Paddy

I noticed when we heard the bell and someone got the door
that it was easy then to tell if the caller'd been before.
And if we heard the question, "is this Pat McCarthy's house?"
I felt it so respectful that they'd called to see his spouse.

Fifty-eight years ago at the crack of dawn
Mary took Paddy northside to Mount Nebo in Grawn*.
They'd got married in one ceremony with Anna and Pa too
and the O'Sullivans laid breakfast on for guests of brides and grooms.

One plus seven children and known both sides of the Lee,
Mary packed both their bags for their hols up in Kilkee.
They had a camper vehicle, they called it the Luv Bug,
she paid ten pounds ESB each week and he drove a coach for work.

(My uncle, Paddy McCarthy, passed away on 07/11/2014. He was 80 years old and had had a good life. I couldn't make the funeral but went to see him laid out at his home, RIP Paddy, 1934-2014.

*Grawn is a colloquial Cork term for Gurranabraher.)

Pissing In The Wind

Fizz or juice? Kirsch or gin?
Water won't be what I'll choose to drink
Pissed and pie-eyed, I'll be grand
and I'll ignore your letters

Make your claim, I'm alright:
Drizzle or storm I can shower outside.
Placard-armed, you're outmanned
and I'll hope for rainy weather.

La la la la la la la la,
hot vodka bottles at night.
La la la la la la la la,
neighbours take fright
at outdoor bather in sight.

Mary Lou? Joan Burton?
I'll be like you, I'll just hold it in.
Trapped in cars or on sit-ins:
I'll pee myself wherever.

(There have been a number of effective protests to the introduction of water charges in Ireland. I've particularly enjoyed some of the placard slogans like 'Only our rivers run free' and 'I'll have my bath outside'. I wrote this poem to the tune and rhyme of Paul McCartney's We All Stand Together.)

Madra A Rún

Poor Madrún, we're mourning you
and we feel contrite.
Not for the death of our best pet
but for the sheer delight
we've discovered in our hair-free abode,
the scents that were smothered by air of the dog.
We know for certain you had a good life
with more perks and benefits than I
who pandered to your wants and needs.
We will not recall the last few weeks
but will recollect how you treated socks like food
and how every skirting board is chewed,
how you loved a thorough comb right from head to feet,
how you made this house a home and never liked the lead.
We will remember a great dog that
ate only the best and often sat
on the window sill or on a cushion,
a freeloader 'til the end, every whim
catered to for poor Madrún.

(We had to put our little dog, Madrún, down last week. He was with us for all 8 years of his life.)

Every Cloud

I explain to my girls that cirrus clouds can be like curls
or horses' flyaway tails,
that stratus clouds are made like a sheet, a foggy veil,
that cumulus clouds arrange like fluffy cotton balls.

Then I notice two faces not at all in thrall.
They look at each other and back again,
they look like their mother hasn't answered them
at all.

I get another chance to clarify:
"Which clouds are the ones where unicorns fly?"

(My girls(ages 5 years and nearly 4 years)asked me about clouds yesterday. I misunderstood and answered about clouds when they were actually asking about things they've seen on My Little Pony or read in fairy tales.)

A Little Tart

Like a knife through my heart is the sight
of my husband with a little tart by his side.
He thinks I don't know, that he's covered his tracks,
that I've not seen him go right to the back
of my secret store of the Snickers and Twix,
the chocolate galore, oh he's taking a risk
when he goes back for more.

Now that he's stumbled on my precious hide,
now I've been rumbled I'll turn a blind eye
because there's the danger that he may have seen
how I've munched through the stuff that is for Hallowe'en.
He may also have noticed my trove of fine crisps
and the Freddos and Roses that I claim don't exist.
I'll move them of course, bit by bit, on the sly
and cut off the source of his bit on the side.

That's how it begins, one tart here, one tart there, 
tin foil cups binned, resealing the tear.
He must have a hunch, sure, that there's only tract
for one secret muncher in our double act.
I know, on reflection, that it cannot be he,
I need my confection all kept for me,
I need the Maltesers to enhance the odd mocha,
the poor trick-or-treaters may be left with Berocca.

For now, I'll allow it while I look for a place
to hide what I cherish, I'll lock it away.
The mince pies mislaid, it may well break his heart, 
and he'll miss his affair with that little tart.

(Explanation: My secret stash of all things sweet was recently discovered by my husband who, said nothing, just sneakily helped himself to a mince pie and made it look like nothing had been taken. I hate mince pies, they're only there to make it look like the collection is for Christmas when, in fact, I keep it stocked up all year long and dip into it for a chocolate fix when I need it. The reference to there being nothing left for the trick-or-treaters except Berocca tablets was something funny my cousin's wife said in 2010.  Úna and I were both pregnant at the same time and were talking about eating the bowls of goodies at our respective doors before any trick-or-treaters arrived.)

In My View

The farmer's field is in our vision
A scene of sheep, nothing hidden.
I sip the coffee and am sad to know
this will be cut off when our trees all grow.
Commotion erupts in the slow-moving view,
emotion interrupts my morning brew:
The ram was set to ram
but the ewes were on refuse.
Some outran him, sought to ban him,
one couldn't lose him, instead bemused him
with go and start, bound then sit,
so up he'd hop but found no grip.
She appeared to be complicit, then become aloof,
he veered and bit, and hit by throwing a left hoof.
She wasn't flustered, just not sold.
A hundred others joined the fold,
she ran with them and used the cover,
left the ram to choose another.
She stayed well back and watched him choose
and then relaxed as willing ewes
stood still to mate, set and prone.
I just can't wait for the trees to grow.

(I saw this unfold before me this morning. I wish very much that I could unsee it!)

Wave The Thistle

Bonnie bonnie Scotland,
when will be see your like?
How proud you stand
with your demands,
no threats of force or strike.
In a world full of unrest you took
full calmy to the polls
to wave the thistle for Hollyrood
and wake the shamrock, leek and rose.
Should old acquaintance be forgot?
In Robbie Burns' name.
Such absorbing news as we watched
Scots rise up and Scots wha hae
and made them all think again.

(On 9th September 2014 I wrote this poem after Scotland voted against independence and to stay part of the United Kingdom. I doubt I was the only Irish person riveted by the build up to the voting day, it was fascinating. In all the turmoil and bad news from all corners of the earth I found it, not just interesting, but a relief, to have the TV and radio buzzing with something other than death and disease.)

Nuddy Leitrim

I woke last night in deep despair, a nightmare in my mind,
I was naked as a newborn babe, there were no clothes to find.
I felt the squeeze of September's breeze on my downbelow:
I was at the nudist conference in dear old Drumshanbo.

I nearly fainted as I looked and took in the whole sight,
I wished I was in Kerry where they dress by day and night.
I thought of Sheemore occupied by nudists al fresco
and how Finn MacCumhail might turn and rise and head back to Glencoe.

And then I realised that 'twas no dream about undress
and of all the naked naturists there I looked the very best.
Then I raised my glass to Lough Allen Spa, the only place to go
if you want your ass uncovered where the Shannon waters flow.

(The Irish Naturist Association is celebrating 50 years of naturism. They are booked into the Lough Allen Spa in Drumshanbo, Co. Leitrim. This poem can be sung to the tune of Lovely Leitrim.)

Féileacán

Transparent wings
of coloured scales,
daring swings
and downward sails
are a far cry
from butterfly.

The stain
of a festival
in the Irish name
fits the bill.
Is teideal an dáin
é féileacán.

Multiple kaleidoscopes
this year:
Reds, whites, heliotropes
career
as Red Admirals
and Painted Ladys
pied en diagonale
in dainty batterie.
A Peacock proper
displays no feathers
and a Small Copper
Monets the heathers
like a still life variation
of a Speckled Wood's confrontations.

A winner adjective
is army as given
to a caterpillar collective:
Larvae security driven
to maturity perfective.

(We are currently enjoying an abundance of butterflies, notably more than last year. This August was the first time (in my memory, we definitely had even more butterflies around when I was a child)I saw a Small Copper which, although I have tried to explain otherwise, my children think is a baby butterfly.)

Dead Lucky

Don't get sick in Brazil
unless you're set for death.
And maybe make a will
asking for a double check.
Pack up all you'll need;
toothbrush and a towel,
something nice to read,
and a suit for being laid out.
You won't need to buy
a body bag yourself,
if they think you've died
they'll get one off the shelf.
And they're very good
at stuffing orifices tight,
they'll pack the cotton wool
and tie your left leg to your right.
Be sure to have a saint revered
to help you fight your corner:
Irma Dulce played a blinder here
once the funeral was paid for.

(Last month in Salvador, Brazil, Valdelucio Concalves woke up in a body bag after doctors in the hospital he was in declared him dead. Inspired by: www.mirror.co.uk article)