MIRACLES
The road from Lourdes
Is littered with crutches
But not a single wooden leg;
Miracles, it seems,
Don’t ‘come off the peg’.
Writing
ODE TO GONZO MOMMA
GONZO MOMMA
Too weird to live, too rare to die
I guess that’s a creed
Old Hunter would swear by
Though he would have a drink first
Or maybe three
Then try to figure out where
The action might be
Before smoking some ‘stuff’
‘Cos he knew plain whiskey and gin
Would never be enough.
Then, perhaps like you, he would
Upheave everything and pack
Screaming all the while;
You can kiss my ass
I ain’t never coming back
LOVE POEM FROM BONMAHON
LOVE POEM FROM BONMAHON
God in his heaven never bettered this;
Never hit perfection more square-on.
Rugged cliffs lip the strand,
Opening to fields behind,
The Atlantic, white-layered,
Sweeping into the bay,
Its hurry washed-out
By the tug of sand, gently rising,
Before it.
A tangle of marram crowns the dunes,
Tousled, like windswept hair;
Whilst, on the slopes nearby,
A line of white cottages
Vie for prominence with the old church
Yet, it is the call of the waves
That steals most of the aces;
Those riderless white horses
Sweeping relentlessly in,
With their whispering lisps;
‘I love you, please don’t go,
I love you please don’t go’
And I, watching the ebb-tide dragging them back,
Silently mouthing in their wake;
‘She loves me, she loves me not,
She loves me, she loves me not…’
THE UNIVERSE AS A HOLOGRAM PART TWO
THE UNIVERSE AS A HOLOGRAM PART TWO
According to Einstein
Energy created the Universe.
I seem to have little of that these days
So my powers of creation are limited.
Should I try Vibrational Medicine?
Quantum Mechanics has the answers
Apparently.
Every cell, organ, arm and leg
Has an emergency frequency signature
Broadcasting whatever it needs
Moment by moment.
Now science is imitating nature
Creating a Holographic Universe
Where I can seemingly be in different locations
At the same time.
(a bit Doctor Who-ish, I know)
World-wide authentic native wisdom
Shares the sacred secret
In our understanding of the Quantum Hologram.
If it is not on the Quantum Hologram
It cannot manifest in the ‘real’ world
Quantum Hologram equals reality
And reality means
I am…
Something
A CHRISTMAS CHILDHOOD by Patrick Kavanagh
Anthony Cronin, John Ryan, Patrick Kavanagh
A Christmas Childhood
A water-hen screeched in the bog,
Mass-going feet
Crunched the wafer-ice on the pot-holes,
Somebody wistfully twisted the bellows wheel.
My child poet picked out the letters
On the grey stone,
In silver the wonder of a Christmas townland,
The winking glitter of a frosty dawn.
Cassiopeia was over
Cassidy’s hanging hill,
I looked and three whin bushes rode across
The horizon — the Three Wise Kings.
And old man passing said:
‘Can’t he make it talk –
The melodion.’ I hid in the doorway
And tightened the belt of my box-pleated coat.
I nicked six nicks on the door-post
With my penknife’s big blade –
there was a little one for cutting tobacco.
And I was six Christmases of age.
My father played the melodion,
My mother milked the cows,
And I had a prayer like a white rose pinned
On the Virgin Mary’s blouse.
Patrick Kavanagh
AMERICAN FOOTBALL
This poem by Harold Pinter is about the Gulf War. I think it is just as relevant today.
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American Football by Harold Pinter
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| Hallelullah! It works. We blew the shit out of them. We blew the shit right back up their own ass It works. Hallelullah. We blew them into fucking shit. Praise the Lord for all good things. We blew their balls into shards of dust, We did it. Now I want you to come over here and kiss me on the mouth. |
SHEEP
SHEEP
The sheep are doing it again
Trodding the path others trod before them;
When will they learn that
Imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery,
Merely the last kicks
Of a soon-to-be-dead battery?
DEFRAGGING THE SCANDISK
DEFRAGGING THE SCANDISK
All this talk about the mathematical concept of infinity
As if it was a numbers game
Real numbers, that is
Not those sets of integers
Or Cardinalities
Favoured by the current crop of God-botherers
Lemniscate my arse
Stop going on and on and on
Infinity is not a number
When you’re gone, you’re fucking gone
HAROLD PINTER WAS AT THE ROYAL COURT TODAY
I I was at the Royal Court today and saw Harold Pinter
2 Oh yeah?
I He spoke to me.
2 What did he say?
I Asked me where the loo was.
2 No, he fucking didn’t.
I You’re right, he didn’t.
2 He asked that American shitbag Le Butt…Le Bute…Labute
I How do you know?
2 He told me.
I Who…Labute?
2..Yeah.
I No, he didn’t.
2 You’re right, he didn’t. He wasn’t even there. Fuck, I wasn’t even there.
OLD MATTRESSES
OLD MATTRESSES
They have raised a highway
Across our valley
And landscaped it
With blocks of windowed concrete.
Beneath, the river strangles itself
With shopping trolleys
And bits of old bicycles
Worn-out mattresses
And smashed-up pallets are everywhere
While a bloated condom
Flutters by on a piece of driftwood.
Painted hoarding-women
With rotating eyes
Compete for attention
With pram-pushing young love,
Their stilettos tap-dancing the hard shoulder
On a clear day
Juggernauts gleam in the sun
And rolled-up tabloids
Tell tall tales about Royalty
Or football….and Sex
My Writing Life 