Reach In, Spring

Snowdrops in dresses
affirm with their nodding
that nature's excesses
are about to come knocking.
It can't hit fast enough:
I've weathered the darkness
and found it tough,
welcome blackbirdness and larkness.
In a glimpse yesterday
the sun shone. The birds sang
that spring is on the way.
Where leaves will hang
there are bare, spindly branches
save for holly, griselinia, laurel,
the evergreen enhancers
that offer a moral:
Not all of my green is native
or obviously not,
but is a part of the team
of my plot's melting pot.
The time's here at last,
get me out of this house
throw me onto the grass
reach in, Spring, pull me out.

Wrap me in roots searching for light,
trap me by shoots striving for height,
dizzy my eyes with lambs in the fields,
busy my ears with the buzzing of bees.

Make me a part of the seasons of rays
'til the glimpse of the start of the dark and damp days.
Then I will retreat at the same time as you,
and wait for the call of the macho cuckoo.

A Full Circle

Quarterhouse to the right,
a new year from twelve midnight.
Again we'll dance our steps in place
then move into the next space.
Ladies' chain from month to month,
opposite gents at elbows turn.
Any side step through the seasons,
crossed-hand hold for no real reason.
Waltz around, then back to start,
another year near to depart.
A full circle, all hold hands,
house around to beat the band.

(Moving into 2015 had me thinking about how often each year is like the last, I take basically the same steps. That put the idea of a céilí set into my mind. Happy New Year!)

Remnants Of A Star

Another year for the elderly tree,
its sheen was passed expired,
its trunk was close to absentee,
its tinsel long retired.
As the branches bent in curtsey
it seemed as if it prayed
for mercy, blessed mercy,
to be put in a tree grave.
To this end it seemed it stretched
a finger to the socket,
we supposed to end its misery
by igniting like a rocket.

The baubles that remained
had lost their shine and shimmer,
the angels scratched and stained
and the Santas void of glitter.
There were bows defying gravity,
while clinging by a thread,
that used to be so velvety
and the brightest ruby red.
Two bells, that began as a pair,
no longer ding-a-linged
and a robin in need of repair
perched tailless and de-winged.
What might have been a candy cane
was shackled by a frill,
as if it was being detained
against its wish and will.
A homemade snowman, dangling high,
betrayed its cardboard core
and used its one remaining eye
to focus on the floor.
Bangers from old crackers
-pulled in olden days-
hung in rips and tatters
as they dissolved into decay.
A Magic Tree air freshener
(from Nineteen Eighty Three)
took pride of place, dead centre,
like a prized collector's piece.
The fairy lights hadn't worked
for many, many years
and the reindeer decorations
looked like they were close to tears.
Atop were remnants of a star,
we'd no choice but to knock it
adults now the children are
and only want to mock it.

It was easy to be all talk then
and now I hear my kids
declare, out loud, in public
how their tree at home's in bits
and we don't even have a second
to put on a good show,
just rewards, I reckon,
for my laughing years ago!
It may happen as it did,
as in McCarthy's new for old,
that I'll save ours from the skip
due to the memories it holds.

How lucky will we be if old age befalls our stars,
if our trees lose all their green and our children adults are
and they bring to mind occasions from their bygone days
and they remember funny things and they salute and celebrate
and they sing of five gold rings and they toast us all who gave
them times to add to memory to savour as we say
another year for the elderly tree before it's cast away.

(I wrote a poem for my uncle & aunt, Billy & Teresa, years ago (possibly 2004) called 'Adults Now The Children Are'. Looking at our Christmas tree this year reminded me of the poem but I can't find it, it must have been on the old PC that packed up a few years ago. It was written after my cousin and I had had a few drinks in Billy & Teresa's house and had begun questioning the idea behind the beautiful artificial Christmas tree out in the porch and the pathetic-looking one in their front room. (Neither of us had children then). We got a heartwarming explanation from Teresa that they'd had it for all their own children's Christmases and she liked to put it up for their grandchildren. She also said she threw it out in a skip once but went and rescued it the next day. We had a great laugh that night laughing at the little old tree and disregarding Teresa's attachment to it, sorry Teresa! Just the other day in Tesco my nearly 4-year-old commented on the store's tree and shouted, "it's giant, not like ours"!

I've added this post to Dr. How's Science Wows's seasonal linky. For the other posts click here.

Update on 18/12/2014: My uncle has been in touch to tell me that the tree is out in a skip right now...but he's not sure that it won't be rescued before the skip is collected after Christmas!) 

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.)