5 shorter poems

At least one thing

At least one thing I’ll remember,

he smiled happily under the bedclothes.

Bare arms lay suggestive on her pillow,

brown eyes flashing in the dim light.

At least that I’ll think of,

when I remember how I left,

remember how I was told to leave.


Sleeping on a park bench promises things

Will change for the better at dawn

Because the sun clears dew and the lark sings

Above the town’s red chimney studded lawn

While the fawn brown worm and silent snail

Creeping slowly from grass, leave a sign

Where the spotted thrush, with beak like nail,

Pierced shell and turned worm to wine.

Perhaps all this shows that God still lives,

Still cares for all. Rising early I see

A flower reflecting with droplet sieves,

Changing into mosaic sun through a tree

And I am stunned by amazing art

In small things playing such a tiny part.

Ships in the night

All right, I was happy then,

just being with you.

Even if every time


opened my mouth


thought I was after


you weren’t prepared

to give,

whatever that was.

Notice that…

We’re inclined to wonder,

seeing others care lined faces,

just exactly what it is they’ve seen.

In a lecture theatre I met

one who had surely seen and conversed

with the ghost of Hamlet’s father,

long since deceased.

published by “Boyne Berries” Spring 2013


quenched his

thirst for knowledge


seeking it

drowned him


when he died


he smiled

and part of me

died with that


Someone else’s problem

Someone else’s problem

At Portadown the soldiers, he knew straight away, were going to check him out.  Slowly they walked down the aisle towards him.  No-one pointed at him or gestured towards him, but he knew he would be the one.  Rifles pointed down, trigger finger at the ready, he noted, they continued their measured advance.

“Name!”  The voice was not too loud but there was no mistaking the underlying firmness.

He gave his name, reaching into the top pocket of his jacket for photographic I.D.  He handed it over, wondering if his warmest winter jacket might somehow be wrong in the eyes of the soldiers.  The I.D. was held, examined, passed behind.

“Where are you going?”

In response he rooted in another pocket and pulled out a letter she had written in the autumn.  There was a return address on the envelope.  He showed him that.  The soldier turned it over, read his own name and address.  Bored now he passed it behind him and made to move on.

“Check that matches the I.D.,” the soldier said.

The second soldier looked at the I.D., looked at the envelope, turned it over, looked at the sender’s address, and finally looked at him.  He just grunted, handed back the letter and the I.D., moved on.  The rest of them stared hard at him as they passed by.

He was annoyed while being at the same time, somehow relieved.  All he wanted was to see her, to take a break.  He could have a few good nights while the money lasted.  She had said, “you can see me anytime, don’t worry.  We’ll find a place for you to stay.”

Now here he was, on the train going north, taking her at her word.  He had written but heard nothing in reply.  There was, he thought, a good chance she hadn’t received it yet.  A few days previous there had been no thoughts of doing anything like this.  A seldom seen uncle passing through on his way to the ferry had been met at the docks.  They’d had a good chat, he’d enjoyed himself and as he made to go his uncle said, “here, take this I’d say you could find a good use for it.”  With a smile and a wave from his aunt they were gone and he was left holding in his hand enough for a return ticket toBelfastand the chance not to be deeply broke, for a few days at least.

The train moved swiftly along.  Soon he would be at the station, changing to a bus.  What seemed to his eyes to be densely packed housing rolled by, interlaced by roads heavy with traffic.  He relaxed further into his seat.  Where roads crossed over the railway line the carriage momentarily darkened and he caught glimpses of his reflection.  He felt that he looked good.  He smiled and drifted into thoughts of meeting her, of what might be.  They had never gone as far as he wanted.  She loved him she said, as a friend, a very close and special friend.  She didn’t want to spoil that.  Who knows, he thought, who knows how it might go?

“Ah son, you shouldn’t be here at all!”  The woman’s voice sounded tired, the northern tones resigned.

“You shouldn’t be here at all”. She repeated herself, looking around as if to locate where he should be and how to get there.

He too had looked around immediately he stepped off the bus.  He was in a wide open space by the side of the main road. Behind him, rising up the hill, were rows and rows of almost identical looking housing.  There wasn’t a tree or a bush or a park bench anywhere in the green area.  Everything from the housing down to the main road was open and exposed.  There were just acres of close mown grass, edged by the first of the streets and fringed by the skeletons of a burnt out bus and the rusted hulks of a few cars.

Just like the lady, he had known straight away he shouldn’t be there at all.  He had cursed himself immediately for his wrong choice of bus stop.  Springhill, Springmartin,Springfield, Springburn?  He had made the wrong choice, clear straight away when every brush stroke of graffiti told him so.  The Pope was well and truly fucked if he ever got here and so was he if he didn’t get out of there.

Walking along the path, staying close to the main road, avoiding a group of men around black taxis a few hundred yards away, he had decided to ask the first old lady he met.  If he walked towards the next bus stop, a good distance away, he would get further away from the taxis, figure out something.

The woman at the next bus stop looked at him again and with pity in her voice said, “for your life son, don’t ask that question and you around here again.”

He mumbled thanks, more conscious of his accent than he had ever been in his life before.

“Go you up to yon crossing over the road up there.”  She pursed her lips, thought a bit and continued, “I’m not right sure of the street you’re looking for, but,” she hesitated, “I’m fair sure someone over there will be able to help you.”

He thanked her, relieved that his instincts had been right, that a middle aged woman on her own might look kindly upon a wayfaring stranger, hoping someone else might do the same for one of hers someday.  As he headed towards the crossing she called quietly after him, “mind how you go and be careful who you open your mouth to around here.”

“You shouldn’t be here at all.”  The doorway was a neat frame for the man, large and bulky, eyeing the young stranger closely.  He grinned suddenly, “ach no son, she’s down by the College now, living in a house wi’ some of her friends. Annie!” he shouted over his shoulder, “call out her new address there, will you?”

He wrote down the address the man gave him on the envelope.  He asked for detailed instructions for the bus changes he needed to get there.  A girl, younger than him and mad with curiosity about the young man who had come so far to see her sister, told him what he needed to know.

“Come on,” she added, “I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

She tried to pump him for gossip.  Where did they meet?  What brought him up here?  Was she in trouble?  He had younger sisters himself and was easily able to divert her.  As he jumped on the correct bus she yelled after him as a parting shot, “tell her I’ve got her room now, she needn’t mind coming back!”

This time, no bother, he followed the directions he was given and ended up at the right address, an older, quieter district.  Mature trees could be seen at the end of the street.  A giant yellow crane was bright and cheerful against a sky turning to blue beyond the park.

There was no-one in.  He went to the pub on the corner.  After a pint and a ham sandwich with mustard relish he began to feel better. The pint tasted strange, sharper where he was used to a smoother, creamier drink.  It was a relief that his accent was not a problem.  If anything it broke the ice.  Afternoon drinkers, long bored with each other’s company, were delighted to have a youngster, not from thereabouts, to exchange banter with.

Then she was there.  Suddenly, unexpectedly there and he thought, exactly as before that she was beautiful.  He laughed easily and she smiled and her smile, on her lips and in her eyes, was as bright as the sunlight now streaming through the nicotine stained windows.

“I only looked in to see if Marie was there, you’ll meet her.  I don’t always do that but I felt like I should look in today.”  She linked her arm through his and glanced at him repeatedly as she spoke.

At the door she stopped and looked at him closely and said again, “I can’t believe it!  You just came up and managed to find me here.”  She sounded glad; she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly.  For a time he lost himself in her embrace and was conscious of nothing but the softness of her long red hair against his cheek.  He breathed deeply, inhaling her scents, shampoo, perfume.  They clung to each other comfortably until she said, “there now, come on and we get you inside.”

After a flurry of introductions in the kitchen, none of which he caught properly, they were alone again in a bedroom upstairs.

“You can leave your bag there,” she pointed to a bare space on the floor.  The room was cramped; two beds jammed together with little space between them dominated the room.  Leaning against the fragile seeming wardrobe he pulled aside the net curtain for a clearer view.  An untidy garden backed onto it’s twin.  The green between the houses softened the monotony of red brick.  It reminded him of where he had left to be here.

He wondered where exactly he would end up sleeping.  As if prompted by a subtle telepathy she faintly blushed, a pale pink flush faintly colouring her pale skin. Almost shyly she said, “come on, I’ll show you where you can freshen up.  Lord!  I still can’t believe you made it here, and you found me.”

He trailed along the corridor behind her as she led the way to a bathroom which looked as though it hadn’t been maintained in about forty years.  Alone and catching sight of his reflection again he felt suddenly nervous, unsure.  What if this didn’t work out?  Didn’t go the way he hoped, planned?  Throwing the towel on the basket he shrugged at himself in the mirror and stepped back outside.  She was there again.

“Ready?”  Her smile was enough for him.  “We’ll go into town, just the pair of us.  We can get something to eat and then,” she almost leaned on the word, “then we’ll go somewhere for a few drinks, you’ll meet loads of people.”

Feeling that he had done that already he felt in lighter mood all the same.  He took her arm in his, smiled at her and said in that event it was time they left.

“See?  I told you, life goes on.”  Her hand across the table lay on his.  His distress was clear to her. With sympathetic eyes she continued, “don’t think about it.  I know it’s strange, but there you are.  What else do you do?”

What else could he do?  He enjoyed the meal they shared, the easy way they felt together.  Over the candlelight her eyes sparkled in the beautiful restaurant built out of the ruins of the bombing.  Again he loved the light reflected in the shining curves of her hair.  She caught the look in his eyes and said, “you needn’t be looking like that,” she said, grinning in a mischievous way.

When they left they linked arms and huddled closer, an evening chill encouraging intimacy.

He loved the old pub she brought him to.  They had started in an empty snug, still close.  He thought the colours of her crocheted poncho were like echoes of the stained glass windows.  An old lady, thin and worn looking but bright and chirpy in herself, joined them.

“Ah, you don’t mind me joining you, do you dearie?  It doesn’t do for a lady to be seen in a pub on her own.”

“Not at all, come on in,” she said.  He smiled agreement.

“Ah you’re very kind.  It’s a shame to be interrupting young love.”

They laughed together and reassured her once more.  He was quietly pleased.

The old lady spoke to him, “would you mind going to the bar for me, young man?  I’ll give you the money.”  She reached into her bag, fumbling for a purse.  “It doesn’t do for a lady to order drink at the bar, here you are.”

He negotiated his way to the counter, the space outside the snug rapidly filling up with customers, a mixture of people of all ages and styles.  He was fascinated by the hissing of the gaslights, he had never seen working gaslights before.  The gaslight, old tiled walls, tobacco coloured ceiling, fashioned a mellowness entirely in harmony with his own feelings.  He noted the signs on the walls stating that team colours were not allowed in the bar.

His accent and the rising levels of laughter, and easy flowing conversation made for some difficulties with the barman.  Unfamiliar with the drinks and the coins he fumbled at first but then she was there again at his side to help him.  She joked easily with the barman as they collected their drinks and change.

Gradually they were joined by more of her friends.  They were easygoing, no-one concerned by a stranger popping up suddenly in their midst.  They told jokes, interrupted each other, shared cigarettes.  They talked about music they liked, books they’d read, films they’d seen.  No-one spoke about religion, politics or sport.  When the talk came round to a new art exhibition she became animated.  She was passionate in her opinions, strongly defending her point of view.  He remembered once playing for her a song about her being an artist, having everything she needed, being able to paint the daytime black.

As they left heavily armoured police vehicles were gathered around the entrance to the hotel across the street.  Their blue lights bounced off the old tiles adorning the pubs facade.  Traffic was being diverted away from the area.

“Come on,” she hurried him along, both immediately anxious to be elsewhere, not wanting the day to end there.

In the quiet of the night she could feel his silent tears.  Reaching across the narrow space from her bed she felt for, found and held his hand.  “It’s ok,” she whispered.

With his free hand he squeezed his eyes to dry them.  He told her he knew that.  He was even able to lightly, softly, laugh.  It was healing laughter, free from self pity or vindictive sarcasm.

When she had insisted on undressing in the dark he had known it would be like this.  He had known it when he felt a long cotton nightdress brush against him as she turned down a quilt on the smaller bed.  He told her he wasn’t crying because of that.  She was right.  It was ok.  But why, he wondered, was it that women he felt so close to wanted him so much, as a friend?

“I can sit with you quietly for ten minutes and it feels like I’ve told you everything and most of all, that you’ve heard me.  That’s why.”

She got out of her bed and came over to him.  They held each other tightly, quietly, in the dark.  She kissed him once and said, “you are a really good friend.” She emphasised the word are, “I don’t want to lose that.”

She went back to bed, “we have a long day tomorrow, and we’d better sleep now.”

Holding hands across the space between them they fell asleep.  They slept easily, both of them.  Dreams kept them company and in the morning when he woke, when he opened his eyes, he was looking at her looking at him.

Blue skies, a light wind, it was a morning full of promise.  Taking the sunny side of the road they strolled along together.  He was content that the day should unfold whatever way it would.  After the art gallery they bought ice-cream cones and sat on a bench outside the Victorian glasshouses, basking in sheltered warmth.

“We’ll go outside town now, if that’s all right with you?” Her eyes on his were open and honest, trusting.  That was fine by him he told her.  He felt peaceful and calm; he smiled and told her this too.

“Then maybe a long walk in the country is just the thing.”  She patted his arm, looked at him and said, “do us both the world of good.”

They went to the open air folk museum where they walked and talked for miles.  Weaving their way from one re-located traditional home to another they drew their own stories around them.

In silence when they absorbed one new place after another they walked from the Antrim weaver’s cottage to the shepherd’s house from the Mournes.

At the little café he thanked her, holding one hand in both of his.

“You’re a good friend,” she hesitated, smiled and continued, “and at least you believe I’m an artist.”

In the morning she brought him to the station.  The unfinished drawings he had admired the night before were in the heavy portfolio satchel that dragged from her shoulder.  He knew she needed to hurry, that she had to go, that she had taken the trouble to see him off safe, to say goodbye.

They hugged, he boarded, she was gone.

At Portadown the soldiers ignored him.  Leaving, he was someone else’s problem.

On first reading Dermot Bolger’s “Temptation”

On first reading Dermot Bolger’s “Temptation”

I too know that road, the garage, the sharp bend,

the hump-backed bridge, over and beyond, the sea

at last, journey’s end.

Everything as it always was, as it should be.

But of course it is not,

the imagined woman’s tears of happiness

her fears of never seeing this again unrealised,

her deepest felt relief,

I applaud all of this

but for us it was not to be.

“She had honestly never expected,”

Dermot wrote,

“to see this again except as a woman

riddled with cancer.”

And what can I do

but remember…

August nineteen ninety-eight

the last summer’s day and all are

deserting the beach,

you know the scene –

struggling parents, lethargic children, end-of-season farewells.

She paused and looked back seawards,

“I feel like I’ll never see this again.”

Her simple words concealed a terrible truth.

Rosslare Strand, August 2000

In Times of Civil Wars

In Times of Civil Wars


It is still widely written
that in Eighteen Sixty-Five
at the hour of his defeat
Robert E Lee rode to the
Old Court House, Appomattox.
Resplendent in uniform,
dignified, impressive, there
he signed the Articles of
Surrender. The war’s winner,
Ulysses S. Grant, tired, worn,
like his own dusty clothes,
counter signed. It was over.
Lee mounted his horse, rode through
the ranks of the victorious.
To a man they rose, silent
in respect and watched
the old man pass proudly by.
This is still widely written
and so I learned of it.


But not so widely written,
in August Nineteen Twenty-Two
Mountjoy Jail, Dublin, Ireland,
defeated Republicans
milling about the stairs and
halls of that desolate place
heard whispered like a soft
breeze barely bending barley
news of yet one more ambush
one more killing on the road
and so knew Michael Collins
was dead, one more awful death.
Sworn enemies of his side,
still, to a man they dropped
to their knees and in Irish
recited a Rosary,
prayers for the slain man’s soul.
This is not so widely written
my Grandfather knelt that day,
and so I learned of it.

I am rock

I am rock

I am rock,

I am stone,

I am old but I am here.

I was once something else

Now I am stone.

My surface is worn, scratched, chipped

I am still me, I am stone.

Look closely at me,

There are colours where it seems

There is only one colour,

There are marks where it seems smooth,

And all the time, I am what I am,

I am stone.

The shape I am now

Is not the shape I always had,

But I am still stone.

Dun Laoghaire

March 2004

This was published as part of the Kilkenny Library Poets on Board Scheme

Crows, fog and Camden Town

Crows, fog and Camden Town

At half-past eight this morning I looked out the bedroom window. Not having any curtains as yet is a great advantage in some ways. Immediately you are awake you can judge the day by the quality of the light pervading the room. This morning there was a fog all around the house, one of those beautiful fogs I could see straight away that give all the day’s outdoor activities a mixture of sensations. Fog isolates, creates nostalgia and by changing radically our view, enhances reality for us. Far from clouding or obscuring our vision, a foggy morning clears our perspective for us, just as much as the breathing of sharp frosty air at night.

Beyond the barbed wire fence a flock of crows were settled on the stubble of last year’s barley. The fog made them seem even more silent than they actually were. I could see them quite clearly although I could not see as far as the ditch at the end of the field. Feeling delighted with the morning I turned away from the window and went towards the kitchen. My wife was still perfectly asleep and I had no desire to waken her. This was a morning I wanted to carry out some simple tasks, on my own, and savour the richness of every dripping blade of grass and all that foraging flock of black, silent, crows.

While the kettle was boiling for the tea I was outside, the wet grass slithering across my wellingtons. I had a Wrangler jacket hanging on the clothes line from the evening before. I knew that there would be no point in leaving the jacket outside, dripping in all that clammy dampness, but apart from that I wanted to be out there, not safely cocooned inside behind cavity walls and teak windows. Out there everything was damp and silent and had the added mystery of trees and bushes looming up out of the mist. The sleeves of the jacket, trailing down towards the mud, were navy where the water had collected and the rest of the jacket was a very bright blue. Little beads of water had collected at the end of each of the brass buttons. Feeling very efficient I turned towards the door again and at that moment the crows lifted off from the ground, en masse, and flew furiously over the house.

I stood rooted to the ground, clutching the damp jacket in my hand. The crows flew over the house without as much as one beak opening to emit a sound, no caw, no screech, no raucous chorus of voices together, just a mad headlong rushing and whirring of wings together. The effect was eerie, totally in keeping with my mood that morning, wings fluttered in my memory and I remembered…

“Excuse me, could you give me some money please?” said the girl, very politely.

I looked at her, too tired to be surprised. She was smaller than I am, by about six inches, she was tubby, wearing shapeless clothes. A round knitted cap sitting on her short straight hair accentuated the moon-shaped face, the chubby nose supporting a pair of circular, rimless, spectacles.

“Sorry?” I said.

Around us the traffic roared like a nearby waterfall along the Camden High Street. I had turned around at her question so that I was now facing down the road towards Mornington Crescent. That was a long five, maybe ten, minutes walk back there. I knew that over my shoulder she could see the dingy rust-red boards and slight rise in the road that marked the line of the canal.

“I said, could I have some money please?”

I had maybe seventy-eight pence left until one o’clock the following day, Friday. Then, at one o’clock, Nobby, Jack and myself, wearing our dirty painters’ overalls, would go in to the Post Office Workers’ canteen in the Mornington Crescent Sorting Office and sit around a table watching Danny Webster play games with his calculator and finally tell us how much we now owed the firm but that we could draw an advance on the following week’s wages. I laughed quietly and said to the girl, “do you think I’d be walking home if I’d the bus fare?”

“Oh,” she paused, “haven’t you got the bus fare then?”

The calculator would be worked and then I’d be told that all the work of the previous five days would be worthless because I still had to put the gloss on those windows. After all, we were paid, as I was told starting out, by the amount of work produced, but they’d see me all right and if I wanted an advance it couldn’t be too much on account of last week’s advance. I wouldn’t understand it and even if I did I didn’t think that would really matter anyway. I should have known when I started and Webster, in his spotless executive suit with matching tie and handkerchief, told me he was Irish too. There we were, driving from the company yard in Webster’s Rover, trying to get on friendly terms with me he told me he was Irish. I must have been asleep not to realise what sort of an outfit I was getting into. That same day he told me there was only one thing to remember on a job like this, never discuss your wages with any of the other men.

I looked at the girl again and said, “no, sorry. Honestly, I have nothing at all.”

Neither of us had moved very much since she first spoke, just a curious kind of shuffle around the pavement. Across the road I could see the Compendium Bookshop. I’d gone in there one evening; they had a fantastic selection of books, things I had wanted to read for years, from the “Whole Earth Catalogue” down. They had a notice board with personal ads and leaflets clinging to it. The ads were fascinating – “People with limited capital to join commune in Norfolk” – that sort of back-to-the-land thing. The roaring sound and speed of the traffic around us seemed to intensify our immobility, we were like two grotesque dancers frozen by an old box-camera.

“Don’t you have a job then?”

Her eyes were blinking furiously behind the spectacles. The first week I’d been put standing on the foot of a ladder while Tosh painted the windows over the big double doors that concealed the Post Office vans. I wondered at the time why Tosh was so angry every time I suggested we swap ladder ends for a while. I wondered, that is, until Friday and I was given a third of what Tosh made for holding my end of the ladder. Two weeks later Tosh walked off the job on Friday morning and returned when Webster was paying us. An ugly scene developed on the pavement outside the door the Post Office workers used. Even though there were times I felt like hitting Webster I felt sickened by the fight. It was more of a row than a fight, it never really developed into anything serious but there was sullenness in the air, a sort of electric violence crackling along the footpath. The rest of us stood around in the heat of the brilliant sunshine watching. In the shade of the doorway a big Nigerian with tribal scars on his cheeks sat in his cubicle watching impassively, his G.P.O. porter’s hat at least two sizes too small for him.

“It’s not a very good job,” I said to the girl. “Do you know of any good jobs going?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” She was smiling now, “I’m looking for one myself. Do you want the bus fare?”


“Yes, really. Here, look.”

She rooted around in her shoulder bag and held out her hand. In her outstretched palm there lay two ten penny pieces.

“Go on,” she said, “take it, I’ve got enough to do me.”

“O.K.” I said and she dropped the coins into my hand.


“’Bye,” she turned and went.

I looked at the money and looked at her comical shape rippling a wake through the crowds, then she was gone. I turned round and crossed over the Canal by Dingwalls, I would go there someday. I knew that if I stayed walking and didn’t get the bus I could buy a bag of chips and have them eaten before I arrived back at the squat…

The crows were gone now and I was back outside to chop some wood. The fog was still there with all the same vague visual impressions. Clutching the axe handle I could feel the damp sliding beneath my hands. I loved the sound of the metal cleaving the wood and the axe-head sinking into the chopping block beneath. The hollow sound blended gorgeously with the silence of the morning. An hour later the two of us were sitting down together drinking tea, the fire was crackling comfortably in the range, the fog beginning to lift a little.

“What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing much. I was just thinking about a time in London, this girl stopped me on the street to beg for money. She ended up giving me the bus fare.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Some other time, are you right? Come on, we’ll go to town before the rush and get this shopping done handy enough.”

At the Arts Festival, Galway

There are swans on the Corrib,

Along Quay Street the pubs are

Filled to overflowing.

They play Edith Piaf in cafes

While patrons patiently wait.

Outside, buskers ply their trade.

Behind the old Spanish Arch

We find the new Museum.

There, Johnny Faulkner and friends

Transport us with old sea-songs

Beyond the river’s open mouth

To Greenland whale fisheries.

Voices tell the shanties rhythms.

Eyes closed, to listen close,

I follow the music’s rise and fall.

Singers’ voices in harmony

Take us until we return

To the museum’s sunlit room.

Outside, the swans glide by, mute.

This was published as part of Kilkenny Library Poets on Board Scheme

Pools of Light

They don’t make lights like they used to,

Grandpa Simpson, dressed so perfectly,

Fedora flopping at the oh, so perfect angle,

Dances down the street

From pool of light to darkness,

To pool of light

And darkness,

And pool of light

To darkness,

Again and again and again








In time to the rhythm of his feet

And the music in his heart

Try doing that in today’s light.

They don’t make lights like they used to,

Children gathered closer and tighter as the darkness crept in.

Best of all were lights in narrow streets

Where at times old trees growth






Wind tossed limbs splintered the edges,

Like dark bulrushes around pools of light.

They played jack-jack-cross-the-water, one, two, three,

Screeching across the street from the dark side to the light.

They tied strings to letter boxes and hung around in the darkness

watching front doors opened to frustrated emptiness while they giggled at their prey,

stage lit in pools of light

Try doing that in today’s light.

Highly commended in the Black Diamond Poetry Competition, 2010

Road Rage

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

The red car is parked on double yellow lines

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

Nearby I am waiting, content to be waiting

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

The passing parade entertains and I am content, waiting

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

From the rear of the red car a youngster leans forward

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

There is no prologue, no gentle upswell, it is sudden

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

His music, his sound, his choice, it is there, it is everywhere

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

Along with the shattered still air there goes my patience

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

I suddenly want to take my phone and retaliate

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

I want so much to go and stand by his open window

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

His open window! His open window!

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

I could, I could do it, take my phone to his open window

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

And by his window I could play for him

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

My choice of music as he plays his for me

Ba da boom ba da boom bad da boom boom boom

I could, I could do it, I could play for him,

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

Puccini, Madame Butterfly, Un Bel Di, Vedremo

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

And as the music rises and the voice soars

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

I would lean closer, I would raise the volume

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

I would lift the phone, I would share my music even more

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

I imagine I would enjoy his horrified looks

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

His initial delight at being noticed turning

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

To complete and utter incomprehension

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

How can anyone call that music?

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

I could enjoy that but I don’t, I turn away and hold my silence

Ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom boom boom

Maybe one good day, one good day, we will see

Hello world!

Welcome to my literary blog. Here you  will find some of my writings ranging  over poetry and prose including short stories. Some time ago I began a personal project where I would follow the Slí Charmain, the Wexford coastal path. So far I have just about circumambulated the Hook Peninsula and am ready to continue the journey on foot and record it here in prose. The early part of that  is posted here now along with a selection of poetry and short stories, enjoy!!! All the photographs are my own work but please note the painting in “City Children” is by Sam Kelly.

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