Iceland's Banned Ad

Banned by the UK's broadcast code for advertising practice (BCAP) for carrying a political message. But, just a few weeks on from the WWF's  chilling  Living Planet Report  in which it was  stated that there has been a 60% decline in the size of populations of mammals, birds, fish, reptiles, and amphibians in the last 40 years (a staggering 89% in South and Central America since 1970), wouldn't it be brilliant if some more supermarket chains delivered the same message? 

If we have any thought for the wellbeing of our children, grandchildren and their children to come   this along with climate change must be addressed now. The Report can be downloaded at https://www.worldwildlife.org/pages/living-planet-report-2018?link=txt2

Take a look at the ad, and post it on.

Social Work

  

Do you remember our hospital visit;

he asked for his present?

Present !

And dying the only life

left in him.

There we were, the two of us,

at the end of his deathbed

and our hands,

great big empty sunbursts.

Certainly, we were young;

but I thanked God when he died.

and then he was dead;

(remembering my father's death)

and then he was dead;

breathing stopped;

eyes closed;

still warm.

I stared at his face,

for the first time

without life inside it.

I stared and knew:

that body

was never him at all.

The Man-Owl

A man imagines himself an owl and perches in a tree.

All summer unseen, in winter completely exposed;

sitting; eyes closed, open, closed; otherwise still.

A group of children have collected beneath him;

they are throwing taunts, then sticks then stones;

he makes himself smaller, like a hedgehog in a tree.

The townspeople have now gathered beneath him.

A dim view was taken of the stone-throwing,

they have called fire brigade, ambulance and police.

Two ladders extended, one each side of the man-owl,

and two firemen straightening, one by one, his fingers,

talons he has hooked around the branch over his head.

It was considered wise not to have a view of the garden;

the window of his room faces the opposite wing;

a television, left on 24/7, masks the sounds of the wind.

Storm

The storm is keeping me awake;

the dogs, discordant tuning forks,

and

the whine of lost souls

in the electricity wires.

Tossing, a mobile in the gusts,

waiting for the light to clank

back

but knowing it’s beyond the gap

where the wind is crowding in.

Your unhappy face turning away

to hide the tears,

and

the storm banging on that nail

all night, the whole night long.

Encounter

When she gave me her hand, I was instantly struck

by the elegance and grace of her movement.

Her hand was slender and magnificently gloved

in white blossoms that had tinges of pink

near the edges of its petals, and they were falling,

falling so thickly that a doily of snowflakes

had formed around her feet.

She held me enchanted in the centre of her smile;

I took her hand, never noticing the thorns,

and my blood dripped crimson bright berries down.

Sometimes it takes a long time to see the real person

In sickness there was only you 

  

light as a feather;

relieved of the weight

of position and pride;

neither bluff nor brashness

nor the strength

to be more than your dying self. 

She came to test me.*

Did her hair flow bright as honey down her back? 

Was the wild rose the blossoming of her cheeks? 

Or, was her face was a web of soil-filled furrows?  

Were her eyes flinty with the cunning of age?  

  

I passed the test of kingship, I did not falter; 

She came old into my eyes, but was young in my arms, 

With fingers flowing gently over my temples,  

Breath sweet in the full bloom of her mouth, 

Voice rich as the blackbird’s on the highest branch of an oak.  

For a king must be one with the spirit of the land 

whether it be dressed in the bare, haggard bones of January,  

or the lush green coat bejewelled in May. 

*The high kings of Ireland had to lie with (or marry) the Hag to show that they were beyond being seduced 

by the easy things in life.

Blue-veined old hands :

I never saw them coming

till they were spread bleak

as the limbs of Winter trees

across vacant heavens.

When I said I loved you

I whacked at the wall

with a stick of oar weed

picked off the strand.

Cantankerous old fool :

never saw him coming

till words I spat out

fell like lightning turned

to twigs of rotten wood.

New Poem

I have set myself up to write a poem

and am sitting set before the screen

and

Forgetting

Mosaic of sunlight,

gold and russet leaves;

becalmed now in memory loss.

A moment:
another leaf falling

with a sound that is not heard.

That pile of  leaves growing;

the heartbreak:

soon this maple will be bare.

The Stars

The stars are tossed across the drumlins of the sky.

I am looking to see the road you’ve taken

And I think I see it, and  you;

Andyou are singing Bring back my Bonnie

And you are laughing, and looking back

Over your shoulder.  Yes I think you are.

And now I am singing; we’re all singing

Bring back my Bonnie, and the road is getting longer

Behind us, and you are handing back sweets, and I ‘m smiling

And you sing Ten Green Bottles; we  all sing

Between the rolling fields of night, and then

You have rounded some bend, and are singing,

But smaller and smaller and smaller and
and I cannot see

just the stars.

Once by the Sea

Once I sat by the sea around midnight

with too much drink in my gut,

watching the play of tide and moonlight

crash into a crescent of land;

the rhythm of the waves hitting my oozy brain

like ‘This is Your Life’.

I stayed there to discover what it was telling me;

to distil a loneliness

that would inform me about myself.

The light and sound and smell of the sea and shore,

the darkness behind me, the round sky,

and myself tight as a nut at its centre.

I stayed there long enough to imagine myself lonely,

confirm my right to be on those stirring stones,

to be clear sighted beyond sight,

to implicate the world, the universe, and yourselves

in the unhappiness of my moment;

and I was intensely happy.

Slow-Moving Clouds

Slow moving clouds never ran away with love,

but left lovers dreaming in their wake.

The sky is where the hearts of lovers roam,

since the earth is not big enough for their dreams.

The baby in the tree

It's surprising where ideas come from. There  was a white carrier bag snagged high in a tree on Leinster Road.

         The baby in the tree

The baby in the tree

is screaming.

High above the pathway

near the black tips

of the sycamore branches

he is gaping,

white membraned luminous.

How did he get there?

He blew there in the wind;

it took him

like a flag from his cot

till he was stretched

across the boughs

like the wings of a bat.

And who sees him?

I do;

all his hopeless writhing,

too high for the passerby.

And his screams:

too high,

too high for the passerby.