Save

Non vascular, slow-moving,
creeping coloniser, brooding
before taking action,
ever changing, ever fractal.

Save the water, save the sower;
let the moss come, take us over.

All Of the Days

Dressing up, dancing, drawing,

or maybe none of those things.

She might have loved picking daisies,

and making chains of bracelets and rings.

Was there something particular she liked to wear,

would she sometimes get terrible knots in her hair.

How was she with homework and projects,

and did her teachers ever despair.

Was she in drama class, did she play chess,

did she insist on her dad checking under her bed.

Maybe she knew every garden bird's name,

and could tell them just by silhouette.

Were carrots a favourite, did she drink juice,

did she have a preference for one type of fruit.

Could she have been a bit of a rogue,

always trying on Mam's high-heel shoes.

All of the wonder, all of the fun,

all of the ice-creams out in the sun,

all of the days when nothing went right,

all of those days and all of those nights.

All of those years now stopped in their tracks,

all those ahead to spend looking back.

All of the promise, all not to occur,

we should all be so lucky to have parents like hers.

(Explanation: R.I.P. Vivienne Murphy, an 11-year-old girl from Cork, who, considering where and when she lived, should still be alive today. Her parents spoke to Joe Duffy, on RTÉ Radio1, and her mother mentioned that Vivienne means 'life'. What they've been through is so sad, and yet they were campaigning for improvements in the health service in the hope that no other child will suffer and die, like their little Vivienne. Link to an Irish Examiner article here).

The Dead Fish

Mrs. Twomey chalked on the board,

a crude fish with a frowny face,

and little lines for the water flow.

She taught geography, often replaced

by this particular advisory:

"Now, girls, don't be the dead fish 

that flows with the stream."

"Which fish should we be, Miss?"

We'd delight in distracting her,

in a place where a nun would often

tell the class that she knew there were

two in the room intended for the convent.

Chilling

I saw a chilling photo:
Bashar al-Assad
at the bedside
of an earthquake survivor;

maybe also of gas,

and/or air strikes.

I can't help but wonder

if it makes him mad

that so many have died

without deploying sarin,

or an attack craft,

from the skies.

I saw a chilling photo:

Bashar al-Assad.

(Explanation: RIP the 40,000 people, and counting, in Syria and Turkey. On 06/02/2023 the Kahramanmaras earthquake - that reached a massive magnitude of 7.8 on the Richter scale - and thousands of aftershocks, levelled the region. 

I am so sorry for all the suffering, and I am so sorry that the people of Syria had been suffering for so long already before this natural disaster).

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.