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.

(Explanation: 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.

(Explanation: 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.

(Explanation: 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.

(Explanation: 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)

Mister Fog

Bad and all that the forecast doesn't always predict,
and that snow has often been and passed before Met Éireann alludes to it.
Bad and all when they say it'll be raining cats and dogs,
what bugs me is when they say there'll be patches of Mister Fog!

That's how it sounds to me, and my child asked yesterday,
why Mister Fog was a he and had Mister Sun gone away!
So, here's my point, forecasters, I hope you get the gist:
With your Meteorology degrees and masters why can't you say "fog or mist"?

(Explanation: Since I was a child I have heard the weather forecasters' "mist or fog" as Mister Fog and, yesterday, that's how my nearly 5-year-old heard it too so we can't be the only ones!)

Summer 2014

Return me to the choking heat of seeming lifeless air
where bees and butterflies compete for heady panicled buddleia.
Elderflower has peaked and gone, strawberry now reserved,
blackcurrant steeped and stacked upon gooseberry too preserved.

Snare my singing soul at its sweetest sound.
Pluck the ringing carpel while it does abound.
Reversion is the death knell, not yet told,
conserved in right this moment, not yet old.
Trap me too in glass or freeze me in my prime.
Keep me sealed, set fast until next summertime.

(Explanation: This Summer is just lovely, with the past few days being particularly balmy. At roughly this time every year I think of the Winter ahead and how I'd like to hibernate through it. I also think of getting older and convince myself every year that I am now in my prime! We still have a lot of Summer 2014 ahead but the majority our fruit-picking and jam-making here is done for this year.)

They Give The World Its Stars

No ifs or buts or maybes, there is no mystery:
When you birth a baby you change the course of history.
A brand new member of the human race to bring
goodness, hope, and love, and how the world needs all those things.
Give the mothers credit as they give the world its stars.
Without them we are static, there's no raising of the bar.
How dark our days without new babes to keep us truly blessed.
The mothers, without doubt, supply our brightest and our best.

(Explanation: I think mothers change the course of human history with each baby born, this one is for mothers everywhere)

Smell The Flowers

Nothing physical to show is no indication.
Exertion can be slow to reveal its vindication.
Use your minutes wisely but remember as you do,
thinking, sleeping, smelling flowers all contribute too.

Breathing is activity so congratulate yourself,
as you inhale and exhale you are using your time well.

Musing on ideas, soaking up the sights,
being the overseer of small children flying kites,
dreaming with your eyes open, placing a small bet,
watching fruit scones rise and checking jam is set.
Sleeping in 'til nine, putting up your feet,
sipping sparkling wine in the height of Summer heat.

No need for manifest, no records required.
In waking hours work and rest, sleep when you are tired.
Dismiss all competition, set your own pace,
Be truthful to your mission, run in your own race.
(This doesn't mean you get to always win the medal,
it simply deems comparison totally irrelevant.)
Sharing every aspect decreases your own stores
of energy and affects what people hope to know.

The hours go fast, so be happy with your lot.
The time is going to pass whether you use it or not.

Be mindful. We need oxygen, we can't survive on rhyme.
So, sometimes, let the grass grow to pass away the time.

(Explanation: I think there seems to be an increasing emphasis on 'doing', with suggestions about using every second of your life constructively to have something to show for it. It's not that I disagree with these ideas, I am a natural record-keeper, but I also think an emphasis on just being alive without going a million miles an hour and documenting every second mightn't go astray every now and then. In my own experience some of my best ideas have been born out of letting my mind wander.)