In Spite

Nearly time
to test

pods from vines,

which pea is best.

They grew in spite,

they climbed regardless,

reaching heights

like growth is harmless,

and to thrive

suggests all is well.

Card Only

At self-service stations
I smile at those marked 'card only'.

It reminds me of Australia,

where it's cheaper to post

an envelope containing just a card.

The flap must be tucked; not sealed.

It's a good-wishes allowance,

a tiny triumph for hopes and dreams.

Donald The President

Donald the president,
facts debunked,

mercenary on a budget.

Off he went with a trumpety-Trump,

Trump, Trump, Trump.

The head of the herd was calling

with orders every day.

Soviet spy, apple of Putin's eye,

on the road to shaft Ukraine.

She Was Just Here

She was just here,
collecting the eggs for her mother.

Now she is near,

in a sister and two brothers

who walk the paths of nine, seven, and four year-olds.

She is in their veins and footsteps,

and her hands maintain her hold on theirs.

She leaves the world her children,

running alongside, but kept at parallel.

She would have them collect skills for her,

Learn. Read, write. And remember.

She didn't have hens, but trust

in memory, recall, love.

That these three will not forget

there can't be a subset without a set,

and mathematical ratios converse with

values, ties, relationships.

She would say, enjoy, laugh, live,

and advise that the right shoes make an outfit.

She was just here, boiling the kettle.

Sleep, child, all is well.

(Marking a birthday, and a month after death. My heart is broken).

Seán

"The Old Triangle

went jingle jangle."

"Luascadh ar dhroim na mara,

ó ní fada 

go mbeimid slán."

"Seo libh, canfaidh Amhrán na bhFiann."

At fifteen, a job secured.

A scholarship to Ballyvourney,

at a time, 

in a place,

when and where that boy's wage

would have been a gift.

At the gaeltacht, John is Seán,

and then Jack, as time moved on,

and Omar too, 

this man from Cork,

a name that rugged aspect sparked

in all who met him.

That his parents preferred knowledge,

over work, for Irish college,

is rare. 

He would study forever,

be the favourite of professors,

and never quit.

Their home a house of education,

his wife and daughters dedicated

to schooling, learning, 

research, training,

and so their next generation

benefits.

He knew his history, and that of Éire.

His essays featured in Chimera.

Of all the haunts 

he might show up,

the safest bet is the Singers' Club.

Well away, kid.

(On 22/02/2025 my uncle, Seán McCarthy, died. He was 81 years old. He was an extraordinary man, so interesting to listen to on any subject. He loved a singing session, and, though he was probably the best singer at any, really enjoyed listening to others.

He once told me, when I was asking him about our ancestors, that "they did well by us," and I feel I can safely say that my generation would all say the same about him. He must be a great loss to his wife, daughters, and grandchildren.

RIP Seán, 1943-2025).

Over The Gorse

The dress was draped 

over the gorse

before wearing.

From the waltz 

he asked her for every dance.

And by Amhrán na bhFiann

the coconut fragrance

had cemented the deal, 

they stood, hand in hand.

Shuttered

To have the ground you walk on

despise your every step,

and feel the air's abounding scorn

in every single breath.

To look up to the sky above

and sense impending doom.

To be the cause of breaking laws

when the criminal's not you.

Worst of all, to know your men;

fathers, husbands, brothers,

will sit back while your existence,

like your windows, becomes shuttered.

Cricket wins, while women

are quieted in sacks.

Big screens versus being walled in,

I'm alright, Jack.

(Taliban leader bans windows overlooking places 'usually used by women')

Chocolate Liqueurs

Irresistible

in their tiny bottle forms.

We kept insisting

on biting, drawn

to the thin chocolate outside,

trying to avoid 

the gushing liqueur inside

that made us recoil.

Mam got the remains;

messy sludgy fingerprints

on chocolate casings maimed

by tiny teeth imprints.

Hakai No Coup

Audience in Seoul,

Martial Law is overthrown.

Yoon and who's army?

(Fear, fury and triumph: Six hours that shook South Korea)

Party

Outside,
day drinking.

Plastic wine 

glasses clinking.

A festive meet,

restricted access,

wellied feet,

in camera praxis.

Food: Optional,

dress code: Old,

and nothing better

than house clothes.

Party of two,

no plus-ones,

a who's-who

when all is said and done.

Glasses clinking,

plastic wine.

Day drinking,

outside.

Life Nepps

Mounds of unseen
by-product, shavings
of our moving

forward, through, rings

and hoops and jumps,

also invisible.

Clear as day all of a sudden

routes imperceptible 

accessible, almost begging for believers.

Behind, no trace of derivatives,

only echoes of seekers.

Life nepps set to a beautiful finish.

Taliban

Armed with guns, armed with tanks,

Armed extremists in their ranks,

Armed to govern, armed to oppress,

Armed to police how women dress.

Toyota trucks, and mobile phones

did not exist when the Quran was told.

Neither men, nor whipping boys,

should need to control a woman's voice.

Back in time, or so they claim,

to live a seventh-century game

of make-believe fairyland.

No women, just the Taliban.

Dumb Luck

Polio in a nation

that's a selvedge 

of civilisation,

while we all live

normal lives.

Convection currents

and seams colliding;

dumb luck not meant

in any mockery.

Just a bias of geography.

Foxgloves High

Hopping, skipping, and self-seeding,

the gardener's prize for not weeding.

Commitment-phobes, they move at will,

form a rosette, and settle in.

They take their time, 

then retire.

Foxgloves high

and mighty spire.

Fort Worth

An unfiltered brightness

blinds me, in Fort Worth.

To East Chase, on a bicycle,

shouts from pick-up trucks,

like, "lady, don't die."

The grass sounds and scents

the journey, and I stop half way.

I stand, aware of the movements,

and make sure to stay away

from the vegetation's inhabitants.

In the house, I don't realise 

that cats and air-con

live hermetically-sealed lives,

and will be long gone

if an opening is even implied.

Bottles For Crushing

The civilised entries,

of bottled-water empties,

are sobering sights

for the cola-prone. 

Not one machine working

once I'm done returning

my bottles for crushing,

Diet Pepsi and Coke.

If she were stronger

she'd mainline no longer,

but she's weak and addicted,

and she's very old.

She's got vouchers profuse

that she forgets to use,

from her bottles for crushing,

Diet Pepsi and Coke.

In the Covid pandemic

she stocked up incessant,

but not one sliced pan

or pack of toilet rolls.

Her husband despaired,

and her children went spare,

but she had bottles for crushing,

Diet Pepsi and Coke.

(To the tune of Molly Malone).

No Bells

Maytrees flowering,

like nothing is wrong.

Rain still showering

all spring long.

Age is devouring 

youth and song.

No bells left to ring,

that time is gone.

April

The cat resigned to stay inside,
staring out from his cushioned settle,
following a fieldmouse with his eyes
until it merged with the moss and pebbles.

The thirty-first was dull.
March had come in like a lion
and gone out like a discouraged one,
leaving April to be defiant.

It will still be spring for a month.

Time for the sun to touch and rouse

flagging spirits and feared outcomes,

making things right, turning them round.

The Surrogates' Tale

Old Abraham was eventually led

to fatherhood, by Hagar's bed.

The surrogate begets the heir,

then Isaac sets him back to spare.

Mithra, Constantine

replaced with Christianity,

but kept the details of the Persian god:

Shepherds at the birthing scene,

Magi there for visiting.

Tradition covers up the fraud.

There's Jacob, his harem steading,

his wives' younger sisters bedding.

Wedded wombs and concubines

bring forth the heads of the twelve tribes.

Mithra, Constantine

replaced with Christianity,

but kept the details of the Persian god:

Shepherds at the birthing scene,

Magi there for visiting.

Tradition covers up the fraud.

Mary, handmaid of all handmaids,

when virgin birth was all the rage.

Rhea raped for Rome's first brothers,

Raised not by Mars, but Faustulus.

Mithra, Constantine

replaced with Christianity,

but kept the details of the Persian god:

Shepherds at the birthing scene,

Magi there for visiting.

Tradition covers up the fraud.

('A child is a gift': Pope Francis calls for a ban on surrogacy, calls it 'deplorable')

Burn

Maybe, just to be safe,
they should burn right down

every single dwelling place

in every single town.

It would reassure these tyrants

that the housing list

is as much for migrants

as for arsonists.

If we could exchange

these criminals for refugees,

it would save time on statements

from the dogs in the streets.