Monday, January 30, 2017

Still waiting for Enlightenment

Cruise Missiles          

Jesus, the padre prayed,
direct these missiles onto the heads
of our enemies.

Except that’s not what he said. He said
we pray that these missiles will be efficient
in their function.

Then. Up Jesus,
ride them clean down their throats.
Except, of course, he didn’t say that either;

but blessed them with holy water.
After that, the missiles were dispatched,
American missionaries to Europe.

(I saw this religious ceremony on the main evening news when the first cruise missiles were being deployed in Europe.)

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

One of the Most Beautiful Places in Ireland

This poem, The Green Road, refers to one of the most beautiful and very walkable walks in Ireland; the green road skirts around the north-western corner of the Burren in county Clare. A karst limestone landscape with unique fauna, herds of wild goats, and the most stunning views of Galway Bay, the mountains of Connemara and the Aran Islands. A lot of people will drive on to the Cliffs of Moher, but if you've got 2 working legs beneath you and a couple of free hours this is an unbeatable pleasure.

The poem was included in the anthology, Fermata: Writings inspired by Music (Artisan House, 2016) which was edited by Eva Bourke and Vincent Woods. It's a magnificent collection, featuring writers such as Thomas Kinsella,Vona Groarke, James Joyce, Seamus Heaney, Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, Paul Durcan, Derek Mahon, Pearse Hutchinson, Paula Meehan among a host of others and a foreword by composer/musician Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin. These writings sing to the music that inspired them; be good to yourself and buy it.

The Green Road.© Copyright David Purchase and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

The Green Road

The blackthorns above Fenore
are flight rooted;
they are folklore’s skeletons,
beggars of the green road.

Scoured to the knuckle,
stunted on burren karst,
they are the hags on the mountain
hunched from Atlantic gales.

Yet even this stone-weary day,
with hunger perched on their throats,
a robin is singing in each
notes that singe the February air.

Beneath the huddling sky,
into the ear of the green road
it pours, clear as water,
the music of tin whistlers’ dreams.

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.
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?