Poems for All Occasions (12 page)

When in cradles small we lay.

A clock is best with a tick-tock sound,

That has strong loud solid beats,

It drives away insomnia,

And helps each one to sleep.

Each baby ,too, will benefit,

Should you have one in the house,

The sound will make its little brain

Grow in peace with love abound.

They used to say in days gone by

That the clock was in league with death,

Because when its master passed away

It was impossible again to set.

Its ticking stopped quite suddenly,

Without reason,push or shove,

The night my own father closed his eyes

And his soul had fled above.

So get a clock, do not delay,

You’ll have a friend for life,

Its rhythm will ease your heart beat,

Driving tension away and strife.

I guarantee it will cost you less,

Tan a visit to a doctor’s room,

The tick-tock makes you pause, relax,

Like mist o’er a full new moon.

(Written for Cashel competition)

Sentinel of peace,

Cashel’s Rock, I see,

Gauntly, stately, noble,

Throwing shadows on the green.

CHORUS;

Gone is battle’s thunder,

The kings, the poets, the scholars,

But still, you guard their treasures

From a high and lofty peak.

2.

Hush, let’s not awaken,

Your soldier sons asleeping,

Beneath the green vales over

The “Golden Vein” of peace.

REPEAT CHORUS;

Gone is battle’s thunder,

The kings, the poets, the scholars,

But still, you guard their treasures

From a high and lofty peak.

3.

Hush, Hush, hush, just listen,

The sky is filled with songsters,

The lowing of cattle yonder,

Enchant this place of peace.

4.

Silently, climb upwards,

And gaze across the valley,

How near you are to heaven,

On Cashel’s Rock of peace.

When reason bows to instinct and superstitions rule our day,

We’re trodding on our fore fathers path, in their effort to explain,

Nature’s own existence, omens, be they good or bad,

Fate and charmed happenings, either make one sad or glad.

Carry an acorn in your pouch, then old you’ll never grow,

Put garlic often in your food, healthy from head to toe.

The Romans said that lettuce had top child bearing powers

The Welsh say Leeks in plenty, no better to be found.

Drop a knife, be ready, a visitor’s on the way,

Never sing before you rise, or at table any day,

When soot drops from the chimney, bad weather rules the sun,

Or when the dog and cat eat grass, rain is sure to come.

Seaweed hung inside the door is the best weather guide for you,

It shrivels up when the weather’s fine and damp when

rain’s in view.

A spider passes by your fire, the old saying clear and true is

Let the spider run alive, if humans wish to live and thrive.

Sometimes one’s body shivers, you haven’t got a cold,

Yet you shrug your shoulders briskly, and feel uneasy, sad

and lone,

It means at that very moment there is someone on your grave,

Walking over your future bed of scraths and grass and clay.

If you suffer from sciatica or rheumatism sore,

Or any other ailment which hurts your joints and bones,

Just get a raw potato and bring it where ‘ere you go,

Your aches and pains will vanish in sunshine, rain or snow.

If you wish to avoid a quarrel with your love or mate or spouse,

Never wash your hands with him or dry with the self same towel,

And should you turn some garments, when dressing, inside out,

Leave them as they are, at first, good luck will then

abound.

We’re told that lightning ne’er strikes twice in any place

indeed,

Beware of the oak, it draws the stroke, under a thorn, safe

you’ll be,

But avoid the ash, it courts a flash, so the ancient Greeks

used say,

In your bed, asleep, you can have no fears, you’ll see another day.

A superstition believed by sailors, when their ship is still in port,

Should rats and rodents scamper out and desert the ship or boat,

They swear it dooms disaster, likewise if rats leave a house,

Its walls could shortly tumble, throwing rubble all around.

I’ve heard our football players some omens do declare,

The goal keeper touches the goal post before the match

they say,

In the dressing room, before the match, the oldest player on

the team,

Bounces the ball to the youngest chap, bringing luck and victory.

Omens, superstitions of every kind cling to our human brains,

Linking us with the distant past, be it willing, or unaware,

We like to dream of former days, when all these powers were best,

When our ancestors trod this worldly globe and left us do the test.

A roguish grin

Enveloped his

Five year old cheeks.

Smiles shadowed

By a gleam of mischief. . . . . . .

A sudden brain wave. . . .

For the first time

He had just realised

THE IMPORTANCE OF MONEY.

With it ,a small boy

Could buy many things,

Cakes, lollies, toys.

Yesterday,

He welcomed nuts,

Fruit and watery orange.

To-day,

the corner Pound–Shop

held all his attention.

Mother wondered,

When he said,

“Mummy Darling,

When will GRAN ARRIVE?”

The day I hated most of all,

When I was a little child,

Was the day they caught poor Porky,

And stuck him with a knife.

You see I knew this piglet

Since no bigger than a toy,

But days before this vile event,

I sobbed and cried and cried.

The same thing happened every pig,

That was reared for private use,

As soon as Porky put on weight.

It signed his certain doom.

The kitchen table was brought outside,

And left on our backyard

A barrel and some tubs and bowls

To prepare for meat and lard.

They brought out squealing piggy,

His four legs tied with rope,

He was placed upon the table,

With a knife they cut his throat.

I put my palms around my ears,

To stifle his cries of pain,

I vowed I hated everyone,

And would never smile again.

A neighbour was the butcher,

Big and strong was he,

I heard him sighing softly,

When he saw my heartfelt tears.

The blood poured in a bucket,

Enamel white as snow,

Then mixed with salt and oatmeal,

To make puddings black as coal.

Boiling water steaming hot,

Was poured o’er Porky’s skin.

They scraped the hair and bristles,

And turned him round and then.

They took out all his insides,

Then hung him from the roof

Of a nearby stable building

And left him there to cool.

My brother got the bladder

’Twould make a fine football,

When dried with smoke, like kippers,

We could play it on the lawn.

The following day, the pig was carved

Some put into salty brine,

But each neighbour got a portion

As a token of love so kind.

But slices fresh of pork so sweet

Was cooked in the pan that night,

I can almost smell the odour,

And the cries of our delight.

So Porky served his purpose

And brought food and tears and joy,

But I often think of Porky,

Still sorry he had to die.

Missing?

Vanishing into the space of oblivion

In earth, sea or sky?

Who knows?

Gone into the wilderness

Of the unknown.

Leaving behind;

Fathers, mothers,

Brothers sisters.

Bewildered friends.

Watching, waiting,

Hearts aching,

Eyes peering,

Ears listening.

Minds hoping,

The door will open,

The vanished will return.

Like the prodigal son,

The father will say;

“Come into my open arms,

Oh! Child, how we missed you.”

In the freshness of dawn

A baby robin slipped

Over the soft twigs

Of its home nest.

High up at the gable end

Of an old castle ruin.

Down, down it fell,

Its silk like wings

Striving to save its tiny body

from thundering speed

into the hard earth’s womb.

Its fragile wings

mastered the breeze.

The happy offspring

of the bird family

Flew joyfully to a safe perch

on the branch

of a great oak,

Which sheltered

the tiny frame,

Its first great flight

on its very own.

An old travelling woman she was,

Born by the side of the road,

At sixteen married her cousin,

Ten children painfully bore.

They were poor, though happy together,

Until Dan passed away one fine eve,

T.B., was the disease that killed him,

’Twas hard for ten children to feed.

One morning she saw her kids hungry,

She drew a shawl around her thin frame,

Four tins of beans and some biscuits,

She stole from a super store chain.

The verdict, a week in a prison,

The judge just glanced at her face,

If he only realised that this sentence,

Would last till the end of her days.

Claustrophobia smothered her breathing

Discrimination and prejudice cruel,

Made her cringe and shiver and cry out,

How much could her body endure?

Strip searched by a young female warder,

Left her puzzled, embarrassed and sad,

Nobody had e’er touched her body,

Only the man in his grave, known as Dan.

She suffered the taunts from some inmates,

Prostitutes, addicts, and rogues,

They jeered and they teased at the traveller,

Who was born for the white dusty roads.

The high walls and the gates made of iron,

Caused her poor head to quiver and shake,

Perspiration wet covered her body,

No more could her hurt spirit take.

One week, to the day, in that prison,

She left it, disillusioned ,and sad

Society’s justice just called it

REFORM for the evil and bad.

Though old is she now, and quite helpless,

Quite soon she hopes to join Dan,

And fly through the clouds neath the moonlight.

T o the land of the free travelling man.

Wrinkled furrows,

Deep trenches

Like ploughed soil,

Hollow, brown, and greying ,

Shadowing, a curved forehead,

Neath shades of mousy tresses.

Now fading

Marrying grey-white streaks,

O’er eyes still twinkling,

Their shade, a darkened hue,

Nestling in a canopy

Of ageing wrinkles.

Age, blunderer,

Of youth’s fresh love.

Climax of life’s drama.

Obstacle to

Fleety, luscious, gaiety.

Cast aside, forgotten,

Yet, restful, dignified.

A sense of peace and calm.

The throbbing yearns of youth.

A beating pulse

Is slower growing.

Happy the mind,

Watching youth’s innocence,

Too young, they are

To hold age’s silent knowledge,

Grasped from time and experience.

Youth, too frail to know or listen,

Until age catches and says;

“Thou fool of fools,

Stand, stare and feel,

Listen, fall you must

Like withered leaves

In an Autumn mist.

Youth and age,

Both beautiful.

Wildness tamed,

Ignorance mastered,

A floating dream

Too elusive to understand

The roving drama in the life of man.

His hat sloping sideways,

Determination in every step,

He moved past the furze hedges

On the pebble strewn boreen.

Morning shadows peering

On the mountain above Gortalassa.

He leads his meitheal of men,

Dignified as a king leading an army over rocky bog path,

Pebbles, sticking like darts through our Summer sandals

Causing painful bruises, which filled, a week later

With poisonous yellow matter,

Requiring a poultice bandage of hot burning porridge,

As hot as ever I imagined the fires of hell to be.

The beauty of the bog, with its white ceanabhan,

Floating like soft wool in the mountain breeze.

The soothing smell of purple heather snugly sheltered in

rock crevices, Dotting the silent bog,

Filled with dark mysterious peat ,undisturbed

in its habitat

For centuries and centuries,

Its hidden wonders, ripe and ready,

To be cut, thrown and saved,

To warm our hearths and homes

With the onslaught of Winter.

Fascinated, I watched in admiration

The men of strength and muscle.

Grasping sleans, dexterity displayed,

Butter like cutting, with gentle swing,

Artistically sliced and shaped,

Sculpture of a talented craft.

Each portion like new life

Flying from the slean’s womb.

I gasped at the accuracy of the throw,