God bought a dog from a home
he eats Lassie and loves Palindrome
the saints call him Bob
it's what he gets for the job
when servicing a ***** down in Rome

God Promised
Balfour Gifted
Oslo Shared
Hebrews Heisted
Hamas Halted

M.S.M.

Mind stream manipulation
doesn’t permit the opiated
masses accidental association,
or, any symbiotic referencing
in the Middle East conflict.

Therefore, American journalists
are instructed to say pro Palestinian,
rather, than anti Israeli, as the former
is less abrasive than the latter, hence,
the negative connotation of the P word.

There’s a cat on a gable end
Wall
She’s jumping but you’d think
It’s a fall
On the right’s a bedroom
By the bridge in Macroom
Where a Murphy just had it’s
Last call

Imagine, having gone to the trouble
of learning how to lip read, then,
standing stationary in The Louvre,

(Just as those devout Catholics did
by the village of Ballinspittle, Ireland,
waiting for the ****** Mary to move).

But, discovering, that not only had
sign language become a freedom
of expression victim under Macron’s
draconian laws, Venus de Milo’s pout
had been pursed as Mona Lisa's were sealed.

A word is a candle
A word is a wick
A word is a match
A word is a birthday
A word is a wish
A word is quenched
A word is smoldering
A word is an ember
A word is remembered
A word is a Phoenix

If one is not capable
Of loving
Then grief is an anagram
For some obscure word
Used in scrabble or in
A cryptic crossword about
Etymology

Latin: gravis grievance sad.

But if you had to look it up,
Then, you are a cold hearted
*******!

Even if they ****
The wells and bend
My nib and burn my
Vellum, I will recite
My mind and let the
Echoing winds blow
East from west and
Rest on the banks of
J  O  R  D  A  N

I’ve got a dog he’s called Hamas
He’s got ***** that would fit in a Jack ***
If he can’t find the loo’s
He will **** on the dews
When he’s hang gliding
Over Tiberias

Cross + Mahon

It is perched on a hill like
Calvary you are, thankfully
There are no Romans, even
Though we are in the EEC.

Sure they’d open a Pizza
Place given the chance
And Deliveroo would be
Out and about on bicycles.

A better destiny awaits you,
If only Buchailli Bowe got on
On his four legged friend
And sang a Roy Rogers song.

Ah, the sellers, but buyers
Are worse, especially that
D.A.F.T. ******* from Mallow
braking my saddle sore ****.

A lifetime wondering why
Colour blue provoked an
Unexplainable sensation.

When in New Zealand in
2891, a printer asked me
If I had Palindrome - itis?

Must be due to spelling
Navan backwards or it
May have been dyslexia.

It was she that alerted
Me to autistic affected
Relationships to colour.

Research has shown that
blue triggers a reaction to
Those with autistic dyslexia.

People are always asking
Me why it is that I moved
Back to Ireland from France?

I fail to understand how
Something that was can
Disappear without erosion
Rust or disintegration.

I am not referring to time,
It could be love happiness
respect or indeed anything
Which we took for granted.

The only constant in life is
Change, embrace difference.

Beggars on horseback,
gate lodgers gone beyond
their station, are these
born again, nouveau riche,
sans compassion, Irish.

Immigration expectation,
coffin ships and famine.

But oh; our amnesia, how
conveniently we cannot recall.

Thoughts and trends are
histories boomerangs, so, lest
it be forgotten, we pollinated
the entire world, we piggybacked
our imperial masters, we worker
bee’d on their ill gotten hives, it’s time
to share the honey, with our drones!

I wonder if poetry can
be recycled, would ink
re-constitute itself to be
born again, as it were.

I am going to select one
of my better pieces and
see if words of a vegan
could be reincarnated?

The Wright brothers flew,
Spruce Goose nearly did.
     Icarus went too far.
Alcock & Brown should
have been in Enola Gay.
   Hamas outdone them
all, descending from the
  Heavens Al-Aqsa force.

The day my nib clots
The day my paper is chased
The day my arm is amputated
The day darkness blinds me
The day illiteracy returns
This may be the day I will no
longer be able to siphon
immunisation from the well
and vaccinate my readers against
Main Street Media indoctrination.

Rumours

Rumours are clouds, so full of rains

from heavens above they fertilise plains.

Rumours are made in river water mills

each turn of the wheel and another one spills.

Rumours grow wings and then they take flight

nocturnal as well so they don't not need no light.

Rumours are echoes that wail in the halls

some say graffiti that are scribbled on walls.

Rumours are goods trains brimming with thought

but sometimes bad news can often be brought.

Rat a tat rumours speak to the sleepers

and when they wake they tell the grim reapers.

Some rumours are known not to be true

oh how we’d act different if only we knew.

Rumours have echoes bouncing like *****

but rarely those juggled eventually falls.

RumuR like this is a spelt palindrome

goes out and comes back but never at home.

Rumours increase and then multiply

but by no calculation could one verify.

Rumours are whispers, Chinese on the vine

though not for 3 monkeys who never drink wine.

Rumours are fables that begin with no end

it’s rare that one hears one which doesn’t offend.

Rumours are stories by authors all gone

when asked of the source they’re always anon.

Rumours are secrets that didn’t survive

they always need someone with which to connive.

Rumours when lost can always be found

a nod and a wink and one ear to the ground.

Priests they hear rumours, often confessed

just say 3 Hail Mary’s and then you are blessed.

A rumour’s a tumour once started it grows

delivered by storks and it reared by the crows.

Rumours have beaks that look like a nose

they start out as sonnets and end up in prose.

A rumour can rhyme and can live in a phone

in a Limerick or haiku it’s never alone.

A rumour can mutter can stammer or stutter

but just like a bread slice it’s nought without butter.

I heard a rumour that my sister was dead

by then she was buried but no family said.

I heard a rumour I was barred from the grave

and security told, that I was a knave.

A rumour that “Plutus” the god of great wealth

from her will, removed me, but I’d prefer health.

But these stories are gossip and some even rumour

and sure what does it matter, I’ve still got my humour.

.                      E P I T A P H

    
     She couldn’t find fame, so sought rich,

  In a Limerick, this word rhymes with *****,

              She made money her God,

               In a land they called Nod,

   But was burned at the stake like a witch.





Anon

.                       E P I T A P H
    
     She couldn’t find fame so sought rich

  In a Limerick this word rhymes with *****

              She made money her God

                 Lived in, Bally - Nod

   But was burned at the stake like a witch.

Israel and their Western all lies

Got a shock when they looked to the skies

There were kites with tail bones

But they sounded like drones

And some say the smelt like pork pies.

God bought a dog from a home

He eats Lassie and loves palindrome

The saints call him Bob

It’s what he gets for the job

When servicing a ***** down in Rome

It was the final scene

the director insisted

that the main star

had to go in the cage

with a lion.


He said, there is no

way I am going in

the cage with him.


The director said!

We have sharpshooters

one move and he is dead.

Still, the actor declined.

The director said, we will

blind fold the lion.


No, I am not going in there.


OK we will get a veterinarian

dentist and we will remove

all of his teeth.


And the actor said.


I don’t care, I don’t

want to be gummed to death.

                 <>



The moral of the story is this,

their Eye for an eye

and tooth for a tooth has

run its course, Iran are not going

to run and they are prepared to

go in the cage with the Animals.




Ps



For Joseph Borrell

The iron dome is iron clad

by Biden and his cronies

but penetrating Tehran

has proved them to be phoneys.

Spring has just begun

                               candelabra flickering

it’s the world war tree

Joe Burden and the US are complicit

sending arms to Israel is illicit

We know they hate Muslims

And all Allah's emblems

but when mum is the word it’s implicit.

" N O T " every cloud

   has a silver lining.

That maxim can no

longer be used since

  Oppenheimer and

     evil Americans

   created a shroud

   of radiation over

  H I R O S H I M A.

American Indians used

smoke signalling as a

bait, to lure in the water

laden clouds.


In Christchurch, N.Z.

The Wizard was asked

to do a rain dance in

Waimate circa 1988.


But who better than

the experienced Irish,

with our bad weather,

hence The Riverdance.

Shakespeare Said

"All that glistens is not gold"

And indeed, Antonio made

a wise decision choosing
  
  the lead casket when he

   was looking for Portia’s

   heart. All of this was of

  course, a tale pertaining

  to Shylock the Venetian

merchant who happened

   to be from Tullamore.


I find strange and not easy

to comprehend is why a

centuries later brought an

an end to age old saying

that every cloud has a silver

lining, we all now know it

ended in 1945 at Hiroshima.

.          Marhaba

Welcome to our wet and
Windy wild Atlantic way
And winding waters of
Waterford Wexford and
Wicklow and when you
Face Mecca may your
Memories of home warm
You and may Ireland be
Kind to you and may our
Willing wishes wash over
You and our compassion
Console you and may our
Proclamation protect you
And may those you left
    Behind you, follow.

            Inshallah

Words wait to blossom
Quills share same ink *** as the
Sap siphoning trees

What if you were a director

at Cannes half way through

the premier of a film you had

given your heart and soul?


What if you were at a book

launch of a manuscript you

had spent years and years

writing and re tweaking?


What if you created you're

poetic piece de resistance

& pressed the send button

but then found a better title?

It was a cosmic metaphor,

a highlighting of universal

unseeing, to the unspoken

     responses of mankind.


     It was a stratospheric

       protest by La Lune,

  "A Celestial Suffragette"

         contra Le Soleil.


    It was a casting of her

    cold eye on horsemen

     of the apocalypse, on

    life, on death, on Gaza.

.     It’s four Buck$ for

        this Fizz said Liz

       on the Whizz but

          this one is Hiz

   the one with the Frizz

  'cos he’s doing the Biz

            with a Mizz

             from Cadiz

         who is working

            in Cork at a

            Cafe called

                     ?




Ps.

the answer is

        Izz

Imagine a place, a sanctity,

where one might go to find

inner peace


A location as it were, where

you could call your own


We all see things differently,

but some can make them

seem the same, for all of us


It is a space, a configuration

for congregations, or for

spectating masses,


It can be secular non secular

parochial coloquial


Arcadian, agrarian


It is an environment that takes

its atmosphere from that which

envelopes it


It is where we go to be pensive,

private, pampered, even

privileged


It is a position, poetry, pathos,

or prose


Or it can simply be a concept

of an architectural mind


A building, where we might go

to feel safe, or solitary,
            
but [secure]

Imagine a place, a sanctity,

where one might go to find

inner peace


A location as it were, where

you could call your own


We all see things differently

but some can make them

seem the same, for all of us


It is a space, for congregations,

or for spectating masses,


It is secular non secular

parochial coloquial


Arcadian agrarian


It is an environment that takes

its shape from that which

envelopes it


It is where we go to be pensive

private or even privileged


It is poetry or prose


Or it can simply be a concept

of an architectural mind


A building, where we go,

to feel safe, and, [secure]

.                              


                 I’ve got a 4 stroke BIC™

                   sometimes when I’m

                   feeling blue, I write in

                red and black and green.


               (The colours of Palestine)


              Oh; but for a white chevron

                    between it and Israel,

                 just like the one we have

           separating Ireland, from Ireland.

Man’s compassion for the animal

can be measured by the prongs

  and teeth of his cutlery, also by

     durations spent in the W.C

   trying to negotiate stationary

  objects through tight sphincters.

colloquial

parochial

local

unadventurous

trapped, but not like a Budgie

the self censored types

restricted by their own fences

foreigners are fearful foe

emi-grants are government

gifts given to intruders

freeloaders and financial

tourism benefactors

I’m not racist but

we don’t go to their countries

where there is war and famine

social and political unrest

persecution and death threats

for dissenters,

we are the focal locals

they should go back to where

they came from

Sound can become
recurring thoughts

Echoes in memory
optical ripples
buds of taste bloom
aromas of inhalations
phantoms of feeling

Nature is supposed to
unwind in Spring
recoil from Winters
tightening of moving parts

Cold contracts
water stiffens

Speechless songbords
search for soliloquy
sounding synonyms
mill wheels turn

Where to next

hard shoulder

slip road

parking lot

at Aldi’s

or a view

of the sea

a lake

river or pond.


Where to next

east or west

how about a

cul de sac

by a roundabout

where we could

watch the clockwise

world circle and

semi circle as they

are rushing somewhere

to be on time


But where is the wisdom

you rotating hamsters,

take the next off ramp

there are no straight

lines in nature,

Exit.

At Rossbrin there's a

boat to New York

The school there's a

fine piece of work

When sea rises t'will float

For now just a moat

But that's why they built

it in Cork.

I Am?


I’m the one that keeps everything

in time, rhythm of life as it were.

  I’m the one that laments when

there is a tragedy death or loss.

I’m the one that creates pauses

  between the tumult and turmoil.

  I’m like the forest fire break the

oasis of refuge in upheaval dins.

I am there in darkness and light

in fear or in joyous celebrations.

I am everywhere and everyone

  knows me by different names.

I am an alias alien sometimes a

secret contributor to imaginations.

I am part of peoples memories

  fantasies or often aspirations.

I have been lost and found and

destroyed even dismembered.

I have been coerced to remain

  anonymous for fear of reprisal.

I have been an influential part

   of those who need direction.

  I have been used and abused

   and slandered and accused.

   I have been badly described

     and my author proscribed.

        I am his prodigy poem.




Anon

St Patrick was conman,
a shyster, and a rogue.

He almost  pulled a fast one,
on the folks of Tear na Nogue

He tried to sell the locals,
what he described as ****,

But t’was grown in Clonakilty
from greyhound cabbage seed.

Then he took it further, by
ridding the land of snakes,

A bag of eels is what he'd caught
Down by Killarney’s lakes.

It’s a land of saints and scholars
Where nobody mentions thieves

And the Shamrock’s just a porky
That hardly anyone here believes

But they say he visited Blarney
Where he honed his gift of the gab

From there on in t’was easy going
He'd mastered the art "confab"

He used three leaves to explain the trinity
Because he thought the natives were tick

To each he gave an Irish name
of Sheamus and Tadgh and ****.

One could be forgiven for

thinking it’s a terminology

  pertaining to Lacanche™

****, Avalon, or Bohemia,

                 those

Michelin Star cooking stoves.

                  But

     no, it's a West Cork

        tradition of nip's

                   @

               Budds

                   in

           Ballydehob!

Schoolhouse 1887 -



There were two separate entrances,

  segregated cloakrooms, external

   toilets off in the furthest corners.

      A well, a suspended bucket,

  for ablutions. Distinct play areas.


     Classes divided by a masonry

           pale. Only evidence of

     anything communally shared

      is a chimney breast, hearths

       either side, a two *** house.


   Under floor holds some historical

surprises. Coins with hens and pigs

   and fish a hare a fainleogh a bull.

   No sign of the horse, half crowns

         hardly communion money.


     There are old paintings on the

         wall, over wainscotting, in

       crayon still to be seen even

      today (where they will remain)

     If I can help it, long after - 2024.

Caesar asked his friends

        romans and countrymen

           to lend him their ears.


         I have no such request,

          because Shakespeare

         said neither a borrower

               nor a lender be.


       Yet, the bible sayeth that

     he who giveth shall receive.


     It also states that the meek

          shall inherit the earth.


  So, is it serendipity or stupidity

    fate or contrived coincidence,

      that I have been tasked to

      restore a listed 1887 semi

       derelict schoolhouse and

             save it from ruin?


                  History and

          our vernacular is in a

     state of peril, but together

   we can induce a renaissance

for its posterity to inhabit the land.


Ask not what your country can do

for your national treasures, but what

can you and I and we them and those

do to save the inheritance of our past.

Mind mill turns

concepts recycle


syllabled spokes

   reverberate


cogitating cogs

       reflect


        axles

   accentuate


  introspection

waterboarded.

An unpunctuated sky does

          little for my soul.

   Diffusion and mist has a

sense of being enveloped

         in cotton wool.

  Furze bushes blazon our

              horizon.

   A can of blue and yellow

*WD-40 masquerades as a

     *Water Displacement.

But this is Ballydehob where

  wind transforms to drizzle

    lubricating sprays from

      Wild Atlantic Waves.

There are always lines

   and posts and poles on

    which to set our goals.


   There are mountains of

    inclemency and depths

   of undiscovered despair.


  There’s a darkness, even

   in daylight, when pain is

treading on our thresholds.


The sun’s race east to west

is not to beat moon and stars

to night, it is just good sport.