Poems for All Occasions (10 page)

Each heart was gay and happy,

Thus ended a perfect night.

Outside the air was frosty,

The sky, with stars did shine,

A bleak cold gale did rattle

Through oak and ash and pine.

A grey white road looked threatening,

An expanse of white, it lay,

Like a carpet, grey and speckled

At the side of Arklow Bay.

The car sped onwards quickly,

Like a fawn, with frightened eyes,

Through fog, that gathered thickly,

By hill and tree and sky.

Then the scent of lovely heather

From the distant Wicklow Hills

Enticed us to Avoca

Of which Tom Moore did sing.

Darkness lay her misty cloak

Across the vale renowned,

A torch’s rays so softly stole

Across the brambles brown.

The lapping waters lightly,

Tripped by the soft breeze calm

Sped through Avoca brightly

By hedges, green with palm.

Alas! I could not see it

That vale, with beauty hid,

But yet I knew a speck from Heaven

Around that place was shed.

Alone in the heart of Avoca,

Tom Moore’s tree tall, did stare,

Like a giant, though torn and broken

With broken branches bare.

That night is gone for ever,

But to me, its memories shine,

Like diamonds, with specks of silver,

To cherish all through life.

Avoca, spread your beauty

On travellers, day and night,

Give praise to Him your maker the Lord of joy and light.

Towering ,Like a sentinel

Overlooking Killiney Bay,

Overpowering, cheeky, lonely .Like a giant satellite;

Ready to pierce the very

Core of heaven

Offspring of man’s humble energy

To ease the strains

Of daily urgencies

In a time, when hunger

Was the topmost thought

In the minds of labouring humans,

Too poor to crave for anything

Only to build a monster

Elegant, stately, noble.

Evening dusk envelopes its

Shoulders of grey lime and mortar,

Cold to the eye, but yet,

It holds a frame of importance,

Heedless of the romantic scenery

Surrounding its obelisk frame

A lonely pyramid

Of far off by gone days,

A MEMORY................

An old teacher sat in a reverie deep,

He whistled a tune though soft and meek,

Then he gazed into by-gone days,

And many the lad passed before his face.

He saw himself there, tall, sturdy and strong,

Teaching the young hearts right from wrong,

In a dusty old schoolroom, where many the lad,

Learned to read, to write, and to add,

He knew them as babies, he knew them as boys,

He saw them clasping old rusty toys,

And then he saw them as soldier lads,

Going of to battle, smiling though sad,

Some of his pupils in far away lands,

Preaching the Gospel to pagan gangs,

Many the youth he taught how to trod,

One day to become a good priest of God.

Ah! those were the days of sadness and joy,

Many the frown heartbreak and sigh,

Slowly the knowledge crept into each cell,

He smiled when he saw the little brains swell.

Though old are they now, perhaps neath the clay,

To him they are still the wee lads bright and gay,

Each face he can see, each brow he beholds,

As they sat there together in good days of old.

The small pretty lassies have all passed away,

Their children now shyly bid him Good-day.

A warm tear slowly fows down his pale cheek,

His poor heart gives way to its last mighty beat.

Down from the Master of Masters there came,

Hundreds of saints in gallant array,

The old Teacher knew them—each happy brow,

Still the same faces though happier now.

The old Master now is sitting in state,

His hard work is over, bliss is his fate,

Sitting around him again he beholds

The souls that he moulded in good days of old.

Ah! great is the call of a teacher in life,

A difficult strain to mould a young mind

But greater by far, the ever lasting reward

Which awaits the lone master, when called by the Lord,

At the very end of Dunlaoghaire Pier,

We sat gazing into the sea.

Nobody knew anybody else,

But there we were, all glaring

At a sea bird swooping downwards.

It caught nothing, but continued

with open wings and piercing beak

to penetrate the water’s edges.

Overhead, an Aer Lingus plane

glided over the harbour

on its way to Dublin airport.

Sail boats scurried to and fro,

swaying in the breeze.

Young couples kissing, holding hands,

Oblivious of watching strangers.

Moss Keane passes by, People nudge, and whisper

Their stares cause him to blush.

The bird swoops, all eyes turn,

Gasps of approval to see a tiny fish

wringle in death’s agony,

A bird’s efforts rewarded.

Evening descends, shadows lengthen

One by one, the human race and dogs

arise and disappear down the long grey pier.

Whose stones entomb the sweat and labour

of men long lost in cemeteries,

Their tomb stones similar to the large

boulders from Dalkey quarry, to make a pier.

A rose ebbing dew from paling petals

In the morning sunlight,

A grey mist hangs over the drooping branches,

Where wee birds are

Beginning to awaken from night’s silence.

Inside the clouded window

A small iron bed suffers the breathing weight

of a baby like figure

He heeds not the song of the morning thrush

Or the smell of the dewy rose.

He feels the soft touch of his mother’s hand

on his perspiring forehead

Then a gentle sigh,

A fluttering tremble

His soul has fled

Far from the morning dew

The rising sun

The singing thrush

The shivering watery leaves.

All pain is gone.

A happy soul takes flight

And the body that crust of clay lies there still

Motionless. .

Overshadowed by the labouring sobs of those

who, treasured his every move

The thin thread separating life from death is shattered

skillfully by the caring hand of a Fatherly Creator.

The young soul slumbers blissfully

in eternal peace....... ,

Soil, he turns in dark brown slices,

Hiding grass of emerald green.

Two horses move, with grace they glide by,

Drills are born in lines so neat.

Each drill, to him, is a strand of gold,

As people stare and follow slowly,

Deep furrows slimy, he then unfolds

Discarding weeds, as if unholy.

Peace and calm around him reigns,

An air of leisure, as he trods,

A master of the sun and rain

Yes king and lord of the dark brown sod.

Hungry birds behind him follow,

Noisy, giddy, as they flap their wings,

Picking, gulping from each hollow,

The wrinkling worms, that twist and cringe.

The ploughman, accurate, keen and silent,

Close is he to Nature’s whims,

Evening shadows, grey, declining,

Across the Vale, the church bell rings.

Hedges green, all decked with flowers,

Honey suckle climbing leafy bowers.

Trees abundantly bearing loads

Of leaves, that flutter fly and float.

Skies of blue with dots of cloud,

Illumined by golden sunny showers.

Valleys wide where streamlets flow,

With gurgling sounds so soft and low.

Rivers broad, their ripples shine

And salmon leap in search of fly.

Rosy brambles high and tall

Climbing o’er the garden wall.

The lonely peal of distant waves

Lashing bravely ‘gainst the caves.

Cottage neat, with garden round,

Dotted over with fragrant flowers.

Music sweet sends forth its strain,

To brighten valley, hill and vale.

Fireside homely, poor but rare

To brighten hearts on lonely trail.

Terrier small with two kind eyes

A friend sincere, stern, though kind.

A cat to frighten wandering mice

With furry coat all soft and nice.

This is just a mid-day dream

Which haunts the human mind unseen.

In a lonely lane,

Shedding forth your odour,

Sweet and fragrant there.

So alike us, humans,

Passing o’er life’s plain,

Youth and love and beauty,

Unblemished, without stain.

Then comes passing raindrops,

Windy afternoons.

The spring of youth has blossomed,

Skies are clear and blue.

Gracefully, you send forth,

Beauty, wet with dew,

Lovely little rosebud

Is now a rose mature.

Evening shadows falling,

Petals dot the green,

Age is creeping o’er you

Good times all have been.

Youth, is gone forever,

Beauty, too, has flown,

Left one cherished memory,

Of a faded rose

(
S
CIOLLAIN IS
G
AELIC FOR
S
EED
P
OTATOES
)

’Twas customary, an expert was invited,

An old lady, a genius in her own right,

Between her finger and her wrinkled palm,

She efficiently manoeuvred a tiny knife,

With handle as worn as her bony knuckles,

Which crackled as she dug the edgy blade

Into the rounded eyeballs of the potatoes.

Like a carver, she scooped and prodded,

Bending now and then she quickly cast

The ruptured remains of her labour,

But carefully piling up in a half barrel

The prospects of next year’s potato harvest.

Laboriously, she sat near the open fire,

Her grey hair falling untidily in bundles

Over her black woollen shawl, which covered

Her humped shoulders, rounded and brawny,

Like a witch over her magic cauldron

Preparing her special furtive brew.

The thud thud of falling fragments

Was lulling to our childrens ears,

She seldom spoke, but just continued

With aristocratic dignity, surgeon like,

Until the fall of evening, she stood and

Then suddenly departed into the air of night

Leaving large bundles of potatoes

Cut in artistic shapes and sizes,

The precious seed to return to earth,

Their carved remains as fodder in the byres.

Drifting seagulls,

On currents of air,

Effortless, free

In the morning air.

Relaxing feeling

To the naked eye,

Soaring, suspended

Like specks in the sky.

Floating still higher,

Sending out calls,

Piercing to the robins

On the garden walls.

Emblem fair of freedom,

Earth cannot hold

Free to fly up yonder

Heedless of the cold.

Wish I were a seagull

Gliding in the air,

Like a kite of sunshine,

Peaceful, free from care.

Beams of moonlight

Illuminate the Shadowy

Slopes of Shelbourne Park,

New punters in pensive

expectation, silently awaiting

The goddess of fortune

To clasp them to her milky bosom

New punters; the old have gone

With empty pockets.

A new deluge of eager faces,

Nervously stroking

Their long earlocks.

Features alight

Moments of excitement,

The brisk rush of

Panting greyhounds

Stretching, leaping, rising

Cheated, by a dummy hare.

Pencils, chewed unknowingly

On lips, that trembled,

Features droop

All is over.

A hanging tongue sporting

A slight tremor,

Sending clouds of vapour

In ridge like lines

Through the green foliage

Of a white thorn bush.

Bared teeth, craning ears

Awaiting the howl, howl

Of that pack of craving

Quadrupeds, eager for life’s fresh blood

Spurting from fox or vixen,

Making red the greenery

Of the once silent forest.

Panting, rushing, howling,

Teeth bared like razors

Rusty, dusty, eerie.

Paws, white tipped, tripping,

Leaping, jumping,

Throbbing heart, pounding,

Thumping, bending, nose touching

The earth’s cold damp cushion.

The noise of the chasing pack

Diminishes in the distance.

Some other inhabitant of the forest

Saved for the moment

The lone fox in the bushes.

Nov 1988

(I wrote this poem, as I lay in bed, recovering from flu. Outside my window, a few large trees, bare but spirited, froliced in the breeze.)

Antibiotics fighting in my crust of clay,

Across my bed too weak to care, I lay,

But only then they caught my gaze