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1.2k · Nov 2015
!BEWARE BIGAMIST BEWARE!
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
!BEWARE BIGAMIST BEWARE!

In China
cheating Chang Yin

a Beijing businessman
(& bigamist)

suffered a severe
Facebook shock

when 'wife' Tsing
added'wife' Tseung

to her friend's
list

& found
they uncommonly

had quite a lot
in common.

Cheating Chang
now faces fininacial ruin.

'They each want
half of what

I got! '
he sobs.

Poor slob
didn't realise

it's oh so hard to be
a Beijing bigamist

in these oh so
technical times.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
SO PRIKETH HEM NATURE IN HIR CORAGES

Never did
help my Da enough.

Always
head-stuck-in-a-book.

"Donall son..."he call
"Can you hold this while

...I saw.!"

"Awwww Da!"
I'd wail.

Me lost in Chaucer
and his tale.

And so the saw saws
but all I see is..."Yo!"

"The Miller was a chap of sixteen stone,
A great stout fellow big in brawn and bone.

The saw cuts through the afternoon.

Pauses: then....
Chaucers on again.

"He did well out of them, for he could go
And win the ram at any wrestling show."

"Say what...?

Oh, don't get me
wrong I

adored the aesthetic beauty of
sawdust floating

in a universe of its own
suspended in sunlight and shadow..

The smell of pine
kidnapping my mind.

The green dance of the bubble
in a spirit level.

Didn't have time for all that
hammering and sawing.

I was a boy on a mission
ever since our teacher sighing

"Oh I...don't know why I
teach you scruff Chaucer

...you'll never read the book!"

But by the weekend
( furious at the rebuff )

I( ha ha)HAD!

My poor auld Da
only getting begrudging help.

"Whan that Aprille..."
( the words falling like gentle rain upon my mind )

"...with his shoures soote
the droghte of Marche..."

Words words oh sweet words.

"hath perced to the roote"

My mind
( "...bathed every veyne in swich licour, )

the bubble in the spirit level
poised perfectly...perfectly poised

"Of which vertu engendred is the flour."
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
THROUGH VERY SHORT TIMES OF SPACE.

The red door of No.16
North Frederick Street

slams behind him as he
enters into this newly minted

morning
sunshine so thick

one feels like a fish
swimming through it.

Sunlight spangles
a tiny puddle

turning it into a jewel
that only the eye can cherish.

Ahhhh "...the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

He turns right into Upper
Dorset Street

pulling an "Ahhh...howya!"out of the man
who makes the false teeth.

Then turning left into
Eccles Street

giving the nod to No. 7
Bloom's house in ULYSSES.

Here in its run down state
though still shining in his fictionality.

Soon they will knock it
down and what will the tourists

do then
poor things.

Sure some bright spark
will rescue it from its rubble

and the door will live again
some streets away again.

Ahhh...." the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

I go to Quinn's gym
to get my Molly

(  Philomena her name is )

a cottage cheese with pineapple
on a Weetabix base.

It is a 16th of June
somewhere in the 80's

as I retrace my own earlier
Joycean footsteps.

Rat-a-tat-tat on Bloom's door.
"Are ya there Leopold?"

But the bold Leopold
doesn't answer.

The 16th of
forever I am

"...walking through it
howsomever."

The sun smirks
as such Joyceisms.

"I am, a stride of  a time.

A very short space of time
through very short times of space."

A horse and cart as if
from the past

saunters by
timelessly.

Ah "...the ineluctable
modality of the audible."

My Molly who is really
a Philomena

spoons the deliciousness
of the creamy dessert

into her
and yes she says

mmmm...yes....mmmm

Yes.
As the old woman on a bicycle so perfectly puts. . .

Ineluctable – that which cannot be escaped from.

modality– A condition like eyesight. Hearing is a modality. However, from each condition a limitation can also be implied. As eyesight is a modality, it also implies the limitation of not being able to hear, or being limited by the quality of our eyesight.  A modality only offers a partial reality.  Eyesight doesn’t give us reality in its entirety, because it can’t give us hearing or taste, both which add aspects to reality.  Eyesight, hearing, and taste are all visible modalities, and all limiting, even together.

By its nature of being visible, it is an ineluctable modality. That which is visible is limited because it’s being observed by a modality which implies a limitation.

This is the entire sentence as it appears in Ulysses:

“Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes.”

This means his current thought is only about what he is observing through his eyes.  “at least that and no more” implies the limitations of eye sight and he is saying here that there is more.  There is an old saying that goes  “there is more than meets the eye.”

Now...imagination on the other hand. . .
1.2k · May 2019
GOODBYE TO THE CIRCUS
Donall Dempsey May 2019
GOODBYE TO THE CIRCUS

( 'Oh! Nellie the elephant packed her trunks
and said goodbye to the circus...
off she went with a clumpity clump
...clump....clump... clump!
The head of the herd was calling...
far far away.' )

Auntie Nellie
died of:

drink, loneliness: & whatever...

(not necessarily in that order) .

And the farm that was
our young days summer holidays

cast her youth like so much pig slop
to the squelching grunt of

cow dung days
moo cow lowing years

until the dust collected and
settled in the corners

no one could reach....

Time left her like a Holy Picture
high above the mantle piece.

See the children
take the coloured cards in their hands

go play 'Fish in the Pool! '
Scream: 'Snap! '

Laugh at who is left to be:
'Old Maid! '

'Not me! '
'Not me! '

Time never took her
hand like a lover's...touch...

... Time...

...only...

...waited...

. . . for her.

In her loneliness
she read and re-read and lived on:

Aldous Huxley's - ISLAND.

She said...this said: 'Everything! '

Years, later...when she reads
like a fictional character in someone's story

when time no more ...mattered.

I travelled to her
ISLAND

and touched her LONELINESS.
felt her LONGING.

Auntie Nellie died of:
drink, loneliness: and whatever

(not necessarily in that order) .

...said goodbye to the circus......calling far far away...
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018
THE KITE DREAMS OF CAPTURING THE SKY

the kite
scented the weather

sniffed the wind
took to the air

became one
with the sky

playing tag
with clouds

chasing birds
to an horizon

before the tree
caught it in its grasp

handed it back to me
still struggling

to be free of this
human hand
1.2k · Jan 2019
DEAREST DIARY
Donall Dempsey Jan 2019
DEAREST DIARY

Every year
she asks for

a diary
always a different colour

'86  - pale pink
'87  - saffron

etc., etc., etc.

They line her shelves
in full view

a rainbow
of years gone by

"...they just flew..."

I admit I could never
keep a diary.

"Me too!"
she smiles.

"But what of these?"

"What of 'em!"
she girns

"Look...empty as
empty!"

I take down '86
and it's..true!

Blank as blank
could be.

"I like to read 'em
every now and then

pitt myself
against the date

talk to
the page

see what
it provokes

evoke the day
whatever a past it may be

for whatever
year.

Each diary doused
in a different perfume

'86
Chanel No. 5

the scent unleashing the what was
conjuring up the what was once.

One dog-eared day
in 1990

a blue year
4711 Eau de Cologne

the only mark
in all the days.

"Oh that was when Dillie died!
She was such a loving cat!"

Now that she has died
-July 3rd -

the empty diaries
are thrown out

all the invisible thoughts
falling out

date by date
by date.
1.2k · Jun 2019
STARRY STARRY NIGHT
Donall Dempsey Jun 2019
STARRY STARRY NIGHT

She switched off the moon.

Plucked out the stars.

A little dog barked
as her scream scrawled:

“This time life has gone...too far.”

She took an overdose of sleeping tablets
in her big bright red car.

The day withers
that was once in bloom.

Petals fall
in an empty room.

The moon wept.
The stars cried.

Life was for living... Life lied.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
"BE NOT AFRAID OF THEM THAT **** THE BODY."
( for Wendy Falla  )

Perotine Massey
is giving birth

amidst the flames
of 1556.

Her belly bursts open
with the fire's ire

and her fair-haired man child
is born in Death's embrace

"to be consumed
to ashes."

A man named House
snatches the new born from the flames.

But the child is ordered to be
thrown back!

Birth and Death
the same to him.

A born martyr.

An horrendous Herodian act
by this "...graceless generation

of Popish tormentors..."
this the era of Mary ****** Tudor.

Now over 400 years away
I stare into the Past

the heat of this summer's day
making my skin blsiter

a yellow butterfly alights upon
the Commemorative bronzed words

held in place
by a spider's web

it trembles every
now and then

in both past
and present

flying between
both times

"...faithful unto
death..."
Guillemine Gilbert and Perotine Massey were sisters, who lived with their mother, Catherine Cauchés (sometimes given as "Katherine Cawches"). Perotine was the wife of a Norman Calvinist minister, who was in London, possibly to avoid persecution. The three women were brought to court on a charge of receiving a stolen goblet. Although they were found to be not guilty of that charge, it emerged that their religious views were contrary to those required by the church authorities. They were returned to prison in Castle Cornet and later found guilty of heresy by an Ecclesiastical court held in the Town Church and handed over to the Royal Court for sentencing where they were condemned to death.

The execution was carried out on or around 18 July 1556.[2]:39 All three were burnt on the same fire; they ought to have been strangled beforehand, but the rope broke before they died and they were thrown into the fire alive. John Foxe recorded that Perotine was "great with child" and that "the belly of the woman burst asunder by the vehemence of the flame, the infant, being a fair man-child, fell into the fire".

The baby was rescued by a W. House and laid on the grass] taken by the Provost to the Bailiff, Hellier Gosselin who ordered that "it should be carried back again, and cast into the fire."

On the death of Queen Mary (1558), the Bailiff and the Roman Catholic élite of the island were subjected to a series of commissions and investigations encompassing not only the circumstances of the execution of the women, but also embezzlement; James Amy, the Dean, was committed to prison in Castle Cornet and dispossessed of his living. Gosselin was dismissed from his post in 1562 but along with the Jurats managed to obtain a pardon from Elizabeth I.

Reactions to the executions played a role in the rise of Calvinism in the Channel Islands.

In 1567 Thomas Harding criticized Foxe's account, not for his description of the event, for which Foxe quotes eye-witnesses and official documents, but on the grounds that Perotine Massey was responsible for the death of her own child; had she revealed in court that she was pregnant, the execution would have had to have been postponed until after the birth.

A memorial plaque to the martyrs can be found on the Tower Hill steps in Saint Peter Port, near the site of the execution. It was unveiled at a commemorative service on 24 April 1999.

"Be not afraid of them that **** the body.."
(MATTHEW 10:28)

Faithful unto death........Rev 2:16
Donall Dempsey Dec 2020
******* THIS CZECH SHAPESHIFTING




lost in Praha
lost in Kafka
losing myself


careful making deals
with old Nick
I said 'Beatle' not 'beetle'


*


WHEN FRANZ MET DÓNALL


'When Dónall Dempsey woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous version of a certain F. Kafka.

Someone must have been telling lies about Dónall Dempsey, he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested to find out he had been turned into this F. Kafka.

Where had his Dónall Dempsey-ness gone and why -  Kafka? He knew of but had never actually read any - Kafka He had knowledge of the tropes...what Kafka could be reduced to in terms of general knowledge that could possibly clinch a pub quiz victory so that people would nod sagely and say "I knew...you being a poet and all...that you would know the answer to that."

I found that what had happened to me...whatever had happened to me...was more extensive that I had thought so that even my initial "D" become the 11th letter of the alphabet instead of the usual fourth. I was now merely a  "K."

I realised I would have to go to Prague to bring some semblance of sense to this transformation. And when I did so...hiding myself among the many tourists...I discovered that Kafka had become me and that we had somehow traded places.

So that now there was a Dónall Dempsey cafe and postcards bearing my features and other such touristy attractions that would be sure to be a sure fire attraction to the traveller with a literary bent of mind.

I visited the grave...his grave...and sure enough...it was my name that was chiseled into the stone.
Meanwhile Kafka was enjoying my life and strolling around Guildford as if it was his own. He appeared to be enjoying being Dónall Dempsey.

"Ha ha..!" I thought. "Give it time...give it time!" And Franz would surely find that being Dónall Dempsey wasn't such a good thing.
And myself being a literary tourist attraction? I ****** well hated it  I wanted to crawl away and die or be trampled to a pulp by a frightened child who had discovered a cockroach in her cornflakes.
1.2k · Sep 2018
THE NOTHINGNESS OF THINGS
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
THE NOTHINGNESS OF THINGS

I put my arm around you
kiss your face

the coffin makes it
awkward

even now
face to face with your death

I refuse to believe it.
Accept it.

You sweat.
A tear on your cheek.

"Don't cry...don't cry"

"See...see!" I say
grasping the unbelievaboel

But it is only an undertaker's trick
spraying mist to keep flower's  fresh

I am prepared to believe
anything but your death.

I want the world
to bloom in your eyes.

For the sky to be sky
for you to see

the beauty of a tree
a cloud

but the sky is just
a thing

a tree a thing
a cloud a thing

everything
nothing.
1.2k · Feb 2019
THE SMELL OF TIME
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
THE SMELL OF TIME

my shadow
stick in hand
leads me through streets

as if flesh and
blood were unreal
the cobbles try to trip me

the sun
falls like rain
making golden the town

a squashed pomegranate
its seeds scattered
on a yellow patch of light

the smell of time
almost unbearable to the dead
and to the living

an escorted soap bubble
ventures across the street
bursts on a cat's whiskers

the cat black as black
lives in its own private time
independent of the world's

for a fleeting second as I
pass by and appear in
a reflection on a brass door ****

an old woman
drowning in a shadow
becomes a shadow

her violet eyes close
time winds backwards to
her first kiss

my shadow escapes
leaving me all alone
wondering who I am

a ghost's laughter
time is
nowhere to be seen
***

All the disconnected joined up in an emotional join-the-dots...what the mind in camera mode elects to notice...the happenstance of life...an emotional osmosis...culminating in the death of the lady with the "Elizabeth Taylor eyes." I had passed by her when she was alive and when I returned I heard people speak of her death...I didn't know her....but she was said to have been a great beauty in her youth and was much sought after and fought over. She had just eaten her rice congee with rousong and zha cai as she did everyday at the same time.
1.2k · Dec 2015
HEART GALLERY
Donall Dempsey Dec 2015
HEART GALLERY

You step forth
from your bath

as if you were
a Bonard

come alive

spread yourself
across crisp cool sheets

as sensationally
sensuous

as a Modigliani
****

or a Noguchi
sculpture.

Here, you
Matisse

if only
for a brief

moment now so
Ernst!

Now so
playfully Picasso...ish!

I smile
as you Vermeer!

"Come here
& kiss me!"

You my Magritte!

You my Dali!

You my laughing walking talking
'art gallery!
1.2k · Feb 2019
THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS

We declare
- this our bedroom -

an independent
dominion

secede from
the United Kingdom

& the Commonwealth
of Nations

(although still enjoying
our European unions) .

Us a Republic
of Love

out on our own

our New Found Land
as Donne had done

a currency
of caresses

our national tongue
...kisses

needing nothing
but the other

to complete
our independence

flying the flag
of happiness

in this our brave
new world

of
Love.
Donall Dempsey Jan 2016
THE MELAMINE TABLE TOP WITH
THE PINK GINGHAM TABLE CLOTH

You're kidding?

The goat is on
the table.

The goat comes in
( doesn't even bother to knock )&

stands on the table
for a good half hour

as if it were  an art installation
or some obscure goat ritual

that humans are
unaware of

as if it were a phrase
in a foreign dictionary

the equivalent of
the cat sat on the mat.

And when the goat
is done

it just jumps down
and leaves

just as it came

as if it were
the most ordinary

of ordinary things
to do.

Even now, I still see
the ghost of that goat

even though it was long ago
made into stew

as if the goat realised
that a time

would come
& come it would

when it would end up
on the table

but not of its own
volition.

But right now
it is standing its ground

on the Melamine table top
with the pink gingham table cloth

and becoming that something that
just can not be

forgot.
1.1k · Sep 2018
THE MUSEUM OF THE MIND
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
THE MUSEUM OF THE MIND

"Has anyone seen
my memories..?"

she'd ask in a faded voice
worn about the edges.

"I've lost all of
1963!"

As if 1963 were
something one could lose

down the back of the sofa
or leave out on the rain.

We all knew her
memories-off-by-heart

and so could always
replace them if she lost them.

We were her prompters
she the great actress

floating across whatever stage
of her life she chose to be.

We'd drip feed her
a word or two here and there

and she'd be off...lost
somewhere in 1963

as if it were a place
one could be at will

if one wanted to be
a cut price holiday destination

she a tourist
of herself.

"Did I ever tell you when..?"
she began

and we'd always say: "Why, no..!"
and listen to her again

be a girl
of seven

and 1963
was hers to have

forever and
forever.
1.1k · Aug 2019
GOOD HOUSEKEEPING
Donall Dempsey Aug 2019
GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

Not stated
( though it’s understood )

she will not say a word

like dust
swept under a rug.

Good
Housekeeping.

His anger
ripens

into the bruise
she wears upon her skin

a jewellery
of fear

written upon pale flesh
his hieroglyph of hatred.

Love’s lustre
tarnished from the first

the tattoo
of boot and fist.

Holds her hand
under the grill

until her eyes bulge
gulls screaming overhead.

The bilge
of his vile

vomiting insults
upon her scared face.

“****...****...****”
his screams in a rut

matching each word
to each rising fist

a blow by blow
account.

He the liturgist
in the nightly rites

of violence
uglier than can be imagined.

Lilies cower
in a vase.

He the high priest
of her despair.

An ugly bruise
upon her soul.

Her eyes now
null and void

slit wrists
upon polished table tops

in a room
now sunlit...now unlit.
Donall Dempsey May 2017
"FIRST THERE IS A MOUNTAIN, THEN
THERE IS NO MOUNTAIN, THEN THERE IS."

she was Swedish
squeamish that a man could
still live at home with his "Mam"

she tried to get him
to...you know...think
about an "ecological self"

"You gotta think..."
she informed him
"...like a mountain!"

he looked like he had
just fallen off
a continental shelf

"Mannnn!" she thought
"He's just never grown up
a Mammy's boy...devoid of self."

he hadn't heard of Lovelock
or even Arne Naess
she spoke better English than he did

he blushed when asked
if he had read Luce Irigaray's
THIS *** WHICH IS NOT ONE

had never heard of Simone
de Beauvoir's THE SECOND ***
just the word made him blush

all he was intent on
was getting his hands on
her ample *******

so shortsighted to go on
a blind date...never again
he talked only to her cleavage

she gave him her number
a false one
the Well Woman's Centre

sang as she quickly
hurried away
Donovan's "First there is a Mountain..."
1.1k · Sep 2018
MINE IS THE SUNLIGHT
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
MINE IS THE SUNLIGHT

all night the dark
held up the sky

nailing time to time
with tiny silver studs

until a star fell and
the dark surrendered to the light

morning and its moments
birds composing the score

living notes
on the staff notation

that runs from pole to pole
slicing the sky

into its various sections
adding a tree here and there

capturing a family
of clouds

the terrific traffic
of an orchestra tuning up

a train cutting across a plain
far away cows looking like toys

a lark throwing itself
against a heaven

as if it could break through
into an eternity beyond

the infinity that
is us
Ha ha she was a very good friend and very upfront( if one can pardon such a pun)about such things. She was the one who asked me if I wanted to see her tattoo so I assume it was in an accessible space! She did tell me it was a heart but it was not or where I expected it. She ripped open her bodice and displayed the asaid forementioned tattoo much to my great surprise. She then had to tell me about her inverted ******* and what made them come out! She was just trying to shock me in her usual friendly way but alas I was unshockable and we had a good laugh. It did take over 40 years to write about it!
1.1k · Aug 2015
THE FAULT DEAR BRUTUS...
Donall Dempsey Aug 2015
it would never have
worked out
I was a Pisces...he was a *****

*
LA FAUTE CHER BRUTUS...

il aurait jamais
élaboré
Je suis un Poissons ... il était un zizi
Cassius:
"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings."

Julius Caesar (I, ii, 140-141)
1.1k · Dec 2015
SKIN & BLISTER
Donall Dempsey Dec 2015
SKIN & BLISTER

We grin & grimace
drop candle wax onto our fingertips

as the storm
rattles our window pane

angry that we won’t let it in.

All night
it rages

toppling chimney
pots with a crash

smashing slates
it strips from rooftops

as we safe
giggle & peel off

our waxen
fingerprints

hold them
(tiny whirlpools)  
in our palms

those whorls
of self

unique to each.

I wearing my sister’s
fingerprints

she... wearing mine.

*

SKIN & BLISTER is Cockney rhyming slang for sister. We were so close we could have worn each other fingerprints and as a little boy I was delighted to do so. I was her and me was she. This I guess is something we did to amuse ourselves before...telly arrived.


1.1k · Apr 2019
THE SAXOPHONE GOING CRAZY
Donall Dempsey Apr 2019
THE SAXOPHONE GOING CRAZY

the smoke appears
to fall up

to the ceiling and then
languidly down blue

it dances to
the shiny saxophone

as if it drunk in
jazz

the cigarette smoke
music made visible

here it is
a spiral staircase

the going up and going down
the one and the same

now here a dissolving double
helix

now again a sudden sketch
of how naked

we will come
to be

entwined with the music
with bodies of smoke

the making and un-making
of us

our laughter and words
floating up to the ceiling

frozen in the air
clinging there for all to see

our love written
in music and smoke

the saxophone going
crazy
1.1k · Nov 2015
IN THE DEEP MIDWINTER
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
IN THE DEEP MIDWINTER

the fox pauses

a paw
left in mid air

resting upon
a clump of darkness

the fox listens intently
the countryside listens to the fox's
listening

a stillness fall
upon all
a snail stops mid wall

nothing moves
the fox's eye glistens
the world holds its breath

the fox trots
as if in a dream
across countryside that's never been

my face reflected
in the diorama
the museum closing for the night
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
LISTENING TO LIZ

( for Liz Berry )

We all felt
as if our collective mind

had fallen
and grazed a collective knee

so to speak
and that Miss Berry

with her lovely Dudley accent
would say" "Oh and did you fall

you poor little thing?"

And we all wailed: "Yes...
yes...we falled!"

And Miss Berry soothed so
our mind that

we felt better
just because of her

mind gently so gently
touching our mind

tears drying on our collective face
as she read

and that she was the best teacher
we would always forever remember.
1.1k · Mar 2019
TELEPHONE CALL
Donall Dempsey Mar 2019
TELEPHONE CALL

her dead mother calls
leaves a message
"Do something with your life!"

her dead mother
still smiling her
"I'm so disappointed in you!" smile

her dead mother
more real now
than in real life

"I'm sorry Mama..!"
she tells the dream
"I'm so sorry. . !"
1.1k · Jan 2019
KEY OF HEAVEN
Donall Dempsey Jan 2019
KEY OF HEAVEN

Here amongst Milton's
Lycidas...a cowslip's

skeleton
pressed between its pages

blossomed back in 1922
its ghost haunting the book

its head bent over the line
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil."

staining the word "Fame"
with its own lost shadow

the unknown woman in
the photographs laughs

at my discovering her
dressed in black and white in black and white

hands stuck in pockets
defiantly staring back at me

she more real
than me

the only other photo
she has removed her hands

from her pockets
producing them like a magic trick

they lay on her lap
like limpid rabbits

curiously alive
somehow

a sheen of sunlight
catches her Marcel wave

Petrella
the photograph names her

in writing as elegant
as she

early spring
1922.

*

Key of Heaven is only one of the names for the common cowslip( Primula Veris ). It travels under other names such as cuy lippe, herb peter, paigle, peggle, key flower, fairy cups, petty mulleins, crewel, buckles, palsywort, plumrocks and tittypines.

There was also a recipe for a delicious sparkling cowslip wine. Alas the book was too expensive for my means and I was more interested in the cowslip dying between Milton's lines and the woman who was Petrella back in the days of the year 19 and 22!

I no longer remember how to make cowslip wine and I never did.
1.1k · Nov 2015
AFTER THE ROW
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
Built an over large
snowman
on your front doorstep
&
hid behind it.

Rang your doorbell

until you were annoyed
by it.

“Yes...yes! ”
you flung open the door

to be confronted
with a snowman

telling you
he loved you

until slowly

your heart
began

to melt.


And here is the missing bookend poem to compliment this...it went AWOL but returned like a prodigal son by turning up iniside the front cover of a book on memory.

********
SNOWBALL WARS!


Use a shiny blue megaphone
to magnify the menace

in my voice.

My snarl barks curt commands

as authentic as
any movie scene I've seen

with a Rod Steiger fat ugly cop
tone.

'We know you're in there! '

'We've got the house surrounded! '

'You don't stand a chance! '

'Give yourself up & come out with
yer hands out! '

And, it's true:

I have ringed the house
with an army of snowmen

(some better trained than others)  

others a little shaky
nothing more than half-made rookies.

Their nasty little coal black eyes
trained on the door

a snowball in each of
their twitchy twiggy fingers

more for effect than
actual firepower.

I command
from behind the line.

My little pyramid
of snowballs at the ready

waits eagerly at my right hand
longing to be thrown.

A tense suspenseful
second that seems to last for ever

then suddenly
you emerge

a human blur
dashing from the door

like the last freeze frame from
BUTCH CASSIDY & THE SUNDANCE KID.

My army of snowmen
are caught on the hop

frozen to the spot
not expecting the unexpected.

'What now...boss? '
they scream

losing their nerve.

You are armed
to the teeth

with snowballs
frozen from the fridge

one or two snowmen
have already lost their heads

another his his snowball
shot from his hand

as you break through
the cordon

determined to take me
down.

Get me
(you reckon)  

& all the snowmen
will just cave in

turn
& run.

Your lipstick
yells redly

(voice made visible)  

I take a snowball
to the heart

fall in almost
slow motion

as you leap upon me

kiss me

...to death!
Donall Dempsey Oct 2016
“I’M THE GUILDFORD GUILDHALL CLOCK I AM!”

Oh I’ve been knocking out time now since…eh….let’s see 1683

Minutes and decades flow through me
The everlasting skies above me.

I’m iconic I am
dressed in my black and gold.
I ( if I may be so bold )
AM GUILDFORD.

The pride of Surrey.

I watch the High Street
as it runs down to that

young whippersnapper statue
THE SCHOLAR or whatever.

People congregate about the chap
eat sandwiches….listen to a busker

busk opera.
Only in Guildford!

But it’s me they look up to!

And is it time for tea?
Why so it is and. . .
citizens clatter over the cobbles.

I’m the Guildford Guildhall clock I am!

Tip! top!

Ticktock!Ticktock! Tiptop!Tip top!

TIP!!!!!!!!!!

TOP!!!!!!!!!


This poem was commissioned by the BBC for National Poetry Day on the 6th of Oct. It will be broadcast tomorrow.

To be said in a pompous good old chap voice….proud of what he is and what he’s done. Rather like a gone to see old fashioned sergeant major. No time for these young statues who have hardly done any time at all. He’s aware of his iconic status and intends to go on doling out time to us humans. But as it always chimes: “Humans come and humans go but I go…on for ever!”

In the late 17th century, a clock maker by the name of  one John Aylward came to Guildford. Aylward intended to set up his business within the centre of Guildford, but was time and time again refused by The Guild Merchants.

But he didn’t give up. Oh no not he.
John set up his shop just outside of Guildford and then set about working on a glorious looking clock now commonly known as “Guildhall clock”

After offering the clock to the merchants, they displayed in over the High Street and made John Ayward a member of The Guild Merchants, allowing him to set up his business in the centre of town. So his ‘gift” to the merchants became the great gift to the future citizens.

For performance on stage there is/can be a little intro….offstage.

‘OK YOUSE SECONDS….FALL IN IN MINUTES AND FORM HOURS. CMON C’MON WE HAVE A POEM TO DO! BY THE RIGHT….QUICK…WAIT FOR IT…WAIT FOR IT….MARCH! LEFTRIGHTLEFTRIGHLEFTTICKTOCKTICKTOCK…TICK….SQUAD HALT!

TICK TOCKITY TOCK TICK!

MY GAWD…ONE AFTER THE OTHER YOUSE ARE WORSE THAN BROWN’S COWS. OK SQUAD…AT EASE!

PRETEND A PERSON IN THE AUDIENCE HAS ASKED THE QUESTION” WHO ARE YOU?”

AND THEN OF COURSE WE ENTER THE POEM PROPER.

Here be a little bio...just to show I'm logical! Dónall Dempsey was born in the Curragh in Ireland and was Ireland’s first Poet in Residence in a secondary school. He has appeared on Irish television and radio and has read and performed all over England, in Scotland, India, Ireland and France. He now lives in Guildford, Surrey where he hosts a regular poetry performance night. Dónall’s poems have been published in numerous journals and anthologies and he has published three collections of poems, “Sifting Sound into Shape”, “The Smell of Purple” and “Being Dragged Across the Carpet By the Cat”.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
!LEPRECHAUNS' *****!
(for the glorious M.F.F.)

Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden

all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.

We never able to make up
our minds whether we

liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.

Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating

the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is

the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."

But despite being armed
with this knowledge I

pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...

lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.

Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when

summer hath no ending
and everything was only

a beginning
and there was such a thing as

leprechauns' *****.
1.1k · Aug 2016
A DINOSAUR EATING THE NIGHT
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
A DINOSAUR EATING THE NIGHT

Death had frozen
his mind

and all his musings become icicles
stalactites and stalagmites  of thought.

He snapped a thought off
an even number of stalactites and stalagmites .

Then he placed them one by
one in his jaws

like row upon row of
dinosaur teeth.

"Roar!' he roared
roaring himself out of this

"whatever it is!"

"Roar!" he roared again

eating the night
and all it brought

with his new stalactitestalagmite
dinosaur teeth.

When the night was all
eaten he

lay back and
fell asleep

inside the dream's
dream.

"Brother!" he said

and his dead brother
comforted him as if

he was not dead.

"Brother!" he cried

but the world had
reappeared

ready for the new day
that was spread before it.
1.1k · Nov 2016
GERRY SWEENEY'S MAMMY
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
GERRY SWEENEY'S MAMMY

Mrs. Sweeney
was Gerry Sweeney's mammy.

And even though I had my own
I had her on loan.

It was like having a spare
mammy.

And even when she was mad
with us

she just couldn't be mad
with us.

"Go on..." she'd grin "....go on!"

"Ya'd wear the heart out of a stone!"

And if ya fell and
ya were cryin'

your heart and knee
badly grazed

or badly bitten by a bee
she....

would hug you up
with all of her self

"Ahhh come here to me ya
poor little dote!"

Wrap you up in
so much love

it would last
for years.

For years.

Gerry Sweeney was my best
friend ever

way back in the way-back-then:
still is....nothing's changed

except us young fellas
have become auld fellas

who still think
they're young fellas.

And every time I see him
I could almost cry.

I can still see his mammy
smiling out of his eyes.
1.1k · Sep 2018
LOVE REMEMBERED
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
LOVE REMEMBERED

all that remains
her cigarette smoke
crawling lazily to the ceiling

her footsteps
echoing down the hall
the angry slam of a red door

from the pavement floats up
the clickity-clack of red stilettos
the Morse Code for loss

a Focus LP
caught on a scratch
caught on a scratch

the same pale pink
lipstick kiss
on cigarette and champagne glass

rain falling now
in the open window
wetting the still sleeping cat

a church bell
scatters crows
a drunk staggers down the road

the end never appears
to be the end and then
it just is

I stumble against the record player
Focus get back into the groove
"...'round goes the gossip...'.round goes the gossip..."
Donall Dempsey Sep 2015
Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.  

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)    

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.
De daaaaaa...it's de DA! Not only the man who made me but made me the man I am. A gentle man and a gentleman...a shining living example of love.
1.1k · Sep 2015
NORTH NORTH west...
Donall Dempsey Sep 2015
Shock firstly
followed by awe

a crow's mocking
caw

as the blouse comes off &
then the bra

tossed now
nonchalantly aside

the flighty flirty skirt
yanked down

and of course the knickers
...follows.

Blouse and skir
leaping over the wall

bra being worn
by an apple tree

the knickers being led up
the garden path.

"Ok..!" I say "...oK!"
"Enough is ENOUGH!"

The wind is in a silly mood.
I chase it chasing me

I trying to catch
the scattered clothes.

The line looking
almost naked.

"** **!" shouts the wind
enjoying itself immensely.

All that remains toeing the line
are a blue boxers and yellow socks

who have manfully withstood
the wind's assaults.

The wind chanting:
"Get them off..get them off!"

like a drunk punter
at a striptease show.

The wind drops and

drops the stolen items.

The line smiling
with all of its skewed pegs

looking shameful and
gormless

at the wind's
misdemeanour.

"I was only trying it on!"
sulks the wind.

"Trying to get in touch with
my feminine side!"

Knickers in hand
I slam the door

in its protesting
face.

"A cross dressing wind...
....that's all I need!"
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
"...féileacán...féileacán! "

baby on one ******
butterfly on the other
your laughter

butterfly frolics
... amongst
your kimono butterflies

silken-stitch butterflies
play
with the cabbage white

autumn morning
butterfly sits
on a swing

two butterflies
chatting on a swing
waiting for a push

my hands create
shadow butterflies
that fly into daughter's mind

"Make hands
make butlerflies!"
she pleads

her first
real butterfly
sheer awe

her butlerflies
buttle
serving the flowers

butterflies
little bits of coloured thought
flit from mind to mind

she adopts
the butterflies
"My flying flowers!"

she chases them
in Irish
"...féileacán...féileacán! "

refusing to come in
until all the butterflies
have gone to bed
I think you may have guessed that .féileacán is the Irish for butterfly....to her they were her butlerflies....her flying flowers....but she like to chase them with the Irish....so she would "...féileacán...féileacán! " them around the garden.
Donall Dempsey Jan 2018
!WAKEY WAKEY!
( for Maureen )

Every morning I
delighted in her

jumping into her skin
eager to begin

being her
all over again.

New to her self
as if she had only been

minted that very minute
her own self invented.

Touching the world
with her sense of self

chasing after dust motes
trying to clutch sunlight

creeping up on a honeysuckle's
scent

snatching at music
in the air

begging the world
to come out to play.
1.0k · May 2015
MUCH ADO ABOUT SOMETHING
Donall Dempsey May 2015
My Prospero, I admit
is, yea, badly drawn

& keeps falling off
his lollipop stick.

My Caliban, on the other hand
well drawn and forsooth...sticks to...his stick.

I wiggle each
character’s characteristic

and they come alive
speak the lines, I pray you,

trippingly upon my tongue
“Come to me with a thought!”

I command my paper people.

“Your thoughts I cleave to!”
they flash into my consciousness.

“Ariel, my Ariel...”
fine-tooled from foil

that comes from fabled Consulate
& Woodbine packets.

“Ah, my trusty sprite...”
dangles from a purple thread that

is borrowed from
me Mam’s sewing basket.

All is well
in this my make-shift

Shakespeare theatre
made from Kellogg’s

Cornflakes packets.

See the great **** crow
under the proscenium!

Weetabix boxexs
construct the wings.

Rows of Nite lights
serve as footlights.

And, so...let the Masque begin!

I hum bits of Adeste
Fideles....then sing

as Prospero & Ariel
do their thing.

“Solua domus dagus!”
my voice rings out

but see how
dangerous a nine year old knee

can be
to paper theatre.

The floodlights being knocked over
the stage flames in amazement.

My patchwork Globe
of Cornflake and Weetabix boxes

burns to the ground

only Ariel survives
in an all too blackened shrunken

crumpled piece of foil.

I exit
( pursued by a clip on the ear )

the profession of producer of
the plays thereof the only begetter of

this ensuing story
lost, alas my lack, to me!

But wait, is this a football I see
before me?

Then play on Dinger Dwyer!
And ****** be him who first cries hold!

We cry "*******!" and let slip
the dogs we are!

**

I was afraid that people might be offended by the word "*******!" so I pushed Prospero out onto the stage to apologise for such language but as usual he was completely off his stick. "Oh Puck..." I cried but Puck said: "No way am I going out there and apologising for your ***** work....no way" but anyway and anyhow push came to shove and he ended up on his rear on the boards and had to come up with something!

"If we shadows have offended...." he blurted out and me and all the other characters cheered him on. I gave him a big hug when he came off stage! Caliban just jeered and said: "What's wrong with rowlocks?" "*******!" we said and Caliban just scratched his head and went away singing "Ban Ban Caliban...got a new master...got a new man!"

Sometimes it's hard to keep the characters in check...don't know how old Shakey did it! "Where there's a Will...there's a way!" as he always said to me over a pint of Guinness.
1.0k · Jul 2017
FILL FILL A RÚN Ó
Donall Dempsey Jul 2017
FILL FILL A RÚN Ó

"Fill, fill a rún ó
Fill a rún ó is ná himigh uaim. . ."

Her voice
flowing over me

like I was a pebble
in a stream on a summer's morning

and time
an endless second or a mere century.

Her words in the Gaelic
and although I didn't know

their meaning

I could grasp
the sense of the sound

know
without knowing

like listening to water
breathing.

The faces of those
who had gone before

flew into her face
like a startled bird in a church.

Face after face
rose up and

became her
face.

The words like beads now
strung on the string of her song

ending in a lament
with no words at all

and I crying
not knowing I was crying

as if tears
were the only answer.

"Fill orm a chuisle 's a stór
Agus chífidh tú 'n ghlóir má fhilleann tú. . ."
Oh I often I have been entranced by this song long before I knew what it meant...it haunted my mind and stained my soul.

This lament. It is supposedly sung by a mother whose son, a priest, has turned to the Protestant faith, and she is calling him back.

Moya Brennan's version is the only version for me.

FILL FILL A RÚN Ó

Curfa
Fill fill a rún ó
Fill a rún ó
is ná h’imigh uaim
Fill orm a chuisle ‘s a stóir
agus chifidh tú ‘n glór má fhillean tú

Shiuil mise thal is a bhus
i mólta ghrainn óige a rugadh mé
‘sni fhaca mé niontas go fóill
mar an sagart ó Dónaill ‘na mhinistir

Curfa

Dhiultigh tú Peadar is Pól
már gheall ar an ór ‘s as an airgid
Dhiultigh tú banrion ná glóir
agus d’iompaig tú go cóta an mhinistir

Curfa

English Translation

Refrain
Return return o (secret) lover
Return o (secret) lover
And do not depart from me
Return to me o heart and treasure
And you will see the glory if you return

I walked hither and yon
In Molta Ghrainn I was born
And I didn’t see the wonder yet
Like Father Ó Donaill as a minister

Refrain

You denied Peter and Paul
Because of the gold and silver
You denied the queen of glory
And you converted to the garb of a minister

Refrain
1.0k · Jun 2018
THE EARLY DAYS OF FORGETTING
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
THE EARLY DAYS OF FORGETTING

He looked like he had lived
forever in Tír na nÓg.

Didn't show his age
'til he was seventy.

"Ah, Hades looms!"
he joked.

Unlike Jack Sprat
he didn't eat a lot.

His wife contrary to belief
did that.

What a turn up for
the nursery rhyme.

The past always so
far yet near.

The sweetness of
the sour.

This the early days of
forgetting.

Wearing a purple sock
on his left foot.

A glamorous yellow
on the right.

Forgetting now his own
name.

Forgetting who came.

"And, who...are you?"
he asks his wife.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2017
AND THE WORLD WAS AS SIMPLE AS SNOW

You are like all
the dark shops of my childhood
where you enter
with the little ****** of a bell

and the world blossoms
into a myriad of things colourful
to sell
stacked
in impossible & impeccable
order.

All yelling
shining
glinting
wild & glassy.
And the cash register singing
with the hard earned money
and the little ****** of a bell
lets you out again

into a world
excited with the falling of snow
& the palpable approach
of a Christmas when Christmas was Christmas
and the world
was as simple as snow.
Donall Dempsey Jan 2017
THE RED/BLUE  WHEELBARROW WITH YELLOW SPOTS ON

Outside
the window

is

a William Carlos Williams poem
coming into being.

There, is
the red wheelbarrow

glazed
with rain

( minus
the chickens )

who
have wandered
off

as if not knowing
they are needed

to fulfill
the poem

upon which
so much

depends

(gone to lay an egg
as chickens do)    

& as I turn away
they march back into view

taking up
their poetical positions.

This living poem
even has its seasons

appearing to me

now covered in snow
now how dazzling

in bright bright sunshine.

Sometimes
(for my own surreal reasons)    

I paint the wheel barrow
a yellow or blue

or blue
with yellow spots or...

My wife laughs at me
& says: 'Oh...you! '

The wheelbarrow
long gone

to seed now
sleeps quietly

upside down
beside the hen house.

Flowers growing up
between its broken wheel

covered
in fallen leaves

it dreams of being
one day a real poem.

I smile.

'Now, where's
those chickens...gone? '

* * * * *
1.0k · Oct 2018
CLOTHES HAVE NO MEMORIES
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
CLOTHES HAVE NO MEMORIES

Your most prized dress
must confess

that it
cannot

remember

the swell of your breast

the rise & fall of your breathing.

Clothes have no memory.

It is Winter now and your summer
frock has totally forgot

the sheer sunny shockingness of being
(underneath it all)    

absolutely knickerless.

Kisses like butterflies
alight high (high)    
on your inner thigh (thigh) !

Clothes have no memory.

Your bra
unhooked & unhinged

cannot really recall

the thrill of it all

as my hands caress

create your *******.

Clothes have no memory.

Clothes have no memory
...but I do.
1.0k · Dec 2015
FOOTSTEPS SET IN TIME
Donall Dempsey Dec 2015
FOOTSTEPS SET IN TIME

The lightness of
your footstep

as you hurried to me

caught in the slowly setting
concrete
you didn’t see

holds your fleeting love
permanently  

your footsteps
greedy for me

paying no attention
to the world whatever

only knowing that
in a few footsteps more

you would be precious
and adored for who you are

your footsteps
still exist

echoing inside my tears

as I put my next step
inside yours

and the snow fills
the other   footsteps        up.
My little girl forever running to me...across time.
1.0k · Aug 2018
THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018
THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER

She was one cool chick.
Dressed -  très chic.

She curved in all the right
places - if ya get my drift.

Her name was Miss Dumpty.

Claimed her father Humpty
had been pushed - taken the fall

for some Mr. Big and
got his.

I remembered the case.

His smile was cracked...yoke all over
his face..legs scrambled at an unnatural angle.

The autopsy pics
made me sick.

Said she had gone to Sam *****
to dig up dirt.

But no dice.
Sam's paid..he's off the case.

She spat the name out
with a thanks-for-nothing look.

"So. I came to you.
See what you can do!"

"What's in it for me!"
I smirked.

"Me!" she clucked
in a Linda Darnellish way.

Turned out it was
Little Boy...would ya believe it...Blue!

Jealous of Humpty's
easy said-ness and how he

got recited more often than
Mr. B. Blue.

Nursery Crime is increasing
so they tells me.

Too many modern authors
making ***** parodies..

Or in the *****
Limericks Business.

Scaring the kiddies away.
Putting the frighteners on parents.

Me and Miss Dumpty?

We're going for the big happy
ever after!
1.0k · Oct 2018
WRITING BAREFOOT
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
WRITING BAREFOOT

Being frisked
at Dublin airport.

"What's dat in yer
back pocket?"

"An unfinished poem!"
I admit ruefully.

"Is it metal?"
he asks.

"No, it's mental!"
I tell him.

"You know, a bunch of words
hanging about on a piece of paper."

"Go on with ya!"
he smirks.

"And next time...
remove yer shoes."

On the plane I
kick off my shoes and

finish off the unfinished
poem.

Now I
always write barefoot.
On my way to Jersey to perform at the Opera House I was asked at the airport after a thorough search refused to yield why I had bleeped...."Excuse me sir but could I look inside your hair?" I was only hiding curly thoughts inside my curly hair.
1.0k · May 2018
JUST IS
Donall Dempsey May 2018
JUST IS

A bird sings
the morning into being.

The sky itself seems
to emerge note by note

from its tiny throat
as if it sings sunlight.

A bud opens colouring the air
with the scent  of itself.

The grass laughs with delight
in all its thousand green voices.

My naked feet
stepping through its words.

A flock of dandelions
alights about my toes.

Sunlight becomes the world.

“I am the here and now!”
it announces.

Season's greetings.
Sap rises without a second thought.

It just - "is."

A feather flutters as I watch time pass
amongst the garden's trees.

Wondering what bird owned this
balanced upon my palm

it takes to the air
as if it were the bird itself.

A feathered fractal.

A sudden gust blows a rook off course.
It stands its ground upon the air

returning to where it was before
the wind played its practical joke.

Oh how the other rooks chuckle.

A cloud does an impression
of Merlin the Magician.

Then impersonates itself
being a cloud again.

A lark skates upon a sky
as if it were the bluest  thinnest ice

that it may fall through
into some other dimension.

A butterfly half drunk on flight
pretending to be a flower...flying.

A willow bows to me. I bow to it.
Humbled by its grandeur.

I, the least needed here.
All this would happen without my mind.

My eyes given the privilege of such seeing.
I, a mere observer

trapping in words
what can not be trapped in words.

Time drifts and I am left
with all this beauty

the beauty
just in being.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2015
OF ALL THE KISSES IN ALL THE WORLD, SHE HAS TO WALK INTO MINE!

I kissed you in
Islip & Liss.

Then once again in
Syathling, Shipton & Pershore.

Where ever I kissed you
I only ever wanted to

kiss you

more.

I kissed you in
Amberly & Arundel.

Once, I kissed you in
Swale & Sway.

I kissed you all over
in many various places

that I cannot remember
today.

I only remember

the kisses

scattered all over England

refusing to fade away.






These are all the beautiful names of little towns and villages in southern England. To my English Jan they were just names but to an Irishman unacquainted with them...they were magical sounds that opened the portals to worlds and love unknown. As we toured the area I did indeed kiss her in all these various places...indeed I cannot conceive of a time or a place in which we were not engaged in the art and craft of kissing. The magic of the kisses and the magic of the names cross pollinated and bloomed into the world of this poem. I still love saying this poem as it allows my lips to kiss once again those beautiful sounds and to kiss the lips that I loved to kiss. They refuse to...fade away. My heart held in Swale and Sway...as if it were today.
***

These are all the beautiful names of little towns and villages in southern England. To my English Jan they were just names but to an Irishman unacquainted with them...they were magical sounds that opened the portals to worlds and love unknown. As we toured the area I did indeed kiss her in all these various places...indeed I cannot conceive of a time or a place in which we were not engaged in the art and craft of kissing. The magic of the kisses and the magic of the names cross pollinated and bloomed into the world of this poem. I still love saying this poem as it allows my lips to kiss once again those beautiful sounds and to kiss the lips that I loved to kiss. They refuse to...fade away. My heart held in Swale and Sway...as if it were today.
1.0k · Aug 2015
EARL GREY TEA
Donall Dempsey Aug 2015
Her mind
was a  Möbius strip

which every now & then

she offered a sip

like a too rich wine
which offended the palette.

She acted like a
fictional character

in an outrageous
historical novel

her bosoms
almost hypnotising one

into ripping her bodice.

She acted out
her life

as if she was a Colossus

like an Ozymandias
before it all went wrong

& some guy called Shelly
happened to come along.

She was an aria
in the opera of her life

but right now

she was just sipping from the daintiest of cups

& laughing hysterically at something I said

(which I hadn’t considered funny)  

spraying in  my astonished face

a soft mist of hot
Earl Grey tea.
Dear Poet;

We chose your "Earl Grey Tea" poem as 'Poem of The Day from A Member' and on 8/1/2015 it will be sent to all 'MemberPoem Bulletin' members.

It will also be on the main page on that day, and it will be listed on 'Poem of The Day from A Member' calendar.

We thank you for your contribution to our site.

Best regards.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2015
she said her name
was: "Zeta Ampersand!"
"Wot?" I wotted?

her Da had named her after
some mathematical function
Ampersand she just liked the sound

she even signed her self
ζ (& ) "...the artist formerly known as
my self!"

"59 & 509...both primes!" she smiled
"30, 031...isn't!"
"!?!" I said

I watched a snake
of sweet sweat slither
between her cleavage

"...the Buckmisterfullerene molecule is
like a soccer ball...blah de blah.."
"Uh huh..yeah...I'm...eh...listening..."

to my heart beat
wildly out of control
she an Everest...I the foothills

said she liked
Daft Punk & kissing
"Now there's a coincidence..." I whispered

Daft Punk I didn't know but
I had a 1st Class Honours
in kissing &...stuff

we made love with
AROUND THE WORLD on replay
"Call me Z..." she sighed

*** with her was like
voicing alveolar sibilant fricatives
"Gee Zee...geeee!" was all I could say

I was an quantic entity
experiencing wave/particle duality
for the first time forever
996 · Feb 2019
LOST BALLOON
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
LOST BALLOON

crawling from the crash
I couldn't have died if I tried

I had a son to save

laughed
spat in death's face

pulled him from the flames
I forbade him to die

he disobeyed
the car exploded

burning the edges
of the night

I survive
without him

a death in itself
my reflection

does all the talking
I just stare in the mirror

Christmas now

I feel like a lost balloon
sticking to the ceiling
Donall Dempsey Apr 2019
NEVER MIND WHAT THE ****** SHEEP ARE SAYING!

First sheep to second sheep:
"Maaaa!"

which with
subtitles on

comes out as
"He just hasn't got his grandfather's legs!"

Second sheep to first sheep:
"Baaaa!"

Thank God for subtitles
"No...nor the Sheedy stamina!"

And indeed I have
inherited none of these famous attributes.

I, a shortsighted
puny bookworm

not taking to
this cross-country running lark.

The famous runner doesn't run
in my side of the family.

Early morning spiderwebs
bejewel the furze bushes.

A cuckoo calls.
Sheep bleat.

I recite poetry
to the yellow furze

passing slowly by me
I madly in love with Hopkins' words.

"I caught this morning(puff pantpANT!)
morning's(aghhhhh!)glory...!"

"Oh jaysus...he's off on the poetry again!"
first sheep moans to second sheep.

"Poetry at his age..I just don't get it!"
Second sheep bemoans the fact.

I pay no attention to this
sheep commentary.

Hurl Hopkins
at the world.

Slog through the pain
and mud.

"Nothing is so
(gaspgASP!)beautiful as Spring -" I yell!

I become a dot in the distance
of this misty Curragh morning.

Run on into the blue
of these my teenage times.

"The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush          
With richness;"


"Bè bè" first sheep
to second sheep in Dutch.

"Meh meh!" second sheep
to first in Japanese.

So the sheep I see
are studying foreign languages.

But I don't hear them
and anyway

someone's turned
the subtitles off.
Thanks to Fr. Hopkins for allowing me to quote from his SPRING and THE WINDHOVER(TO CHRIST OUR LORD). And to the gossipy auld sheep who informed me that in Dutch, sheep say "bè bè" and in Japanese they say "meh meh!"I was running out of things to say in Sheep! So animals say their sayings differently in different languages. My favourite is that in Korean bees go "*****!"
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