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.

(Explanation: 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.

(Explanation: 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."

(Explanation: 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.) 

We All Have Temples

We all have temples and they're all in our heads.
They are intersections and delicateness.
Not a vital organ, not like the brain
but you'd notice if one of yours got mislaid.
We all have temples, we're all the same.

We all have temples and they're of the Sikh.
Gurdwaras offer welcome, regardless of creed.
Walk in through any of the entrances four
because serving humanity is at their core.
We all have temples and they all have doors.

We all have temples and they're everywhere
They provide protection in the face of despair.
When obsenity seems to be gaining ground,
look for the helpers, they'll be all around.
We all have temples, we're altogether bound.

(Explanation: On 13/11/2015, Paris was hit by terrorist attacks in which more than 100 people died. It was horrific and I'm sure it still is and will forever be for those who were directly affected by it. There were two shining lights for me in the midst of all the horror:

1. I read a quote, attributed to Fred Rogers, that was shared on social media:

"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.""

2. The hashtag #PorteOuverte trended on Twitter so people needing help in the crisis would be connected with those who were willing to open their doors and provide that help. It just shows how humanity wins out even in the most dire of circumstances. I read a tweet, from @RohanSinghKalsi, letting people know that the Sikh temples were open to anyone needing shelter. I was moved by this and my subsequent research into the Sikh's open-door policy at all times. But, I was further moved by Rohan's reaction to all the positive messages his tweet received: "Sikhs are here to serve humanity at all times."

I will be passing both of these quotes and the wisdom they contain on to my children.)

The Fault Of The Fairies

Her claims don't much alter, there's not one that varies
from the story that it was the fault of the fairies.
Straight after a bang or a shattering sound
she'll say she thinks little folk must be around,
the far-flung remains of a dolly dismembered
she explains by the invisible wand of the offender,
a tent made of tape, wrapping paper and strings
is when she insists she heard very small wings,
marker on walls showing sunny beach scenes
leads her to elfin tracks that only she sees.

When your suggestion is that it's the work of a child
she'll say, "I don't do messing, I'm nearly five."

Opening Act

I asked the wind to take it easy,
to keep it mild, light and breezy,
I said, " I thought of you this morning
when I saw the shepherds' warning,
I know you'll bring a stormy trail
and curtain call in full-on gale."

The wind replied, full of disdain:
"I'll do what I want with the waves and rain.
And I can make the air malevolent,
that's where I'm in my element.
I won't commit, I don't contract,
these gusts are just my opening act.
Just to confirm, as you might have guessed,
I'm a force of nature, I don't do requests.
It's October, you know, it's my time now,
I am the wind, I go anywhere anyhow.
What do I care for the plans you've made?
You can't regulate me any more than night and day."

The rain weighed in with a haughty-taughty sense,
"you do need some moderation, please temper yourself,
why are you so brazen, surely you can see,
you're not part of the equation, you're just a shelf for me.
And you're master of nothing, you don't swell the ocean,
that's down to the moon, you are full of lofty notions.
You're never in the right place at the right time
you're a law unto yourself on the ground and in the sky.
When forest fires are raging wild why don't you bring my rain?
Why insist on flying high just to fan the flames?"

"And when she takes her children kite-flying,"
the wind said, with a sigh,
"who is it makes the moment, who is it brings the smiles?"
"And when your washing's on the line," he said,
looking straight at me, "who do you rely on then?
The wind, that's who, that's me.
It's not I who sets the seasons, nor I who makes the dates.
I don't coin the reasons for festivals and fêtes.
That's all you, assuming that by the year dividing
you control the blooming, the wilting and the dying.
It's not I who builds the walls, nor I who digs down deep
I don't raise spires and sprawls of rock solid concrete.
That's all you, convinced of these lavish needs
neglecting that trapped draughts require release
and we'll go where we must to find that ease.
I am the wind, I blow where I please.
I won't bow out, whatever you say,
I know I'm the star and I own the stage."

(Explanation: It's October, it's windy, not too bad yet. It's been 2 years since my 'incident' with the wind: I saw our recycling flying all over the garden so I went out to the bin. I was just out the back door when the wind picked me up and lobbed me against the bank around our yard. You'd say something if I wasn't a bit overweight!
I used to love the sound of it around the house this time of year but now I listen for what destruction it's causing.
Where we live we have to accept strong gusts as par for the course and I know when we build tall concrete structures we're forcing the wind to gain momentum but I hate it! I fear a rough Winter ahead.)

Note on 04/10/2015: I had originally scheduled this to publish on 01/10/2015 but, because I would then need that date for my poem about my uncle's funeral (because I wanted the date stamp for his month's mind), I bumped it to 2nd October and forgot to edit it (I always have multiple drafts saved). So, it published but it wasn't finished. Today, I added some missing text and may still add more as I look through my drafts. Sorry if you thought it was disjointed, it was!

Cast His Mark

And there, afresh, cousins playing.
Second cousins test the gaming
from the edge. The smallest one
offers sweets to the tallest one,
a voucher to join the fun.
As we were at funerals,
the leveller of youth
brings the young to run
and settle chasing rules.

A man who knew he was but mortal
cast his mark in a concrete portal.

Timmy would have been
clasping a bunch of nettles
to make young ones scream
at the prospect of the pointed petals.
Guilt swept over me:
Did we have more of him
through nature's chicanery
than his six grandchildren?
And how lucky they are
that they could possess
even a micro part
of his loveliness.

A man who knew he was but mortal
cast his mark in a concrete portal.

No Kilmichael or Seán South
and later his favourite niece, by marriage, said
with sorry eyes and shaking mouth
that this was the first death
of someone she cared about.
He would be again alive
if it were that the deceased
could be to themselves revived
by family kissing cheeks.
And there, adults, cousins saying
about the second cousins playing
and those of them now fully grown
and those with children of their own.
How we must call. Wills and cans
exchanged, unsettled plans.

A man who knew he was but mortal
cast his mark in a concrete portal.

(Explanation: My uncle, Timmy Walsh, passed away on 01/09/2015. This poem is about his funeral. When I looked at my children playing with my cousins' children I was reminded of when I was a child at the funerals of much older relatives. 
Timmy was my uncle-in-law but I can safely say I'm not the only one who considered him right up there with our biological uncles. He was the loveliest man. We have memories of him chasing us with nettles when he and our aunt, Rita, would call to visit. Our entire neighbourhood of children would descend on our house when they'd see the Walsh's car coming up the road, they were all there for the chase and the bags of jellies Timmy would dole out afterwards. He used to also call out whenever he was driving a trailer for work and would take us and our friends off for a spin in it. Today, that would be impossible, it's illegal. There was one day that I remember a man in the car behind us blowing the horn to get our attention. He had a camera and we all waved for him. What I wouldn't give to track down that photo now.
I have many memories of Timmy but two popped into my head when I heard the news of his death:
1. Being very young and seeing my mother wearing lipstick. She never did and never has worn make-up so I questioned her about it. She started laughing and said she had been heading out the Walsh's door with Timmy and Rita earlier that day when Timmy told Rita to give her a bit of lipstick because "women should have a bit of lipstick on." She and Rita had been in stitches at him but she put a bit on anyway.
2. Being in the Walsh's house one day when Timmy and his eldest daughter, Mary, arrived back. Mary was a little annoyed at Timmy because he had just scratched out 'Tim Joe' in fresh cement up the road. When I suggested it didn't matter Mary said, "it's not like nobody will know who 'Tim Joe' is"!
That last memory is one meaning of the "concrete portal" reference but I also mean that he lives on through his descendants and the memories of the rest of us.
RIP Timmy, 14/01/1941-01/09/2015.)