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.

.          He’s a good s  ort
                                   ^
      speaks a bit of French too

      left the pitch three times in

our last game against Waterford.


     He has a nick name, Pisces,

       that’s because most of the

lads think he has a drink problem.


He hasn’t touched a drop for years,

he’s a friend of Bill, has a prostrate

problem, just gone off again, for a p

On the news we just had a report

Second last, but at least a good sport

On his mount Palindrome

Just a furlong from home

He turned back to be with his cohort

Generous

Olympian

Offers

Disabled

Sportsgirl

Psychologically­

Orientated

Relaxing

Technique

Sly fox raids henhouse

                   good sport, but not for chickens

rooster high tails it

I, insisted, on being first

     letter, of four competing

  lines, in this stanza, about

     the theme, good sports.

We know the protocol

but those without morals

or ethics tend not to

play ball and flaunt the

rules. Unfortunately,

there are no yellow or

red cards or points to

be lost, as in licenses.

But for good sports

the game would end up

without a referee,

like the war in Gaza.

There are good sports

    there are odd sports

    there are good sorts

    there are odd sorts.


    There are big *****

   there are small *****

there are eccentric *****

     there are odd *****.


But I think that anyone

   who plays with them

  in public are peculiar

      to say the least.


Especially people who

  play with those ones

  between the pockets

  using pronged cues.

Depends on how one looks at

  it, take Cupid for instance, a

   sportsman, yes, but good?


That’s questionable, he certainly

   certainly wasn’t ecological.


Shooting arrows at the hearts

of perfectly wholesome apples.


Fortunately he missed, although

he did hit a branch and one fell


But, like alley cats, hooligans

and ne'er do wells work in pairs.


So, as the apple was falling

William Tell took aim and but

    for a slight gust of wind

  the gravity of the situation

would have been a calamity

for evolution and human kind.


Just imagine Newton might

never have caught his Granny

  Smith,  but, Neil Armstrong

could have walked on the moon

without needing lead in his boots.

Guilt by omission might

be in this category, but,

when blatant deception

is a managed mirage,

  then, the illusion by

the Royals magician is

a quickness of hand

that almost deceived

     the public's eye.

T’was forty years ago now,

since I left the land of ire.

Both hemispheres all of the

continents twenty houses

bought and sold, eternally

moving, a transient drifter

a vagabond and itinerant

and sure tis here I am back

again like a tinker in a van

with me antipodean woman

parked up in Bally de Hobo,

  I’ve done the fool circle.

˚
.                                 |

       There is no I in ego but there is in Id,

  seems inverse of what one would presume.
          /
  Rene Descarte's Cogito Ergo, Sum's it up,

                 " I think therefore I am “.

   They say the walls have ears, but I think

                  the I’s are everywhere.

                           I, I, captain

                               I O U

                        Ides of March.

                          I is a suffix

                           I is a noun

                        I is a pronoun

                         and last of all

                                  I.

                         is an island,

                            but so is

                             Ireland.

They didn't even have Barry’s Tea
the coffee was Robusta Decaffeinated.

Hard seats without cushions, no view
and not allowed to tip the waitress.

It was as cold as a dogs nose,
we were stiff, as with rheumatism

of nights inactivity and the atmosphere
was a stratosphere of liquid silence.

.                           Egalitarian


                  Is the share of hate equal,

             can we despise democratically.


            Is disliking proportionate, evenly

           matched, balanced and unbiased.


        How does one discriminate equitably,

      unbigoted, unprejudiced and objectively.


     Without fear or favour is tantamount to an

admission of uniformed neutrality, on difference.

It was a time of great

depression, a serious

  lack of commodities.


  Edgar Allan ran out

  of ink, this is why he

never finished his Poe

.             Night Writing


  Last night I was baking blind.

   Louis Braille bearings kept

my pastry in shape during the

pre oven preparation. I set the

   automatic temperature and

   duration timer, which oddly

      enough has a ring tone

   similar to Samuel Morse's

   code. At 06:00 it rang, but

    there was no perfume of

     pastry, I'd had a dream,

         my clock alarmed,

                  on the

                    dot
                      .

Last night I was baking blind.

  Louis Braille bearings kept

my pastry in shape during the

pre oven preparation. I set the

   automatic temperature and

   duration timer, which oddly
  
      enough has a ring tone

    similar to Samuel Morse's

    code. At 06:00 it rang, but

     there was no perfume of

      pastry, I'd had a dream,

         my clock alarmed,

              on the dot.

I pretended to be blind, for a day,

it might have been easier at night.

I had a stick, but no dog, although

I did manage to stand on a ****.


  Occasionally I was head butted,

  stationary objects, ******* poles.

  After changing sides, near walls,

  I was shinned by bicycle pedals.


Sightlessness has no colour and

buff, the title, is not banana in hue,

 yet those afflicted with impaired

  vision can easily identify them.


If I pretended to be blind for a night

it would be no different than the day,

  because dog turds, ******* poles,

bananas and pedals are all nocturnal.

Fragmented


I wonder if a memory from

rubble, could be assembled

in a jigsaw, would pieces fit?


I usually start at the corners,

the sky is always easy, blue

with white clouds and a bird.


But what if there is no image

on the box because all of the

photographers were maimed.


And what if there are missing

bits or some that look the same

whether they are back or front.


Normally there is a number of

component parts, but nobody

counts them before beginning.


So, there’s no point in ringing up

Hamleys later and complaining

that you are unable to find Rafah.

My name, is, Maw Che De Hulla

My brother is Dougain Abdullah

I live in Kanturk

Using pseudonym Burke

Because my father Is-Stan-Bul the Mullah.