,

During the night, someone has fallen,

And news travels fast, in this modern age,

By their own or others hand, death came a calling,

Social media has filled, everyone’s page,

Condolences passed, from one to the other,

Is it true, did you hear, there is someone now dead?

Yet no one has called to a father or mother,

Some will never return, to the safety of bed,

And faster it goes, Instagram or twitter,

Gaining momentum, as the stories get bolder,

Some, trawling get sarcastic and bitter,

Yet someone lying dead, will not get any older,

Forgotten are times, when a thing called respect,

Made you wait, until confirmation was had,

Circumstances were given, whether natural or suspect,

For death leaves behind, those grieving and sad,

We have warriors now, who a keyboard stroke,

Write everything down, as it comes to mind,

From the most serious times, to trivia or a joke,

Still total loss, is all, that’s left behind,

Yes, share the good times, be honest have fun,

The internet cares nothing, for those suffering in pain,

Give the keyboard a rest, learn to walk not to run,

Being the first to post, shows nothing to gain,

Today there is light, but for some, less so,

Sadness falls upon them, there is no delight,

Their day is darker they have nothing to share,

And the keyboard warriors, will never, ever, care.

1969 mothers view

1969

Up at the crack of dawn, pot on the stove,

Cigarette, hanging from her lower lip,

Awaiting the arrival of the morning shove,

Thirteen crew in all, aboard her ship,

Each one trying to gain any or all advantage,

Breakfast ready, she championed the large pot,

Soon they would run mid-morning rampage,

Fed, each in various bowls porridge for her lot,

For years most resented having to eat the gruel,

Not thinking, she was up each morning at the crack of dawn,

She made them eat it, forced it, seemingly cruel,

At times resentment for her set in, on faces she saw,

She knew she could have done better, more even,

She also knew she didn’t know how,

As long as it was better for them,

Without so many row’s,

Thirteen crew and all with different view’s,

Growing so fast it hurt her eyes,

So fast they had their own crews,

Prayed they would see, their captain tries,

Up each morning at the crack of dawn,

Fed each of us every morn,

We ran as far as we could, avoiding her glare,

How I wish we could have her now, here.

Barney Sheehan,1934-2018.

FOR A TRUE LEGEND OF LIMERICK

High on his horse.

RIP

Bernard (Barney) Sheehan

Having gone to the riding school, to view a horse.

When out from nowhere, came this sight for my eyes to feast.

I thought that all horses would generally look much the same.  

He was led by what looked like a midget beside him.

Speaking gently as if they were old friends, he calmed the beast.

Can you think of anything to stop him from trying his hand at the other mares he said?

Just to stop him from jumping up on them.

He is too big for all that nonsense and his genitals are long since gone.

Well I can say this for him; his brain is alive even if his balls are dead.

I would also like it very much if you could school him and calm him for riding so to speak.

So a plan was hatched to quieten this beast that was walking on all four legs.

But between man and beast there didn’t seem to be much difference,

So if we calm the beast then both just might have less cheek.

Well a strap from his head to his underbelly, will soften his jump.

Put out with his other equine friends who all looked a little wary.

Tentatively they approached him yet getting ready to gallop off at a moments notice.

And try he did to mount the first filly but the strap did its job,

And he was now just a great lump who failed his jump,

Then something occurred to me there was a very distinct likeness between man and beast. For nearly every time the man got close to any young filly, he too tried to mount them,

He couldn’t help but give it a try and age or height meant he was alive, to all his eyes would let him feast.

So having done just about all there was to be done for better or worse.

And seeing the hint of joy in the eyes of, this would be jockey.

I still haven’t figured out if it be the animal or the jockey that needed the strap,(to keep him in check so to speak).

Either way all the fillies were happy, as for the man he was still up on his high horse.

Proof at the ripe age of 73, there is life in this jockey you can bet,

As he trots round the city, with a gleam in his wise old eye.

Still watching young fillies, I wouldn’t bank on any strap holding him back nor keeping him in check just yet.

11.04.2011

poetry in april

Poetry in April

It’s April, its poetry month and spring is in the air,

Words are full with meaning, words of truth and dare,

Its poetry month, its April spring has finally sprung,

Creatures of all sizes, all kinds of words have sung,

Long and hard the process, of writing our first word,

Putting pen to paper, hoping we’ll be heard,

Someone will read it, perhaps just take the time,

After all its April and words are flowing fine,

So please just take a minute, to read what I have said,

Try to smile, at least inside your head,

For its April and its poetry month, all across the world,

Be glad that it is poetry, into which you have been hurled,

Relish all the words, displayed for you to read,

On computers in books in windows, let your mind be freed,

Now that it’s April and poetry is here, let one and all now know,

Immerse yourselves in the art of words, into poetry all will go.

for a passed poet

Delores o'Riordan

Well its official, tour bus has finally left the station,

The place will be a lot less noisy without you,

From your talent and all your creation,

Many have felt the need to push through,

Tough times, where no light was seen,

Like zombies, faithfully departed,

You will miss all that could have been,

So many left behind broken hearted,

Family and friends have the thanks of so many,

Sharing your journey to home and rest,

You are mourned worldwide it seems uncanny,

Your words will over time stand best,

For all you inspired, may they recall your name?

While they too make their mark in life,

Nothing else will seem the same,

Rest easy, daughter, mother, friend wife,

deafening silence

Deafening silence

The sound of the chopper overhead,

For most sends shivers, of fear and dread,

For while that sound is loud and true,

Its meaning is sad, for someone new,

A race to the river, with utmost haste,

Time of the essence, not for waste,

Some poor soul, it deems to save,

Prevent them entering, a watery grave,

The future appears to have, no good end,

Fooling those close, family or friend,

Rescue boats on the water splash,

So many lives so much backlash,

Missing then for hours or days,

Parents and family in a haze,

Pray to god they soon will find,

A friend a loved one someone’s child,

Across the land in towns and cities,

Here’s to those we’re left to pity,

For no one knows until it’s too late,

The river calls they choose their fate,

While that chopper hovers overhead

Filling those below with fear and dread,

A body upon that river flows,

The reason for it no one knows,

An end to life for some poor soul,

No future seen no forward goal,

Peace they sought from this mortal ground,

For those left behind, none will be found,