Saturday, April 25, 2015

High Nellies!

High Nellies!

Idling times
High Nellies/Laracor
The coefficients of drag
This way or that,
Plotting the itinerary
Salient points.

Dustings...
Of French chalk
And petroleum jelly
Withered leaves
And the Sturmey-Archers,
Boneshakers!

A Sunday
Up in Jones's Road
Getting to know you.
The Backs going back
And the roar of the crowd!
Amhrán na BhFiann
Out with the big fellas
The emergencies,
Patched up along
The Boyne.

And the "Bona Fides"
Trading names
Like Raleigh and Rudge
And Hercules.
Fined five shillings
The short cut
Home.

And Glory be to God!
But the postmistress models
Sheltering in the rain,
High Nellies
And the strawberry
Boaters.

The tales of the tape!
Votaries of the
Road!


Frank Murphy.


Monday, April 20, 2015

Border Talk

Border Talk

Present company excepted
Cavan/Leitrim
From Google Images
It was infants out
Patchy rain
Drizzle...

Plough lands
Measured out
To rood or perch.
The swig on a porter bottle,
Higglers,
Enquiring of the road,
Or timber down
Pups for sale!

A man was never poor
If he had a pig
A sow,
Or the pincer
Grip!

Throw your eye over
The optics,
The trig points,
The Gunter's chain,
A brolly was your
Only man.

The blur
Of declarations
"Who'd be asking?"

Clock watching
The shadows
Creeping over the floor
The aspidistra
Was leaning towards
The sun.

Frank Murphy.


Thursday, April 16, 2015

The Rising Tide


The Rising Tide.

I own a tree somewhere,
From Google Images
up in Monaghan.

That and the iodine tablets
that the government gave me.
Any number of frights.

I was thinking of looking
it up sometime.
Make a day of it.
Get the weather reports.

And the lie of the land
maybe the hard road.
The truckstops,
talking of
the rising tide,
and the troubles,
the cuckoos,
they'd be changing
their tune soon.

August is a cruel
Month.

Frank Murphy.

Sunday, April 5, 2015

The Deep

The Deep

From Google Images
It was hard to fathom it
Swinging the lead.
Sounding out
On the contours
The best approach.

Looks could be deceiving
If you catch the drift
Still waters.

And the ripple effects
Concentric circles
Spiralling out
Crashing on the sandbars
The bluffs.

Rough enough
Clearing the decks.

Allowing for the wind
And yardage
Peering into
The murky depths
The grooves.

But, any port
In a storm.

It doesn't do
To set your sights
Too high
Shooting fish
In a barrel.

Frank Murphy.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Distant Parts

Distant Parts

Something
Orion's Belt/Google Images
For Handsel
She said
Proffering the gift.

A want maybe,
The baubles
Catching the Sun
The beads
Pressed.

Playthings...
Of your own choosing.
And the shrug
Up to you.
The whetstone
Sharpening the blade.
The wicker
Spread.

Traveller talk
Cant.

Nights, when
You could see
Orion's Belt.
Distant parts.

Distance though,
Would be no object
She said
Folding her stock.
A sharp eye
And you could
Hear the pin
Drop.

Frank Murphy.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Boyne Berries 17

Boyne Berries 17


Tomorrow night in the Castle Arch in Trim sees the launch of the 17th issue of the literary magazine "Boyne Berries". Now edited by Orla Fay the magazine was first published back in the spring of 2007 with Michael Farry in the chair and has provided an output for literary talent that is both local and from as far away as North America and indeed every other continent as well. The Boyne Writers group has picked up any number of awards over the years and the launch of these magazines always draws a fair old crowd so you're sure of a welcome if you happen to be in the Trim area and you never know you might come up with a poem or two. The launch time is 8pm and Adriene Leavy does the honours. Much more info over on Michael Farry's Blog. Link to the right!  

Sunday, March 22, 2015

A Poem for a Sunday!

A Poem for a Sunday!

A House of Cards
Old graveyard Kilmessan

Easy pieces
All crumpled
Where we'd played.
Beginner's luck
We'd traded on
Them folding
Into place.
And hand in hand
The gospel was
The symmetry
Of pairs.
We cut along
The avenues
Down pyramid
And square.
And played a lot
Of patience then.
The cards laid out
So neat.
Coins and cups
And wands and words.
Like gypsies in the street.
Our swords turned
Into ploughshares and
Then ploughshares
Into spades.
We came within
An ace of it.
It all stacked up
So well.
A knave on
Every corner.
Then story after
Story fell.

Frank Murphy.