Keeping July

Dens of chairs and blankets,
a circus show at home,
lines and nets and rackets,
no-one keeping score.
Eight books each to represent,
a fox in socks surveys,
on July the first the power went
and the movie was delayed.
Calves the very height of style
in all their sepia glory,
starlings at the seaside
taking inventory.
Lettuce growing rivalry
in green and purple lines,
questions answered silently,
learning to tell time.
Rapunzel can no longer hide,
rooster calling on repeat,
gorse clicks and crackles from all sides,
a nineties dancefloor beat.
Chippings, pavers, rollers
our road consolidated,
filling, tearing, smokers
keep children fascinated.
A linnet pair on seedy heads,
thrushes gobbling berries,
an old pink-paper licence,
explaining pounds and pennies.
Old heads of lavender
on thin but sturdy stalks.
We edge through the calendar
these days not to recall.


(Explanation: This is the third of three Summer poems of 2017. The first is Collecting May and the second is Sorting June

Keeping July was featured in the 19th July 2020 edition of The Daily Gardener podcast).

Sorting June

Picnics in the leafy shade,
mighty hula-hooping,
debates of all things mermaid,
days of just regrouping.
A home-made wishing well,
ground consumed by weeds,
on June the first it rained like hell
and continued for two weeks.
Red admiral kaleidoscopes,
lilies back again,
streamlined swallows swooping low,
big plans for the train.
Cherries getting redder,
cloudless cobalt skies,
self-seeded mountain heather
has further colonised.
Best of ten in basketball,
children rhyming words,
sparrowhawks' high-pitched calls
disperse the other birds.
Racing, chasing tractors
as sun and heat maintain,
encrusted in sun factor
we're on a contrary campaign.
Plastic table dining,
wraps and dips hold sway,
water sprinkler sliding,
there goes the longest day.
Celebration of a decade,
eleven now together,
for better or worse it passed away
not to be remembered.

(Explanation: This is the second of three Summer poems of 2017. The first is Collecting May and the third is Keeping July).

Collecting May

Great tit on the warpath,
a blue one they call Louis,
red collar on the black cat,
sawfly on the gooseberry.
Airy thuds of football,
two girls and their dad,
on May the first the cuckoo called;
a reason to be glad.
Cabbage whites crysanthemumming,
unwieldy fluffy bumblebees,
honeysuckle fast becoming,
sandy feet and salty sea.
Rabbit nesting just in time,
a dotted scene of lambs,
stretched out open cones of pine,
microphones without amps.
Guitar reduced to strings of five,
record-breaking skipping,
stabilisers off the bikes,
no holes in the knitting.
Machines in fields of evening rush
to beat the next day's rain,
hawthorn blossoms torn and thrust
like hailstone to the panes.
Still-sealed foxgloves popped on palms,
bubbles, ice-cream, jelly,
sounds and scents of cutting grass,
hedges getting leggy.
Sudden elderflowers,
karate-kicking robins,
roses in a bower,
all to be forgotten.

(Explanation: This is the first of three Summer poems of 2017. The second is Sorting June and the third is Keeping July).

Rippling Chorus

A dusky April sky effects a rippling chorus
of baas and cries, giggles, croaks and snores,
maas and sighs.
It's as if there is a ringleader hell bent on a Mexican bleat,
or indeed a cheerleader who wants to keep them all keen.
It's fine to see them mingling in the dark, slowing to a stop
until each rambling singleton is consumed by the flock.

A resounding naa silences, the starlings cease their clacketing
and even I stand fast, nearly polite.
Seconds later a rebellious gurgle restarts the racket in
the next field, throaty chatter peals into the night.

The response of stuttering lambs contrasts with the experience
and confidence of ewes and rams, who may well be furious
with their charges.
It sounds like the newborns understand anyway, regardless.

A Fish Money

We each begged for a fish money, and,
when secured, set off up Quaker Road
to reach and point our silvered palms
as we reduced our ten p loads.
First, the crisps, nine pence gone,
and then one left to spend just right.
You wouldn't believe how long
it took us to choose what to buy.
The poor woman we called the lady!,
we must have driven her mad;
we'd no sooner got a penny jelly baby
but we were trying to get our money back.

Our Granny didn't ever give us gifts
but, we got the odd bulky, heavy card.
Now, part of that was actual adhesive:
She'd stick coins onto one side, very hard
to remove but we accepted the challenge
and compared our Sellotaped spoils, first
in obverse-sides-up towers, neatly balanced,
and then and only then in worth.
No one ever got the same amount
as another, so there was always a winner
and we enjoyed the competitive count
as much as the Tanora she always had in.

I can remember how the pound coin enthralled me,
the red deer forged the big, green note's replacement.
And I travelled with Deutschmarks, Francs and Lire
before the Euro took the Punt from circulation.

There's something rooting about cash in your hand,
just thinking about it transports me, isn't it funny
to be defined in your own memory of time and land?

Ah, spare a thought for the future's fish money.

(Explanation: I hear, more and more, about the possibility of cash being replaced by electronic pay systems. Click here for one recent article I read on the subject. I hope this doesn't happen. Cash is like scents or sounds, it can put you somewhere or sometime, just by thinking about it. I think it is especially important for children to handle money and to learn about its worth.
Our trips to the shop, in the early 1980's, mostly took place when we were at our aunt's house. The shop in the poem was called Fitzgerald's. When we were at home we were too far away from the nearest shop to walk to it. That was part of the excitement, being able to get to the shop in two minutes.
We used to call the ten-pence piece "fish money" because it had the image of a salmon on it. And, I know it's hard to believe, we were able to buy a bag of Tayto crisps with a fish money and get change!).

Called Early

I tucked the sleeping children in
and ignored the salamander.
It flipped and flicked and fidgeted;
an athletic demander.
I chased it without fright or fear
yet I was playfully outskilled,
it did not hide, but reappeared
and darted to a quilt.
It fitted prone as if to draw
attention to the shape,
I looked intently, then I saw
a matrix in the drape.
I had a tissue in my hold
and picked up the lizard still.
I opened out the window
and put it safely on the sill.
I woke then with the details all
burned into my brain.
That morning I had been called
early by the flames.

(Explanation: I got up at 04:30 on the morning of 09/02/2017 feeling I had to get the fire lit. I did that and then fell asleep on the couch in front of it. I had the dream detailed above, very bright, detailed, vivid. The "matrix" I refer to was a shape that I can only conclude was that of a uterus. So, I felt (I hoped!!!!) the dream signalled the menopause...I can tell you now for certain that there is still evidence to the contrary.
I've had dreams like this one before, where I see things like someone I know who is pregnant going into labour, and then later that day I hear that they did go into labour at that time. Or others where I knew the sex of a baby. Also, other ones that are not related to babies! 
We'll see what happens. I'm not sure what a salamander is, it was just in my mind after the dream. The creature in the dream was a creamy-yellow colour with black marks on it. I'm afraid to look up the type of lizard I saw in case it's an omen of terrible things to come. But, the dream didn't feel frightening at all, I'll update here if anything relevant happens).

Three Rings

"Roll up, roll up, fun and laughter,
Trumpety-trump, I'm the ringmaster.
Rabble-dabble, dinky-donk, twinkle-inkle-oo,
pow-doo-wow, kapow-kapow, jingle-jangle-joo.
If I talk for long enough and pause to purse my lips
you'll fall for all the glompy-gloop and all the tiggle-wig.
Inky-winky, topple-too, snupple-bupple-fabbing,
Misinformation, misdirection, misses always like my grabbing.
Danty-wanty, simper-so, deny, delete, decry,
rippy-nip, what I say goes, first I took their rights.
Cay-ka-cow and zoon-aray and twisty-twusty-tate,
When in doubt what next to say, stick to preaching hate.
Wishy-wash, hum-dum-dee-doo, disloyal traitor mayors.
It's all the Muslims' fault, you know, fadum-dum-ding-dong-dayers.
Build the wall, yaloo-long-lee, Mexicans repulse me,
throw the park rangers over it, tell-ton-tin-ton-tully.
Cha-cha-cha, twirly-whirl, I've such great attributes,
and qualities, all of the qualities, la-la-loopy-loop.
Roll up, roll up," the ringmaster sounds,
"This is my circus, we've got clowns."


(Explanation: I love Chicago, the musical. But, the track, 'Razzle Dazzle', one of my favourites, has been tainted since watching Donald Trump's campaign for and election to the US presidency. That line, "Give 'em the old three-ring circus..." has been on a loop in my head. "Three Rings" is a play on that line, Donald Trump's three marriages and the fact that, to me, he's in the centre of his own three-ring circus. The worse part of it is that Trump didn't have to razzle-dazzle anyone, he just spat bile all over people....and they voted for him. ).

Rose Interest

Nettles and dock leaves circle my rose interest
until the prince will free the sleeping princess
and restore the realm.
Proof that the world provides freely in overwhelm
the weeds strive and vy for prime position,
to be the best.
Weeding conditions are truly a test:
My rambling royals are worth the shears-wielding
and the stings.
They bow in yielding thanks and duly swing
curtsies at the sun so I am decorated
for my valour.
Nature is breathtaking dressed in folded flowers
but she doesn't wear them every day,
as is the custom.
Results occur if I am wholly trustful
so it seems that the earth succumbs to me
after a little focus.
Or maybe it gives in as it does with the roses,
all things come at the right moment,
regardless.
If the prince is not the one the sleeping princess
might choose to don an air of snooze
upon the kiss.
Those in our world who aim and miss
find themselves wronged due to a faulty song
they chanted.
No fairytale endings issue so they can't
trust that living a good life is a must
for a deal that's fair.
Nettles and docks are the least of their
distresses: No princes to free their princesses,
even in their dreams.
Proof that the world provides freely, unreasonably
with no just cause or thoughtful pause
for human lives.

My rose interest roots, grows, blooms, thrives

without, it seems, having to believe
in anything.

(Explanation: Just ramblings! (This poem may or may not be finished). I get the idea behind positive thinking, that it leads to positive outcomes. But, a glance at the news on any given day has me wondering how any of it could be true. For example, it can't be reasoned that the Syrian people collectively forgot to think positively.)

Pause

Surrender your grasp, whatever your cause,
on the future and past, for the sake of a pause.
We've closed the gates, the keys are hung up,
there's no early or late, but there's more than enough.
There's a meaning, a meeting, a moreness, a mist
on streaming and reading that already exists.
The latch is on, the curtains are drawn,
and the same old songs herald the dawn.
"...not even a mouse..." echoes around,
if we had hatches on our house they'd be battened down.
The fire's blazing, the washing is dry,
the children are gazing for clues in the sky.
There's a feeling, a freeing, a focus, a fizz
on dreaming and healing and those that we miss.
Whether you are inclined or firmly against,
there's finally time to finally rest.
This moment's the truth, whatever you know,
we've nothing to do and nowhere to go.
It's the privilege of biding shrouded in peace,
while others are stifled by siege without cease.
There's a greening, a greeting, a gallop, a gliss
on scheming and reaching the ultimate pitch.
The time will progress, wherever you are,
and I mean to spend it counting my stars.
For the sake of a pause, on the future and past,
whatever your cause, surrender your grasp.

December

January is very strong,
yet even it cannot last long.

The season's weather turns from black,
a white endeavour sees Winter pass.

February, March and April,
come to stay but aren't able.

The season's weather turns from white,
a flash of yellow means Spring has died.

May, June and then July,
determined but must still decline.

The season's weather turns from yellow,
the browns together let Summer go.

August, September and October,
settle in and then they're over.

The season's weather turns from browns,
the blackness severs Autumn's bounds.

The last few sparks fleet with November
and, on the mark, it is December.

Each season born and then departed,
as quickly gone as it was started.
It's all pretend, a thin veneer,
it starts again, another year.

The Sun Way

Fire and life, fire and life,
night is day and day is night.
Ritual traced, rites observed,
gifts to the kith of the other world,
eat and feast, pick and preserve,
vigil in place, time and words.
Night is day and day is night,
fire and life, fire and life.

Centre of the sun,
and the centre of the earth:
Autumn equinox,
dark and light of equal worth.

Forsake the old, hail the new
burn from the night through the morning dew.
Kindle and quench, then kindle again,
souls to their homes on the druids' spell.
Knocking on doors, hands outstretched,
keepers of the flames, diviners to be fed.
Harvest staples gathered, give the seers feed,
apples, brack and berries, Colcannon, nuts and seeds.
Sustain them so they work the night
suppressing calls or knocks of fright
from evil púca and the like
that near your brood or domicile.
A wailer in a gown, a bean sí screech
on this, Samhain, the Celtic feast.

A stock still sun,
midwinter has appeared:
Solstice night has begun,
the longest of the year.

Watch for the snake and eye the badger's set,
hope for the rain and make up Brigid's bed.
Don't forget the birch wand, she must cast her spell,
walk the sun way around the holy well.
Offer up a coin or a liquid contribution
to usher in new growth.
Secure blessed absolution
by bringing sacred water home.
Lay the table for the imminent promise
of the season's truest prophet.
Shoots burst forth, once again a novice
in the hands of fertility's White Goddess,
Blossoms out of bulbs, lambs in the fields,
on this, Imbolc, the Celtic feast.

Centre of the sun
and the centre of the earth;
Spring equinox comes,
dark and light of equal worth.

From Uisneach, let the trails ablaze
to every single pasture passage.
Tandem fires and gifts to praise
the beasts that prey on cattle.
Decorate the hawthorn and other thorny trees
and make up yellow bouquets
to ward off the old aos sí
for an auspicious May.
Let luck run from the highest rock
for ultimate crop fruition,
for safe and healthy grass livestock
and clement, clear conditions.
Protect every drill, every fruit and every leaf,
on this, Bealtaine, the Celtic feast.

A stock still sun,
midsummer has appeared;
Solstice day has begun
the longest of the year.

Bilberries and funeral play,
climb right up Croagh Patrick.
Marriages for a year and a day,
sever or take your chances.
Harvest time, let's celebrate
while we have the light.
Around again, the holy wells,
Tailtiú's death is our birthright.
Feed on what she made to yielding
from her clearing paths for seeding.
As she fostered so did those succeeding
and Setanta comes into our reading.
From Lugh's arm, the corn bequeathed,
on this, Lughnasa, the Celtic Feast.

Centre of the sun,
and the centre of the earth:
Autumn equinox,
dark and light of equal worth.

Fire and life, fire and life,
night is day and day is night.
Ritual traced, rites observed,
gifts to the kith of the other world,
eat and feast, pick and preserve,
vigil in place, time and words.
Night is day and day is night,
fire and life, fire and life.

(Explanation: Happy Celtic New Year! The start of the new year was, traditionally in Ireland, marked by Samhain on 1st November. I hear the meteorologists on radio and TV have moved Ireland's seasons on a month. I get it: That puts us in line with the UK and it makes much more sense in terms of the weather. However, I mark the seasons the old way and I like to give a nod to the even older ways too).

Royal Index

My sister is our executrix, what a fancy appellation.
Presumably, there will soon be a suitable replacement.
Still we hear the terms landlord and landlady
when owner and proprietor are in use already.
I heard a man on the radio reject 'postman' by a reporter.
He said, "it's not used anymore, I'm a postal worker."
Only right and only fair, I totally agree
and happily embrace this new gender neutrality.
No more usherettes, no more comediennes,
no more farmerettes and no more chairwomen.
Long gone is the stewardess, barmaids can't be hired,
all actors now the actresses, firefighters fight the fires.
But, please, keep the royal index; indulge my daughters' world,
there's nothing like a princess for my two little girls.

Fleshy Pound

No more double Irish,
we're big on moral ground.
So modern now, and stylish,
our book-keeping is sound.
Our Revenue Commissioners
will actively chase down
our neighbours, friends and relatives
for every fleshy pound.
This is a great little country
to do your business in;
we're hardcore loophole junkies
and we're not short of plebians.
We've taxed our average Paddys
so they dismay at being employed.
Sit down there now, be happy,
pick the taxes to avoid.
Just relax, we're here for you,
you're our priority.
Sure, isn't it a solemn truth
about the apple and the tree?
We look the other way
to any fraudulent intent
and when it's time to pay
you can throw us a few cent.
We stand tall for equality,
but, don't worry yourself,
you're more equal, we'll agree,
than anybody else.
Come in, come in and fáilte,
marauder, raider, pirate.
We want you to exploit us,
use the tredecuple Irish.

(Explanation: *facepalm*. More information here.)

Sundays Then

Sundays then were slow, the sounds were ritual.
Mikey at the radio, Nell starting the soup.
We wake with sore heads and secrets solemnly sworn,
jokes that only we can get and orange blazers thrown
in the corner for the next weekend.
We look older in shoulder pads, or we think they fool the doormen.
Orange juice and peach schnapps, Abrakebabra for something in a bun.
Olive at the juke box taps Independent Love Song.
We know everyone in town, or we imagine that part.
Payphones are dialled around, the numbers off by heart.
Comps and dating at The Queen's Old Castle.
So begins the waiting for the night to happen.
The usual fight in sway outside Burgerland,
a salutational wave from one in the fighting act.
See?, Didn't I say we weren't short of contacts!
The heron on the fountain perches on the top-tier seat
and So Long Marianne trills from the busker on Prince's Street.
Saturday replaced by another morning after.
We wake late but in time for the starter,
always creamy soup on a well-laid table.
Mikey with his pipe and tunes,
Nell dressed up under her apron.
Sundays then in Mount Pleasant Avenue.

(Explanation: Very happy memories flooded back to me recently when I reconnected with an old friend. Olive Staunton and I were primary and secondary school friends. There were a few years when I imagine her mother wondered if they'd ever see a Sunday again that didn't involve me waking up in their house. My aim for my household would be to reach the hospitality heights of the Stauntons' but I'd settle for getting half-way there.)

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.

(Explanation: 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.

(Explanation: 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.

(Explanation: 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.

(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.