Melted souls
The old one grows
The tic and tac beneath my toes
A last regret
These paths forget
That once I had a room to let

Back before
A ****** war
Lovers and poets dreamed for more
A better day
A bed to stay
A gun to keep The Lord away

Before I fought
I often thought
That hopes and dreams could all be sought
But now my goals
All filled with holes
O'Connell street like melting souls

Brother John,
unfurl your purple banner,
let the peace dove soar
above Grafton township
proclaiming victory
over endless oppression.
Ring the chapel bell,
light the candles
in the sanctuary,
shelter us with tea &
the word of God.

Brother John,
the forecast is gray.
I want to hear the truth.
I want to hear your voice
as the world grows dark.

Brother John,
will we ever forgive our transgressions?
Will we survive the winter intact
to bloom once more into the flower of art?
How do we find our pathway back
to our spirit?

Now is time to travel within.
Pray. Forgive.
Create peace. Walk with God.
Make magic.

Today I saw a sign in a
town called Cahirsiveen
County Kerry, advertising
what appeared to be, Sive.

I sieved my thoughts, and
what came through the fine
mesh of my mind were the
filings of amnesia.

Earlier, I had passed by Glencar
the foothills en route to Valencia
an island off Ireland, last stop
before New York harbour.

Hugh O' Flaherty, The Vatican
Pimpernel was looking at me
through James Joyce's glasses as
I passed Daniel O'Connell's church.

It was O'Connell country for sure,
****, a native of the island could
share the ball with O'Dwyer and
Paudie O'Se, the three coasters.

Balinskelligs, monks Islands,
isolation, invasion, inhospitable
weather, antarctic insurmountable's,
Inis, Inn's, Inch, Tom Crean, Fungie.

I sieved my sievings only to discover
that Sive was by John B Keane, but
guess what, the Queen of the Kingdom
should be Miriam O'Callaghan!


Ps.

This is a poem with a colloquial
flavour, one needs to be a native
to comprehend it.

I am scared!
Scared of this world

Robert Godwin Sr
Alyssa Elsman

How many more have to die?
By my kind,
By their kind,
Because they blame some other kind
What ever happened to just being
kind?

Daniel Parmertor, Russell King, Jr., Demetrius Hewlin

Where were you when the World Trade Center went down?
It’s something everyone alive then will always remember
Never Forget! was our brand motto for American Pride

Krystle Marie Campbell, Lü Lingzi, Martin William Richard, Sean A. Collier, Dennis Simmonds

And now, the death of another is so commonplace
That we forget what and where.
It’s no longer personal enough to register where in our lives that it struck us
Only note that another life has been struck down
Add another tally to the equation
And still it does not add up

Trayvon Martin
Tamir Rice
Samuel DuBose
Delrawn Small
Philando Castile
Terence Crutcher
Heather Heyer

We are completely desensitized
And decentralized
We keep ourselves disconnected
(because we just can’t absorb,
Take,
Process it all)
It’s not us
It’s not me
It’s somebody else
Somewhere else.
Until it is
Then we care
How much can we take, before we break

Cynthia Marie Graham Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lee Lance, Depayne Middleton Doctor, Clementa C. Pinckney, Tywanza Sanders, Daniel Simmons, Sharonda Coleman Singleton, Myra Thompson

The tragedy is the comedy
We laugh so we don’t cry
Sakia Gunn
Richie Phillips
Nireah Johnson, Brandie Coleman
Glenn Kopitske
Scotty Joe Weaver
Jason Gage
Michael Sandy
Sean William Kennedy
Duanna Johnson
Lawrence "Larry" King
Angie Zapata
Lateisha Green
****** August Provost, III
Mark Carson

I can’t say I’ve never thought of committing violence.
Hell, when my ex-wife cheated, it occurred to me
And I can’t say that I have never hit another
I’ve been a kid
My whole life is designed just to grow up
But, I’ve thought of killing myself far more often than the thought to harm anyone else have ever occurred to me
Because my problems are mine;
My fault,
And I am not seeking some scapegoat

Keenya Cook, Jerry Taylor, Million A. Woldemariam, Claudine Parker, Hong Im Ballenge, James Martin, James L. Buchanan, Premkumar Walekar, Sarah Ramos, Lori Ann Lewis-Rivera, Pascal Charlot, Dean Harold Meyers, Kenneth Bridges, Linda Franklin née Moore, Jeffrey Hopper, Conrad Johnson, 1 unnamed victim

I am not going to deny that being a white male hasn’t allowed me to sidestep a whole level of *******
One day, angry white males will be the minority
And we’ll have no one left to blame, but ourselves.
If we don’t **** everyone first
If we don’t **** ourselves first

Michael Arnold, Martin Bodrog, Arthur Daniels, Sylvia Frasier, Kathy Gaarde, John Roger Johnson, Mary Francis Knight, Frank Kohler, Vishnu Pandit, Kenneth Bernard Proctor, Gerald Read, Richard Michael Ridgell

Jonathan Blunk, Alexander J. Boik , Jesse Childress, Gordon Cowden,
Jessica Ghawi, John Larimer, Matt McQuinn, Micayla Medek, Veronica Moser Sullivan, Alex Sullivan, Alexander C. Teves, Rebecca Wingo

The earth has already decided that we are a plague upon it
Maybe climate change is the natural response to the abuse of our gifts

Nancy Lanza, Rachel D'Avino, Dawn Hochsprung, Anne Marie Murphy,
Lauren Rousseau, Mary Sherlach, Victoria Leigh Soto, Charlotte Bacon, Daniel Barden, Olivia Engel, Josephine Gay, Dylan Hockley, Madeleine Hsu, Catherine Hubbard, Chase Kowalski, Jesse Lewis, Ana Márquez Greene, James Mattioli, Grace McDonnell, Emilie Parker, Jack Pinto, Noah Pozner, Caroline Previdi, Jessica Rekos, Avielle Richman, Benjamin Wheeler, Allison Wyatt

What is this world going to teach my son?
That he’s better because of how he looks?
Or what I’ve taught him:
You make yourself better.

Jamie Bishop, Jocelyne Couture Nowak, Kevin Granata, Liviu Librescu,  P
G. V. Loganathan, Ross Alameddine, Brian Bluhm, Ryan Clark, Austin Cloyd, Daniel Perez Cueva, Matthew Gwaltney, Caitlin Hammaren, Jeremy Herbstritt, Rachael Hill, Emily Hilscher, Matthew La Porte, Jarrett Lane, Henry Lee, Partahi Lumbantoruan, Lauren McCain, Daniel O'Neil, Juan Ortiz, Minal Panchal, Erin Peterson, Michael Pohle Jr., Julia Pryde, Mary Karen Read, Reema Samaha, Waleed Shaalan, Leslie Sherman, Maxine Turner, Nicole White

I work as a data analyst
So, I ran the numbers
But, these are more than numbers
These are people: sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, friends, lovers.

Stanley Almodovar III, Amanda Alvear, Oscar A. Aracena Montero, Rodolfo Ayala Ayala, Alejandro Barrios Martinez, Martin Benitez Torres, Antonio D. Brown, Darryl R. Burt II, Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, Angel L. Candelario Padro, Simon A. Carrillo Fernandez, Juan Chevez Martinez, Luis D. Conde, Cory J. Connell, Tevin E. Crosby, Franky J. DeJesus Velazquez, Deonka D. Drayton, Mercedez M. Flores, Juan R. Guerrero, Peter O. Gonzalez Cruz, Paul T. Henry, Frank Hernandez, Miguel A. Honorato, Javier Jorge Reyes, Jason B. Josaphat, Eddie J. Justice, Anthony L. Laureano Disla, Christopher A. Leinonen, Brenda L. Marquez McCool, Jean C. Mendez Perez, Akyra Monet Murray, Kimberly Morris, Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, Luis O. Ocasio Capo, Geraldo A. Ortiz Jimenez, Eric I. Ortiz Rivera, Joel Rayon Paniagua, Enrique L. Rios Jr., Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, Christopher J. Sanfeliz, Xavier E. Serrano Rosado, Gilberto R. Silva Menendez, Edward Sotomayor Jr., Shane E. Tomlinson, Leroy Valentin Fernandez, Luis S. Vielma, Luis D. Wilson Leon, Jerald A. Wright

I did research to try to find all the victims since I became abruptly aware 16 years ago
There are too many
I could not discover a single database that contained a comprehensive record
No one can keep track of it anymore
I know I’ve missed people
I know there are 1000’s of people now missing people
Even 1 was too much

Hannah Ahlers, Heather Alvarado, Dorene Anderson, Carrie Barnette, Jack Beaton, Steve Berger, Candice Bowers, Denise Salmon Burditus, Sandra Casey, Andrea Castilla, Denise Cohen, Austin Davis, Virginia Day Jr, Christiana Duarte, Stacee Etcheber, Brian Fraser, Keri Galvan,  Dana Gardner, Angela Gomez, Rocio Guillen Rocha, Charleston Hartfield,  Chris Hazencomb, Jennifer Irvine, Nicol Kimura, Jessica Klymchuk, Carly Kreibaum, Rhonda LeRocque, Victor Link, Jordan McIldoon, Kelsey Meadows, Calla Medig, James ‘Sonny’ Melton, Pati Mestas, Austin Meyer, Adrian Murfitt, Rachael Parker, Jennifer Parks, Carrie Parsons, Lisa Patterson,  John Phippen, Melissa Ramirez, Jordyn Rivera, Quinton Robbins, Cameron Robinson, Lisa Romero Muniz, Christopher Roybal, Brett Schwanbeck, Bailey Schweitzer, Laura Shipp, Erick Silva, Susan Smith, Tara Roe Smith, Brennan Stewart, Derrick ‘Bo’ Taylor, Neysa Tonks, Michelle Vo, Kurt Von Tillow, Bill Wolfe Jr.

and NOW I’ve run out of lines and time to read off all 2,977 people who died in 9-11
Isn’t that a tragedy?

Intimate adventures: purple sunset;
Sabrina Elliott at her canvas;
My brother boarding some Utah-bound jet;
Easton Connell reciting tender lyrics,
Caught in a mad faith’s unwitting net:
“Daylight licked me into shape”; then night fell;
The city struggling with unheeded debt;
Lieberman and Sathyadev dying young;
Their mothers, a heart-wrenched duet.
James Howard humming, his guitar unstrung,
Paganini in that delicate hand:
The failed romantics; a thing to be forgotten again.

It’s 18 years later and I’m strolling down O’ Connell Street.
I notice a rough-sleeper in a shop doorway. There is a queue
for the bank machine contouring around his limbs
as he lies face down on the hard ground talking loudly to himself.

I remember how the investigators worked flat out in Kosovo,
almost captive to the corners of fields and the cruelty
of the events they sought to prove, the soil they touched
became a membrane surrounding remote scars.

They lay face down at times in abandoned crops,
measuring tracks, listening for crowded spaces,
recording the gossip of trees.
They reminded me of Indian scouts from the movies,
feeling for the signature of passing armies
in the broken grass beneath their fingers.
They were asking the dead for directions, the way somebody
might search a cemetery, calling on long deceased
relatives to whisper if they are close or not.

Soon the world will discover another war crime and the skeletons
of civilisation will once more bear witness to its own ******.
As the Earth opens recent wounds I imagine the rough-sleepers
as skeletons of society communicating with scouts,
investigators leaning over precipices,
contemplating what goes into the filling of a trench.

Michael J. Whelan

And she's no more
A ****** than that
Magdalene who

Dried the feet
Of Christ with
Her hair, said

O'Brien, giving
You the wink and
Nodding towards

The girl at the bar
With the skirt way
Above the knees,

Carrying a tin for
Some charity, laughing
With O'Connell, giving

You the eye and O'Brien
The pip and shaking
The tin around the bar,

Like some ***** in
Biblical times ringing
Their bell and old Mrs

Murphy smiled a smile
Broader than her hips,
And you shaking your

Young head, looked back
At the girl and her tin
And the way she walked

To the door with the
Backside sweet enough
To fill a thousand dreams.

Didn’t we stand there then,
black tuxedo, white dress.
when the world seemed so small?
And oh, the innocence of ours.
The blue, soothing sky love in our eyes
and in our hearts.

And weren’t we tender,
and awed and scared;
knowing we were stepping from the room of desire
into a lifetime of love?

And wasn’t it holy, the sweetness of our way?
And were we not simply lovely then?
Were we not as lovely as the white gardenias,
as the moonlit night, as damp grass on our bare feet?

I think so.

Copyright © 2014 Linda R. O’Connell

On a night three years ago this week
Forty-nine people died
In a mass shooting that once again
Left the country horrified.

The Pulse nightclub, Orlando, Florida,
A place of nighttime revelry,
Became the target where a hater
Carried out his shooting spree.

Maybe among the victims' names
Are none that you can now recall.
Nevertheless, the incident
Is one that affects us all.

It's sad when conditions are such
That mass shootings become the norm.
It's equally sad when lawmakers
Shy away from gun-law reform.

And sad, too, it is when hate-filled
Bigots boldly advocate
That the deaths of forty-nine clubbers
Should be a cause to celebrate!

Shame on them who take religion
And shape it into deadly words
That they sling at innocent victims
While stirring up hatred among their herds.

The path to truth is a winding path;
It's easy to stumble, easy to stray.
Some start out with good intentions
But then get lost along the way.

So many anniversaries
Of mass shootings to recognize!
Will the light break through the clouds
Of ignorance? We can only surmise.

-by Bob B (6-14-19)

Remembering the victims of the Pulse nightclub shooting:

Stanley Almodovar III, 23
Amanda Alvear, 25
Oscar A. Aracena-Montero, 26
Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33
Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21
Martin Benitez Torres, 33
Antonio D. Brown, 30
Darryl R. Burt II, 29
Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, 24
Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28
Simon A. Carrillo Fernandez, 31
Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25
Luis D. Conde, 39
Cory J. Connell, 21
Tevin E. Crosby, 25
Franky J. Dejesus Velazquez, 50
Deonka D. Drayton, 32
Mercedez M. Flores, 26
Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22
Juan R. Guerrero, 22
Paul T. Henry, 41
Frank Hernandez, 27
Miguel A. Honorato, 30
Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40
Jason B. Josaphat, 19
Eddie J. Justice, 30
Anthony L. Laureano Disla, 25
Christopher A. Leinonen, 32
Brenda L. Marquez McCool, 49
Jean C. Mendez Perez, 35
Akyra Monet Murray, 18
Kimberly Morris, 37
Jean C. Nieves Rodriguez, 27
Luis O. Ocasio-Capo, 20
Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25
Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36
Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32
Enrique L. Rios Jr., 25
Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37
Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24
Christopher J. Sanfeliz, 24
Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35
Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25
Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34
Shane E. Tomlinson, 33
Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25
Luis S. Vielma, 22
Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37
Jerald A. Wright, 31

SUCH A SUNNY DAY

the objects
in his pocket

have lost
their identity

their significance
to anyone but him

a hairy comb
photo of an unknown

woman
who can she be

a torn-in-two
train ticket

chewing gum
much masticated

yet put back
in his blazer's breast pocket

small change
a penny and a sixpence and

a button
from the cuff

no clue as to who
he had been

before the water claimed him
as its own

the disgust and fascination
of those

passersby who continue
to pass by

it such
a sunny day

for death to
intrude this way

the miscellany of objects
ownerless now

the waters of the Liffey
calm and unmoved

*

I was just coming up to O'Connell Bridge and the bus got snarled in traffic. It was a beautiful beautiful sunny day and as I gazed idly out of the window a body, sodden and shapeless but still all too human was being winched out of the river. So we were forced to witness this before the bus finally made it to the bridge. It was startling and cut like an emotional knife through the fabric of the perfect day.

My girlfriend at the time told of a friend of hers who had sometime last year thrown herself into the Liffey so that added an extra dimension to the horror. Everyone who had met her on that last day said she seemed so happy and were amazed that she had done so because "...it was such a sunny day." She only had a comb and a button and small change in her pocket...all she owned. A human life shrunk to so little.

Finn was standing well back
from the river blackwater,

which, according to local
folklore, flooded.

Untreated sewage was
another reason.

Down by the edge on a
stony strand,

an elderly man, Willie Eaton
was frying a salmon

in a copper shield of the
O’Connell clan

washed down with some
Kerry sheep in the last flood.

Willie was from Cork city,
c’mere boy he said, to Finn.

Dubiously, Finn approached.

Would you like to taste a bit
of fresh salmon boy?

Finn responded in Irish.
Greamaigh an bradán suas do pholl.

A year ago I stepped into the green coffin.  
The Grand Canal was so sweet beside my feet,
by the one-winged bridge. Then the ocean
receded, a long sand-salt, beckoning.

Now, I am in the long black river city.
The leaves fall to their little deaths
on the illuminated sidewalk after five.
The twilight bull charges in on deadened fog.

The Wharf's anesthesia blanks out
while new yuppies roast smores in fake fire.
A blue tree shines from the reflection.
Cars park in yellow spots, music dies away.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day
that I flew to the emerald. Now I just air fry
sweet potatoes, listening to old Bowie,
shedding blood into the dead rug.

I miss my green coffin. I laid there so still,
so quiet. I heard the birds and the drunks
in the early morning, crying out; I miss them.
I took the train back from Phoenix Park,

where the cross recited a towering prayer above me.
I walked among the O'Connell shoppers,
the Georgian families, the sweet swans...
I have become nothing at all. Nothing, at all.

The stress is too great for me
as Doc O'Connell says
to take on the leadership of my ward.
I've got a lot of retirement years
to enjoy, he said
so don't come unglued, at back
let the ward run itself
and just enjoy, enjoy.

She had a gypsy soul,
tattered and torn.
Only because she chose life's,
long hard road.
Just when she started to believe,
she was sadly deceived.
Only to be freed by the sea,
her eyes were blue filled with envy.
Her heart once whole,
but her dreams they all stole.
They kept bringing her down,
and the she began to drown.
No breath to breathe,
sinking in once what she believed.
That she could actually be somebody.
Her gypsy soul still can't be found,
maybe if you look down.
At the bottom she reached,
you can still find the hope she still keeps.
Drifting down deep,
I hope you can feel the love she still keeps.
At least then maybe some still,
believes in the gypsy soul
you all stole.

Jessica Marie O'Connell

Hidden behind the clouds
someone is watching us
through binoculars as we
begin our new year with
a visible catch.

Let the wishes begin.

The French are looking for
free hand outs from the EEC,
no work, pension age brought
back to 16, which would coincide
with official school leaving age.

The British don't want to loose
their mile, pound or Sovereign,
thus decided to leave the school
yard because the Germans have
got possession of the ball.

Kim Jong Un has decided, that
the Irish of Asia are not going to
be pushed around by W.A.S.P.s
from Washington D.C.

Jacinda Ardern has declared
Christchurch the fake ******
capital of New Zealand.

Australia have lifted the smoking
ban in  bars, restaurants and on Internal
QANTAS flights under 26,000 feet altitude.

The Republic of Ireland's
Metaphorical Millenium Needle
on O'Connell Street has been
successful in deflating the
corresponding Dome at UK
Docklands.

            Druid Chef's.

Where West, each wind is born
Mischievous Gaels, with pots
of vapoured broth,
Disperse its brew, and laced
with ancient potions,
Concoct a drape to cloak
The Saxon Horde.

                  <>

Let their BREXIT begin.

" A Silent Fury comes
   to haunt, a deserving
offspring of another age ".


Ps.

Trudeau is about to change
the countries name due to a
symbiosis of the Maple Leaf's
image and that of Cannabis.

Taking a child from everything they've ever known,
ripping them out and taking them away.
Now left to face this new place all alone,
but did you ever even understand the true foul play?

Abuse, neglect, and nowhere to run,
I thought there was freedom in sight.
But little did I know, there was none,
So in this dark cruel world I will take that chance and make my flight.

From one home to the next,
never having stability or a steady home.
Do you understand the long term effects?,
for the rest of my life I will wander and roam.

As to what I did that was so wrong,
to make my parents not love me or not want to fight.
Not knowing where I come from or where I belong,
not knowing that I will relive this when I close my eyes every night.

Each new home smells like strangers,
when we walk in they are cooking something on the stove.
To cover the smell of the dangers,
but I was left to stay and off she drove.

She would visit once a month and ask how is it here?,
I would try to tell of what I was going through.
And each time I would say it with a tear,
but each time there was nothing you would do.

As a child we have no voice,
no rights to speak or have a say.
And we have no choice,
as to where we stay.

I hate the system and what it has done to me,
I hate my past and what I come from.
But it makes me want to live each and every day for them to see,
of what all I can and have overcome.

- Jessica Marie O'Connell

LÁ FHÉILE BRIDE - SAINT BRIGID'S DAY

( for Noreen )

even Brigid's statue
protects the little birds
nestling behind her

and as a little garsún
wasn't it to the birds
I would pray

believing that Brigid
was releasing them
to Spring skies

*

St. Brigid's Garrison Church in the Curragh Camp where I was born...this statue was woven into the fabric of my childhood. Birds used to nest behind her wooden cloak. Her cross is the only cross I can bear and was a staple of every Irish home when my childhood was in full bloom. Great story of her going to ask the King for a bit of land to build a convent on and he laughed and said you can have as much as your cloak can cover. So being the good saint she was....she spread her cloak and it covered miles and miles. Never mess with a saint!

Of course it is also the beginning of Imbolc (pronounced 'im'olk')that good old Pagan festival if you are that way inclined.

An Irish word that was originally thought to mean 'in the belly' although many people translate it as 'ewe's milk' (oi-melc)all associated with the pregnancy of ewe and the giving of milk. The Curragh Plains are of course festooned with many many sheep so that made it all the more real for us.

It is a festival based on seasonal changes associated with the onset of lambing and the blooming of the Blackthorn.

She is the Goddess of among other things....those curious creatures we call....poets.

Indeed wasn't auld Jemmy de Joist born the very next day in the wake of her feast day and the days beginning to lengthend.

An old proverb from Scotland tells us....
Thig an nathair as an toll
Là donn Brìde,
Ged robh trì troighean dhen t-sneachd
Air leac an làir.

The serpent will come from the hole
On the brown Day of Bríde,
Though there should be three feet of snow
On the flat surface of the ground.

Spring has indeed been sprung from the depths of winter.

The Statue of St. Brigid & Children can be seen over the main entrance. The statue is eight feet in height and was carved in teak by the late Oisin Kelly who is best known for his The Children of Lir (1964) in the Garden of Remembrance,, Jim Larkin (1977) O'Connell Street and his Chariot of Life (1982) at the Irish Life Center.

And didn't auld Seamus give him a mention in his second "Glanmore Sonnet."

"'These things are not secrets but mysteries',
Oisin Kelly told me years ago
In Belfast, hankering after stone
That connived with the chisel, as if the grain
Remembered what the mallet tapped to know."

So from the wee buachaill I once was I could join the dots from statue to statue and all the way into a Heaney sonnet Brigid lore of yore.

SUCH A SUNNY DAY

the objects
in his pocket

have lost
their identity

their significance
to anyone but him

a hairy comb
photo of an unknown

woman
who can she be

a torn-in-two
train ticket

chewing gum
much masticated

yet put back
in his blazer's breast pocket

small change
a penny and a sixpence and

a button
from the cuff

no clue as to who
he had been

before the water claimed him
as its own

the disgust and fascination
of those

passersby who continue
to pass by

it such
a sunny day

for death to
intrude this way

the miscellany of objects
ownerless now

the waters of the Liffey
calm and unmoved

*

I was just coming up to O'Connell Bridge and the bus got snarled in traffic. It was a beautiful beautiful sunny day and as I gazed idly out of the window a body, sodden and shapeless but still all too human was being winched out of the river. So we were forced to witness this before the bus finally made it to the bridge. It was startling and cut like an emotional knife through the fabric of the perfect day.

My girlfriend at the time told of a friend of hers who had sometime last year thrown herself into the Liffey so that added an extra dimension to the horror. Everyone who had met her on that last day said she seemed so happy and were amazed that she had done so because "...it was such a sunny day." She only had a comb and a button and small change in her pocket...all she owned. A human life shrunk to so little.

Before I begin permit me to inform you that
Mare Nostrum is not a sea horse filly and
the old sea dog was sheep worrier down by
Ahakista in in west Cork where Sue Nami
said sea saw Ebb & Flo had purchased a
waterfront house called Tear na Nogue.

It’s just outside Dunes by the stretched sand,
or strand as it is known locally by the beach
combers wood drifters mudlarks & sea urchins
who are always there unshaven and unkempt.

I can’t talk, I’m a sort of a ne’er do well myself
I'm living down here in a camper van with a
fine  biteen of grey stubble too may i add.

Gew know what I noticed, when the sea wakes
it waves and down here we are very close to the
the sun sinks  and because the horizon touches
the sky it has to squeeze through and here’s
another ting I spotted. All  the winds blow from
west to east where it rises and that  is for the
same reason that  radiators are in the front of
cars so the avail of the head winds to keep them
cool it is the same reason the sun is like Wrong
Way Corrigan. Since I have been down here
I haven’t noticed once rising in the south and
sinking in the north but a local Vincent Ellis
told me that it is always like  that but the
Healy Rays tried their utmost to get it shifted
a bit more towards Iskaroon down by Cahir
Daniel where O’Connell was born but dim
hures would put a thwisth in a straight road
and sell eggs  from an up turned currach if
they thought there was muney in it.

The tallest L in any    ∆
capital city is in  Dub||in,
                                     ||
O'Connell Street is host
to a stainless steel statue,
                                     ||
On the foundation of||
Admiral Nelson's pillar,
                                     ||
Which was blown up by
The Irish Republican Army,
                                     ||
One L of an achievement.                                  
                  ­                   ||
                                     ||
                                 [         ]

Queen Victoria ended
Up dumped in an Irish
Bog later sent to Sydney.

Admiral Nelson was air
Lifted out of O’Connell
Street Dublin by the IRA.

All round the world there
Has been an awareness,
Evil symbolisms tumbled.

Trumps ICC sanctioning
Declaration has just made
Liberty eligible for removal.