Lost In Kilmac

There were two of us on Main Street
(a misleading name,
that might be more appropriately
called Only Thoroughfare).

She walked a little ahead.
She stopped in her tracks,
looked right and left.
Then up and back.
She laughed, and shook her head,
"Isn't it a fright to be lost in Kilmac."

We are so safe here, and

this village is an easy mark.

Over in Mashhad,

it's no joke to be lost.

Law shifts like sand,

injustice at its beating heart.

Our own Bernard Phelan 

is being forcibly detained

for being a touring European,

and, when not in jail,

promotes Iran as a destination.

Seemingly the only dual citizen

to ever use a passport,

he was the one-in-a-million

to take photos,

see the sights,

send postcards.

And now he is on hunger strike.

(Update: Bernard Phelan was freed in May 2023).

(Explanation: FREE BERNARD PHELAN.

When I was writing this poem, Bernard Phelan was on hunger strike. I am relieved to hear that his sister persuaded him to return to eating, but I am so sorry that Bernard Phelan has not been released yet.

Here is a summary, and update on his situation.)

The Geographer

To find Ireland
the globe was turned.
She sounded out Russia,
and expressed how it upset her
about it invading Ukraine,
and how it has so much land.
She looked then for Italy, Spain,
Germany, and France.

Countries and continents moved,
oceans and hemispheres twirled.
She is six, our Ruth,
and a woman of the world.

Growth Rings

That romantic notion of planting our own garden

became so Trojan and arduous

that we lost heart.

I wonder now what daily chores kept us from seeing

when the wind stopped forcing the trees

to bend right over and arch.

Those minutes of life 

spin around this hub;

growth rings of our time

banked in those tree trunks.

Under 14s

In Creeslough, on a Friday,
time stopped forever
for ten people who had things to do.

Leona Harper had been raised

like all our children;

to see and live through adulthood.
The under 14s rugby player
was just like my daughters,
who wear under 14s soccer boots.

We often stop at Applegreen
after training,
so they can get Slushees.
In Lemybrien, on Fridays.

Chiffchaff

Staring from a golden eye-ring,

checking whether you can fly.

You just stand and get your bearings,

silent when not set up high.

Then the assurance in the wings,

back to where you are not shy

to chiff and chaff and trill and sing,

for audiences far and wide.

In comfort you are trumpeting,

outside of it you only hide.

When you feel at home you bring

your special notes that fill the sky.

Library Pictures

I can see myself seeing him,
Gorbachev on the TV screen.
I recall the library pictures,

and the ever-present figure 

of Dr. John Harbison,

the State Pathologist.

I thought President Hillery 

was a woman, known only

by her first name,

and associated

Bosnia Herzegovnia

with the Eurovision.

Boutros Boutros-Ghali 

were just words I'd repeat.

Beirut seemed both made up,

and the only place on earth .

In all that I did not understand

I felt he was a decent man:

Glasnost, perestroika, and that birthmark,

Here's to you, Mr. Gorbachev.

Unyielding

My kingdom for a sausage
that can be removed.

Not bound by other hostages;

chained, and stuck, and glued.

Give me the option,

drama free,

to choose to take just one,

without performing surgery

to solve the riddle of the bunch.

What I wouldn't give

for a yielding pack of rashers.

with an actual pull-back lid

not the Fort Knox standard.

The worst is when it says

peel back and reseal

when, in fact, you need a blade

and brute ferocity.

Restored

Let her walk the tides,
delighting in her tiny feet

gifted by the otherside,

where all is wine and cheese,

and freedom for the ones who died,

no responsibilities.

Mint sauce, chops, potato sides,

no dogs as far as can be seen,

no need for intravenous lines,

where all is toast and tea,

and faculties restored to mind,

paired earrings for eternity.

Hornet's Nest

But they are ready, don't you understand?
Yes, the latest massacre occurred,  

but there are plenty more schools in the land.

But they are ready, they just need another chance.

They're armed from the feet right up to the teeth,

all set to play Superman.

But they are ready, to take that final stand.

In their heads they're preventing deaths

and guarantee they'll never go mad.

But they are ready, unless the flames are fanned,

and they become the one with the gun

and a twisted moral stance.

But they are ready, the Bible in their hands,

to hold their weapons and the Second

above the rights of any man.

The leader of the free world denies life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness

to its youngest and most precious lives, in favour of a hornet's nest

where larvae are tucked in at night, safer than human babies, clearly;

they are kissed, and held safe and tight, guarded and defended fiercely.

(RIP The 19 schoolchildren and their two teachers who were massacred in Robb Elementary School, Uvalde, Texas, USA, on 27/05/2022. I don't know how any of the families, friends, or anyone in the community will ever get over this tragedy, I can't begin to imagine how I would cope if a child of mine had been in that classroom.

According to news reports there have now been more mass shootings in 2022 than days so far this year. That makes this latest shooting not just predictable, but preventable).

Stolen Minutes

Is any food as good as when it's made by someone else?
What pleasure and what leisure, regardless of expense.

But, better still, the sandwich filled by lovely company,

and woe betide the child who tries to interrupt this treat.

They're yet to savour all the flavours of these stolen minutes,

their meals comply with what they like, they do not do the dishes;

no appreciation for preparation, and that's right for their age,

but let me have a little chat, and a sandwich I didn't make.