Cleaners

Cleaners

The sign on the doorway

Said refuge from pain

Step on into uncertainty

Escape from the rain.

The endless persuasion

Of what it all means

And the man playing soul

On the record machine.

And his voice reassures

As you stumble behind

Line following line

Blind leading the blind.

As you try to fit in

With the spirit of things

They cut to the chase

And the dealers move in.

And no matter how often

You figure the odds

When they cut to the chase

the profit was god.

Frank Murphy.

Photograph: The Yellow Steeple Trim Co. Meath

From across the Boyne.

A Knight's Tale

A little reflection

on the state we're in.

A Knight's Tale

With chaptered verse

To course his veins

He quarried out his own demesne

Set off to find the Holy Grail

The crept along the paper trails.

And naked in his stirrup cups

He'd fleece you from the bottom up

And tilt along the dotted lines

He lived in interesting times.

And tiring of such daring deeds

Drew sustenance in other creeds

Such prospects as would tilt your hat

Noblesse oblige no less than that.

Allowed such little license pleased

Himself to charge

Professional fees.

Frank Murphy.

Photograph: Cannon at Trim Castle

County Meath.

Tick Tock.

Tick Tock.

Tick Tock Tick Tock

Went Mr Clock

The bogeyman of time

The measured length

And breath of days

A storybook of rhyme.

The countless hours and minutes

As they sweep across his face

The meaning of existence

It never leaves a trace.

Some ponder on the question

To be or not to be

A door that never opens

Cause they cannot find the key.

Go in search of buried treasure

Or a change of self or scene

When they never learned the lesson

That those far off hills are green.

Say that work will set you free

But it's all to no avail

It doesn't matter if you win or lose

When you chase the dragon's tail.

That faster stronger higher

Is the answer to your needs

But the trappings of success

Are just a testament to greed.

Proclaim the only answer is

That love will conquer all

And then sell their souls to Mammon

When the chips begin to fall.

Or the road to hell is paved

With good intentions never fear

The only time you have is now

The only place is here.

While some declare the answer

That it's written in the stars

A reflection in the mirror

From your seat across the Bar.

Of the lives played out in chance

Preordained a cosmic dance

A summer's day, a sunny sky

The flapping of a butterfly.

And some with resignation say

That life's a long goodbye

But the counsel of the sages

Says wake up before you die.

Photo: Boyle Co. Roscommon 2009

literary Festival.

A Poem for The New Year.

A poem for the New Year.

A little reflection on how

we treat the environment

and the animal kingdom.

Beyond this Point.

With not the wit to comprehend

His role in Nature's play.

Quite separate from

The scheme of things

He mastered all he could survey.

And thinking it a place that's strange

Of almost infinite resource

Imposed on what he can't admire

Some monument that's set in stone

To ignorance and sometimes worse

To those a plague, a curse.

Who'd measure what the profit yield

To burn the cattle in the field

And think there nothing much amiss

What kind of progress this?

Or use to ask what we have done

When fields and trees and rivers gone

And those who keep the common good

Have left a legacy that read

Caution you must be afraid

Beyond this Point

There's poison laid!

Photograph: Haymaking at the Porchfields Trim.

Scurlogstown Olympiad 2008.

A Poem for Christmas.

A poem for Christmas.

Journey's End.

Sleeper towns

Old faded signs.

Vapours trail

Cross rainbow skies.

Houses now

That watch the road

Peeping out

Through terraced rows.

Villages

And valleys though,

Steepled through

The hedgerows go.

Shadows traced

Across the glass.

Reflections and

The world goes past.

The road sweeps round

Another bend

Down crooked miles

To journey's end.

Photograph: Statue of Pope John Paul 11

NUI Maynooth Co. Kildare.

Stream of Consciousness

"Stream of Consciousness" by Austin Shiels is just that. A collection of poems that reflect on everything from philosophical leanings to love and war. A series of questions asked and then answered. Revelations. Political comment. The common thread holding them together is their focus. A sort of looking back from a high point, and if you would argue the toss... it is the love poems that stand out. Counterpoint though makes for interesting reflection.

Copies of the above from Michael Shiels.

Details at http://sherifffromnavan.blogspot.com
Or click on the link opposite.

Photo: Cover of book.

Boyne Berries (4)

Boyne Berries Four

I opened this at Orla Fay's "The Burial of Alice de Fir" and suspect that there is something I do not know, but this is a fine poem in a book that begins with a description of the Boyne and ends with Michael Farry's carefully crafted piece "The Once-Red Cart".

Like its predecessors this issue contains contributions from writers that are both local and from much further afield, (Bangladesh, Nigeria, The USA, Japan), and while Peter Goulding's work may help to redress the prejudice against rhyming poetry, the League of Ireland is another story.

Paul Egan touches on the subject of safe humour, or humourists, and the politically correct, getting to the heart of the matter you might say, while "A Monday Morning Fry" is a reminder that a man is best left to his breakfast! Cherry picking, well.... A muse ment...

Available at http://www.boynewriters.com/ , Antonia's/Trim Co. Meath, or click on the link opposite for details. Price €5

Photograph: Cover Design by Greg Hastings.