Flowers Low

The iris opened wide that day, her plaited petals freed.
The lilacs had declined to stay, the lupins gone to seed.
She looked 'round for her floret mate but one nod from the rose
told her of a tragic fate in spite of love and growth.
Had she been aware of the sad news she'd have opted to keep shut;
She had no choice but to bloom as the orange blossom must.
Green as far as she could see, life bursting out with living
because the grasses and the trees couldn't break their rhythm.
She envied so her sisters' standards, sleeping, dreaming, curled;
wrapped up tightly in their flags while she flaunted hers unfurled.
The crysanthemums stood tall together and resolved to hold their stance,
inspiring clumps of heather to mark the date with dance.
The dog daisies shone their light to honour the deceased,
and no others, still to be untied, sobbed louder than the lilies.
The chive scapes were mortified; they wished to dull their purple heads,
and the hydrangea's blushing sepals cried that they offered their regrets.
The rose hung her flowers low so the iris turned her blades.
Both, just like any rainbow, all the stronger for the rain.

The garden's moral compass had yet to wave in style
but the gladioli felt the loss of one of their own kind.

Before the season perished, before the month had even changed,
they'd be seen paying their respects where the tulip bulbs were laid.

(On 12th June 2016, a tragedy occurred at Pulse Nightclub, Orlando, Florida in the US, where a shooting left fifty people dead. Jo Cox was tragically shot and stabbed to death on 16th June in England, UK. And yet another tragedy, yet another shooting, on 28th June, left  more than 40 people dead at Istanbul's Ataturk Airport, Turkey.) 

Dry Land

At the end of the rains we took our places
seemingly irreverent to the near sacred
act of being outside for pleasure.
The children, kneeling to plant sticks and feathers,
discarded their hats on dry land.
I sat as if this was normal weather
and forgot all that had passed.

Room for their assertions and their lightning feet
so they seemed muffled on being freed
from the incessant indoors for months on end.
As they retraced the paths and bends
I didn't know who they were,
indeed they didn't know themselves,
and at last it was time to remember.

My Frogs

When my frogs were leaving,
I thought it no big deal,
they're only frogs and even
then they weren't real.
No croaking noises in the night
I was void and uninspired.
Everything went quiet
and very, very tired.
No need to maintain
the marshes or the reeds,
and I used the sharpest blade
to cut the grass and kill the seeds.
For a long time on my hill
nothing grew at all,
while I stayed very, very still
in order not to fall.
Then health out-weighted,
by a teaspoon,
the ill that had pervaded.
And by that tiny silver moon
I heard my heart's old melody
wrench me 'til I turned
and saw the very best of me,
my army, had returned.

(For over four years, and really for a lot of my life, I've been sick with, to put it both mildly and politely, a digestive problem. I recently received a diagnosis, and already I feel the positive impact of the treatment.Now I'm happy to see the *frills* coming back into my life, and being able to enjoy them. 

Years ago, my dad said something about frogs, something like 'they're the first to leave when there's danger, but they're the first to return when the coast is clear'.
It is 2016 and today is May 1st, traditionally the first day of Summer. Here in Co. Waterford it is a miserable day.......but perfect for frogs).

Ireland's Brave

Stamping feet and gleaming buttons,
standing neat for bugle summons.
Medals, badges, flags displayed
when Ireland celebrates her brave.

Silence near and giddy young ones,
violent means of  history's reruns.
Brass band bound by bowed berets
when Ireland celebrates her brave.

Speakers keep and gathered listen,
Sunday street set for revision.
A half-mast moment, proud and grave
when Ireland celebrates her brave.

(On Easter Monday (28/03/2016) we marked the centenary of Ireland's Easter Rising. However, today, 24/04/2016, is the calendar centenary. I really enjoyed watching the Dublin celebrations on TV at Easter and loved the ceremony in Dungarvan, Co. Waterford today.)

A Vain Sparrowhawk

The corvids screech and tear,
there's war in the skies
and fear in the air.
The sparrowhawk flies,
a bolt from the blue,
a carrion slain,
wild flapping ensues.
Talons bared,
he triggers a black flight:
Magpies, rooks and hooded crows.
A silent glider hangs high,
a beady eye on the scene below.
The murder removed,
civilisation restored.
And now there are two
left holding the fort.
Elimination of caws,
will there be a cull
of a vain sparrowhawk
by the greater black-backed gull?

If the jackdaws are hushed
and full clipped at the wing
then the swans of Erasmus
would loud their song sing.

(Recently, the ancient city of Palmyra in Syria was retaken from the so-called Islamic State. Apparently, Bashar al-Assad, Syria's President, is getting all the credit for this eventhough it seems he is just the frontman for the Russian troops in this case. The mood of displaced Syrians appears to be one of distrust.)

Eat Cake

Is it too much to expect that they will all play fair,
the newly chosen elect select together in daycare?
Made safe from strangers, their every whim is catered for,
they are fed, watered and kept at the right temperature.
These toddlers have the mandate of the nation
but prefer an eat cake interpretation.
They sulk and bawl at not getting their very own way,
skulking past the calls for change that they made.

This elite likes comforters and dodging tax.
They spend their days musing on conundrums
like the destination of the owl and the pussycat.
One pinches the other, gnashing his gums,
no "shake hands, brother", the other pinches back.
They have jobs to do but are better at tantrums,
refusing to eat their vegetables and their hats.
Their bedtime routine is surer than their sums.

The real world crashes with the advance of injustice
while the spoilt brats of Europe prance in their privilege,
shoving their little fists into pots of grubby politics
and then snivelling when they are covered in it.
We can toast our hundred years' anniversary
by noting those things which have not altered:
gold rattles don't soothe the anointed in the nursery
and a woman can still not choose a safe abortion.

(On Easter Monday (28/03/2016), we will mark the centenary of Ireland's Easter Rising (24/04/1916), the rebellion that was the beginning of Ireland's struggle for separation from British Rule. 
Ireland held a general election on 26th February. Those elected are in the process of not being able to agree with each other and are also actively back-tracking on the pre-election promises they made.)

Bow Strings

I'm at home with my children.
I'm a stay-at-home mother.
I cook and I clean, one more than the other.
And one far better, I'd much rather clean,
it's all take-aways once they're over 18.

I'm at home with my children.
I home-educate them.
Some sewing, some singing and curriculum trends.
Some times tables rules, some flags of the world,
a lot of being schooled by two little girls

I'm at home with my children.
That's how I answer.
I don't say I'm a dancer of the sean-nós leaning,
(I'm quite alright but my aunt is a demon).
I don't say that I write, that I play the piano,
I don't say that I sing, (but I'm no soprano).
I don't say that I practice spontaneous paces
by trying new things on a regular basis.
I don't say that I train myself in dialects,
I don't say that I paint, (nothing too complex).
I don't say I do paid work when I can:
I edit, I teach, I'm a scribe for exams.
I don't say I'm the actuary and president.
I manage this factory to the last cent.
I don't say that I meditate in circadian flow.
I don't say I've a thing for opera, you know.
I don't say that I've closed in an area by trees
because I hope to be, someday, a keeper of bees.

I'm at home with my children.
I'm not short of talents.
Despite what you think I've a life that's well-balanced.
There's not much in my wallet, I've rarely a bean.
But to be quite honest, I'm living my dream.
We don't borrow and we don't travel far,
so we've little to show but what's there is ours.
Why you're so concerned, I just don't know,
My strings are all mine and they're on my bow.
And I am a total believer in taking my time
towards any achievement I might have in mind.
I never rush, I don't see the sense,
I've been served well enough by taking small steps.
(But that may be a side effect of the fact
that I'm often tired, I'm a taker of naps.)

Modesty's not one of my delusions,
but my time is the rarest
so I've made a conclusion:
I don't want to share it
fielding your queries about my ambition:
I told you, I am at home with my children.

The Magic Set

My New Year's resolution comes far too late, I know.
It would have been solution to my current biggest woe.
The problem is, of this I'm sure, there's only one contention:
there is no existing cure besides what was prevention.
I had rechargeable batteries so the cameras plan came good,
my husband was held captive 'til the Lego lighthouses stood,
the painting and the baking of the ceramic stuff got done,
even all the Play Doh making verged on clean and harmless fun.
But, believe me, there is no escape from the ever-present threat
of the child who's fascinated by her brand new magic set.

I suffer from repeated terrors, they haunt my every night.
But, in the past they were, at least, not allied to real-life.
The horror of being a contestant in Ireland's Fittest Family
has been replaced by the steady torment of a box of alchemy:
The Genie In The Bottle is impossible to learn
and makes me want to throttle the little demon in the urn,
the Magic Money Printer, as well you might suppose,
disappoints our young magician when not loaded up with notes.
The instruction booklet, on one point, is very, very clear:
There is no magic trick to make the whole thing disappear.

When the Christmas lists are underway, let there be no illusions,
there'll be zero tolerance of things that render one inhuman.
I resolve for this year's gifts to be safe for adults to be near
or Santa'll get a magic set and not a mince pie and a beer.

Christmas 1984

Canada Dry, stacks of it, Lemon's glut, piles of crisps.
Early knocks, neighbour calls. New dolls, new blocks, new bikes and all.
In all my years in Lehenaghmore, Santa didn't ever leave a bicycle
with a pump, and, since my father cycled to work, on Christmas morning
he was sought by children on our road and often from further on.
I remember him, one Christmas Eve, checking his were in order
thinking there might be a bike due at the O'Connors'.
He was right, of course. I had confessed:
Thomas had shown me the treasure trove in the back of their hot press.

My parents rented a video player, a week for five pounds.
and before we returned the rentals they had to be rewound.
There were three or four of us then, at least us first three girls
of the six we are in the end, four girls and two boys in all.
The three of us, silent, snuck like ninjas up the hall in the night,
breathless in suspense as we touched the wall as a guide.
Our dad in our path, quickly whirled us right
around and laughed, "Get back to bed, it's still Christmas Eve ."
The magic fish in the crackers took over our dreams.

All Aboard

Yelling numbers, like "two four twenty"
or "loadsa hundred" at Nuala Carey.
I don't think they feel we'll win,
it's more the surreal recognition
that if the Lotto is on it's late
and yet they're up and wide awake.

This Saturday, it's The Polar Express.
I avoid the parts that I expect
I will cry at by serving refreshments.
Of course it's this Yule event
that weights everything with meaning.
That line at the end as the train is leaving:
It's not about where it will stop
but deciding whether to get on.
When they catch me in these outbursts
they ask things that make me worse:
What age will they be when they die
and how did Nana Betty get in the sky.
So it's best that I plate up the bites
and make good memories on movie nights.
All aboard, indeed, follow that star,
I'd have never believed before getting this far.

And, their favourite part of the show?
"When all the numbers came up in a row."

(Saturday night is our movie night, as in the children get to stay up a little later than usual to watch either a DVD or a movie on TV if RTÉ have a good one for their 'Big Big Movie.' If the TV show is the choice then there's a break in it for the Lotto. My children just love the Lotto. And honestly, I don't even think they know that you can buy tickets for it.
For the last few weeks it's been all Christmassy movies, I can't watch certain parts without bawling. Even the two weeks we watched the 'Home Alone' films saw me blubbing at the endings.)