I am one very lucky Son of a Gun,
one of the worlds privileged few,
For I happen to be an Irish Mammies son;
An absolute blessing it is true!
She treats me like I am the “Chosen One”,
my Da thinks the whole thing is a farce!
She is absolutely convinced that the sun
shines out of her darling sons ****!
She tells everyone I am her pride and joy,
about all the happiness I bring,
Tells me I will always be her baby boy;
She treats me just like a king

For in her eyes I can do no wrong,
It has been that way from the start,
I have no choice but to play along,
I would not like to break her heart!
She will not hear a bad word said about me,
She always leaps to my defence!
When she looks at me all she can see
Is a true picture of innocence!
Should I ever get into any difficulty
(Obviously through no fault of my own),
My Ma is quick to sort it out for me
taking my problems on as her own.

I never have to do one thing
because she does everything for me'
Cooking and laundry and ironing
Almost anything really!
Though sometimes she loses her patience
(It happens, but very rarely),
it’s never long ‘til she sees some sense;
gets it done after apologising to me.
She is always picking up after me,
(how does my stuff end up on the ground)
but she always does it so quietly,
never wakes me, I don’t hear a sound.

I would help if she would let me,
That would be really immense!
But she takes her role of mother so seriously,
I would not like to cause her any offence!
Now I am not one to put on a poor mouth,
but can’t always afford the latest gadgetry.
But my Ma really hates to see me go without
and always ends up buying it for me.
She is forever handing me money,
tells me to go out and have some craic.
Gets me to swear an oath of secrecy
and will hear no talk of me paying her back!

My breakfast ready each morning,
a packed lunch and everything!
My dinner on the table every evening;
she will not see me want for a single thing!
Every single day she makes my bed,
Leaves my room absolutely spotless!
“You need somewhere nice to lay your head”
she says, “I will not have you sleep in that mess”.
She always tells me to have the lads over,
she likes to see me have a good party
The following day should I have a hangover
she is always especially good to me!

She vets every one of my girlfriends
which I think is really quite nice,
Any of those whom she thinks offends
get dumped by me in a thrice!
She tells me I should not worry;
That I really am quite a catch!
Tells me I need not be in any hurry,
How important it is to find the right match!
No one so far has been good enough for me,
she has not approved of a single one yet!
She says any woman should be glad to have me
but those so far she says, seemed so desperate!

Now some accuse me of taking advantage;
I do not know what all the fuss is about!
As far as I know there is no definite age
when a son should have to move out!
It is getting to the point where I know I should,
but for my Ma it will be a terrible blow,
and honestly if you had it half as good;
Would you be in any hurry to go?
I know it cannot stay like this forever,
one day I will have to move out and marry!
But it’s impossible to see how I will ever...
find a woman half as good as my Mammy!

My Irish nation
Ought to change
The Wine
To water

Atop the emerald earth,
a bush of crimson ablaze.
Blush of sunrise.
Bruised rouge of sunset.

Kaleidescope colors of
complex designs complete.
Ahh..but for the lingering questions.
Questions that continue with the
fresh of each day...

Rita...We call to Rita!
Our ethereal selves.
She calls, We come
Into her night of dreams
Woven within her dreams of day.
We come in Our
Saintly stance.

Rita hears.
Knows Our hearts.
And so to her,
We present ourselves.

Rita feels
the plush nuance
of Our ancient wisdom.
A melding of truths

Rita knows
She is a conduit
through which the
breath of message
and knowledge exchange.

'Sine timore'
Without timidity or fear.
Imbued deep within
her Irish blood.
Gift passed from the elders.

Yet, this Lass of yore,
stands away from the podium.
Has chosen not to grandstand,
or grasp boldness too tightly.

Goodness of power is embraced
laced with enchantment.
Able to transcend The Veil,
She walks Her path.
Our winsome
Saint of Impossible Causes.

My caressing hands have stopped trying to tame the strings.
They move now more to harmony than to melodious things.
Brassy bands, drunk sailors and the sound of laughter.
The D string, the rough bar-stool clamp and clatter.
The sound of voices, raucous and hoarse with song.
The sound of voices, laughing as they all yell along.

It's a barstool anthem;
It's great and it's loud.
There're no classics here...
but Bach would be proud.

Nothing serves to fumble with your heartstrings
quite so well as a ceremony of the dead
(and nearly so)
where a tall man,
with black tie draped across broken heart,
wrestled with his voice;
in order not to display
what we are so practiced at hiding.

Police came with blue

Flashing lights

Trouble in the house on

The corner

She was walking into doors again

A regular habit so it seems

Maybe you could scold me
Tell me that you love me so
Dig my grave with your
Harsher words
But hey man I don't care

Sid and Nancy had it made
****** chic stupidity
In a hotel bed
Glazed eyes
And soft carpet touch
Like a thorn in the side of youthful folly

Keep it *****
Keep it fresh

Bleed on me

She adopted Irish words and lingo
As her moniker-  
Like the Meadbh of old, a queen
Of many talents
Her's was the gathering of languages
A menagerie of the tongues of the earth
Spoken as she lamented with crossed accents
So that her French sounded Italian
Her German sounded English
And her Irish like the incantations to old legends
In which she would have been worshipped-  
If not feared
For what is not to fear in her eyes
Which speak of a passion
Like the intensity of Picasso's eyes
That screamed his power
She is the same- A famous beauty
Like a song from childhood
Her power to transfix is in her eyes
Wells to get lost in-  
For she is the fairy queen of Hessen.

©Vincent S. Coster 27th October 2015

***** grey fingers in every village

Every town

Etched with simple names

Of the lost sons to the new madness

Of love of land

And unknown king

Breeding hate of fellow man

For whom they prey and ****

Knee deep in mud

And jingoistic tosh

Said alike by

Tommy, Frenchman, and Boche

What had you said, oh first made woman?

First born woman of my flesh?

What hallowed words had you uttered

When you seperated my heart from love?

Or from what I felt was really my due?


For I was naught but dust to you