Sunday, January 22, 2017

The Donald’s Personality Traits

Anger: has he got anger issues! When  riled, he’ll fight with anyone or anything at the drop of a hat, without thinking it through. Doesn't matter how absurd, sense departs and it doesn't help that he’s temperamental and stubborn too. He’s selfish, often rude and is obsessed with money, gold. Not exactly humble either, he craves fame and popularity, he brags and shows off. To say he doesn't see himself clearly would be an understatement.
It’s quite hard to know what the Donald’s saying a lot of the time, that’s to say his meaning can be hard to get at. But, at least he’s got a girl that gets him, and that’s good, cos she is one person that can pacify him.
Donald is white with a great splash of orange around his gob, and he’s great box office. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.”

Friday, January 20, 2017

Don't we all know one?


Among the blocks of the establishment;
a flawless rise bolted your trust;
success was cement,
all loose notions were pebble-dashed.

Now you revise:
the establishment, its self-righteous system:

how many bodies like you
have fallen from the sides to point the pyramid ?

And how many times did you skate over principles,
that I remember, you once held dearly?  

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Let's Face It, There are Times.........................

Slips on ice.

Prim, haughty Christine
takes to the air.

What a moment:
the unabridged version.

What a manoeuvre:
haughtiness to bashfulness
in the widening of an eye.

Saturday, January 14, 2017


No matter how far, memories are crystal glasses.
Don’t you remember that clink of joy?  Us together.
Didn’t  we have celebration emblazoned on our faces?
Our faces filled with joy: champagne faces. Champagne!
Isn’t that life, a time of champagne, and times not?


         MINERS TOWN.

"Carry slack" she says
to the spires of smoke
stealing away from Miners Town
where every child is born
to carry a bucket.

In the evening the little men
will gather below the street
where the pit-head eyebrows meet
so when their fathers come,
they'll parade nearby;
smaller jackets just.

A jet shape of geese
passes through the smoke columns;
for a moment she travels too
but then they leave her,
disappearing each year
over the same roof-top.

"Carry slack," she repeats
into the dog's ear of a kitchen door,                 
and in the shortened evening
she too unfurls a stalk of smoke
that'll mark her place
in the forest above Miners Town.

Sunday, January 8, 2017

Series of Haiku about Love

A leaf turned golden
Floats downward
You sink into my lap

The dream of us
Furled in each others’ arms
Sinking in a fireside’s allure 

Your words
My eyelids falling
Soft as feathers on feathers

Sleep steals over us
Our atoms enticed into each other
With love

Wednesday, January 4, 2017

Pub tutorial

‘Factorial naught and factorial one both equal one.’
‘Isn’t that a good one?’ said Peter.
‘Jays! Gas alright.’ Ned sipped another layer off the head of his pint of Guinness.
‘Tis for sure’ said Matt, nodding his head diagonally upward.

‘And you’ll know (in your line of work) factorial ten seconds is exactly six weeks.’
‘Aye, it would be.’ said Ned.
‘Tis of course’ said Matt.
I was hating myself for having mentioned teaching.

‘And’ said Peter, ‘ye know, of course, that 10 = 9.9999’
 ‘I do. I do.’  I said much too quickly.
Peter extracted a biro and paper from an inner pocket
with surprising promptness.

Let x  = 0.9999, ⇒ 10x = 9.999
10x – x = 9, 9x = 9
X =1, 10x = 10
⇒ 10 = 9.9999

‘Aye.’ said Ned with another sip from his pint of Guinness. ‘That’s it.’
‘Another pint, Peter?” Matt asked.
‘Sure, why not!’
And turning back to me: ‘I’ve been doing a bit of work on  Abel’s Impossibility Theorem.’ 

Tuesday, January 3, 2017



Nights spent  brooding,
trickling down life’s gravel,
finally confronting self.

Now appraising
the faded colours of my dreams,
peeling flakes of ambition  ̶
all carriages, shunted
into a siding,
came to a juddering halt.


Prodding each other onward,
a procession  passes.
They glance my way,
̶  old friends, acquaintances   ̶ 
holding up their palms’
blank stars  to me;
I gaze gormlessly.


Would you smile?
Would you invest that much of yourself
even in passing?

Wednesday, December 28, 2016

An Owl in my head

An idea from the animals represented on the bicorns worn by felos at carnaval in Galicia.

‘There is an owl in my head’
said Joseph. ‘I am wise,
wisest of all creatures’.

‘There is a tiger in my head’
said Paul. ‘I am  fierce,
all creatures fear me’.

‘A stag in mine’
said Thomas. ‘ I am majestic,
admired by all’.

‘My head is empty’
said Jim. ‘a space
for all creatures to come and go.’

Friday, December 23, 2016

Never Dreaming of There Because

is where I am.
Always here,

Happy Christmas.

Sunday, December 18, 2016

How heavy is the weight of Vatican wealth?

Crosses in the cloakroom, please.

Were you going to write me a love-letter?

One of those  poems I come back to occasionally. It  changes each time:  the words, the  meaning and the atmosphere. Some poems defy you; that's good.

Were you going to write me a love-letter?

Did your fingers falter above the keys?
Was there the cacophony of grid-lock on the page,
lines of off-duty taxis:
words refusing to carry love?

At such a juncture, I, in the past, have let my fingers
tap-dance away from a love-letter,
tap a stammer,
morse to garble the unwritable truth.

Friday, December 16, 2016

What was the occasion?

It's 1908, Rathmines Town Hall is decked out in style. That July, the Summer Olympics were held in White City Stadium in White City, London.The Great Britain and Ireland team won 56 gold, 51 silver and 39 bronze medals. But I wonder can anyone explain why the Town Hall was wearing its finery?

Monday, December 12, 2016

Rag Trees

Rag trees are, of course, less common now. The faith that dressed them for centuries is in rapid decline. It's that fact that gives them a poignancy that's quite different to the  poignancy they had in their  heyday. Then it was sheer number of requests or appeals that hard-pressed believers had for the Almighty.

Rag Tree

A thousand dancers for Patrick’s stone eyes:


each one a soul treading thin air.

A thousand clamours for Patrick’s stone ears:


each petition a gutt'ring flare.

Friday, December 9, 2016

In memory of my mother

She was
Two cups of flour resourceful
Plumb-line straight
Three sides of a triangle logical
Rain-coat wise
Five woollen blankets caring.