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Donall Dempsey Aug 2017
DONALL DEMPSEY HAS LEFT THE POEM!

This...this Blue Plaque

business is

distressing to say the least

and rather intrusive

don't you

think?

I mean when

did it all start?

DONALL DEMPSEY

...THIS!

DONALL DEMPSEY

...THAT!

I mean...who cares?

HERE IS THIS HOUSE

DONALL DEMPSEY WROTE...

DONALL DEMPSEY

LIVED HERE WHILST WRITING...

Maybe it's a Government

tracking device.

Donall Dempsey...

PAUSED HERE FOR THOUGHT!

( No! I ****** didn't!)

Whatever I do it seems

a blue plaque is more

than willing

to tell you.

Time was when

they waited until one

was sufficiently

dead and famous

to commemorate

one's efforts

at living

and Life.

But, now:

holy cow!

When I got back home

I found "home"

had just been turned into

( yes you've guessed it)

THE DONALL DEMPSEY

MUSEUM.

I even had to pay

to get in.

"If your'e Donall Dempsey

( 'the' Donall Dempsey )

then I'm Schrödinger's ****** cat !"

The crowd all laughed at that.

But I did get a concession

for being old and decrepit.

There was a sign

telling me not to

sit in

my favourite chair.

And they had gotten

facts wrong.

I had written this...before...that.

I looked at the manuscript

of this poem

the usual scribble scrawl

made more precious

by being

preserved under glass.

It was like being an episode

in THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

I glanced up

at the Blue Plaque

positioned just

as it happens

above my curly

confused head.

HERE DONAL DEMPSEY

...refused any more to be

part of

all this and

left

the poem.

Yes folks...

DONALL DEMPSEY HAS LEFT

THE POEM.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2015
This...this Blue Plaque
business is

distressing to say the least
and rather intrusive

don't you
think?

I mean when
did it all start?

DONALL DEMPSEY
...THIS!
DONALL DEMPSEY
...THAT!

I mean...who cares?

HERE IS THIS HOUSE
DONALL DEMPSEY WROTE...

DONALL DEMPSEY
LIVED HERE WHILST WRITING...

Maybe it's a Government
tracking device.

Donall Dempsey...
PAUSED HERE FOR THOUGHT!

( No! I ****** didn't!)

Whatever I do it seems
a blue plaque is more

than willing
to tell you.

Time was when
they waited until one

was sufficiently
dead and famous

to commemorate
one's efforts

at living
and Life.

But, now:
holy cow!

When I got back home
I found "home"

had just been turned into
( yes you've guessed it)

THE DONALL DEMPSEY
MUSEUM.

I even had to pay
to get in.

"If your'e Donall Dempsey
( 'the' Donall Dempsey )
then I'm Schrödinger's ****** cat !"

The crowd all laughed at that.

But I did get a concession
for being old and decrepit.

There was a sign
telling me not to

sit in
my favourite chair.

And they had gotten
facts wrong.

I had written this...before...that.

I looked at the manuscript
of this poem

the usual scribble scrawl
made more precious

by being
preserved under glass.

It was like being an episode
in THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

I glanced up
at the Blue Plaque

positioned just
as it happens

above my curly
confused head.

HERE DONAL DEMPSEY
...refused any more to be

part of
all this and

left
the poem.

Yes folks...

DONALL DEMPSEY HAS LEFT
THE POEM.
DONALL DEMPSEY HAS LEFT THE POEM!

this...this Blue Plaque
business is
distressing to say the least

and rather intrusive
don't you
think?

I mean
when
did it all start?

DONALL DEMPSEY...THIS!
DONALL DEMPSEY...THAT!
I mean...who cares?

HERE IS THIS HOUSE
DONALL DEMPSEY
WROTE...

DONALL DEMPSEY
LIVED HERE
WHILST WRITING...

maybe it's a Government
tracking
device

DONALL DEMPSEY
PAUSED HERE FOR THOUGHT!
(no! I ****** didn't!)

whatever I do it seems
a blue plaque is more
than willing to tell you

time was when
they waited until one
was sufficiently

dead and famous
to commemorate
one's efforts

at living
and Life
but now: holy cow!

when I got back home
I found "home"
had just been turned into

( yes you've guessed it)
THE DONALL DEMPSEY
MUSEUM

I even had to
pay( God help me)
to get in

"If your'e Donall Dempsey
( 'the' Donall Dempsey )
then I'm Schrödinger's ****** cat !"

the crowd all laughed at that
but I did get a concession
for being old and decrepit

there was a sign
telling me not to
sit in my favourite chair

and they had gotten
their...I mean my
facts wrong

I had written this...before...that
I looked at the manuscript
of this poem

the usual scribble scrawl
made more precious
by being preserved under glass

it was like being in an episode
of  THE TWILIGHT ZONE.
I glanced up at the Blue Plaque

positioned just
as it happens
above my curly confused head

HERE DONAL DEMPSEY
...refused any more to be
part of all this and

left
the poem
yes folks...

DONALL DEMPSEY
HAS LEFT
THE POEM

DONALL DEMPSEY
HAS LEFT
THE POEM
Donall Dempsey May 2021
"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

The frog slid slowly down
my throat.

It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.

The world was running away
into the final darkness.

My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.

The day being stolen
from me.

"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.

The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me

sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.

Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick

or I silently yelled
and expelled

friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing

hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.

Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet

is told still to its descendants
far removed from that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver

making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation

"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"

*

I was having a bad day....nothing going my way....but still Kim Moore  managed to wring this out of me in her wonderful writing workshop. She applied a Chinese burn to my mind and out popped this in a seven and a half minute sprint of the mind. I was halfways through reliving the trauma of a frog being shoved down my throat to gales of laughter when I suddenly thought "What about the poor frog? How did he cope?"

What did he tell the other frogs and how in the world of frogs it became the tallest of tall tales and my name entered the lexicon of frog horror stories that have been passed down through generations of frog families despite being the innocent victim! All the frog heard in its terrification was my name
chanted over and over again in great grievous glee "Ha ha ha...Donall Dempsey!"  Me and friend frog were in this tormenting together. But despite all this my name has gone down in frog history as if I were a Grendel or a Grendel's mother or a Jabberwocky. Just say Donall Dempsey and see what the reaction is...faster than a Basho plop and splash
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
"DONALL DEMPSEY INDEED!"

'LLANOD YESPMED?"
he squinted at my driver's licence.

"It's pronounced CLANOD!"
I said with extreme exasperation.

"Y'are not from these here parts
. . .are ya fella?"
he drawled dryly

squinting closer firstly at me then
back again to my !D.

"I'm of Welsh/Turkish extraction
but I was born on Venus!"

I explained as if to
a little kid.

"Ha ha...haha!" he snorted
a tiny trickle of snot

yo-yoing up and down
his hairy left nostril.

"Ha ha...if you were to
spell yer name backwards
it would spell:

Donall Dempsey!"

I was not amused.

"Ya know...that crazy hairy
Irish earthling poet dude!"

"I'm not him!"
I fumed.

"Alright...alright...keep yer
antenas on...geeeez!"

He handed me back
my Id ID.

Tipped his hat.
Wiped his nose across his sleeve.

"Welcome to Mars.
You drive carefully now!"

I stepped on the rocket boosters.

Left him eating my stardust.

"****** customs!"
I yelled to myself.

"Huh...Donall Dempsey
...indeed!"
Without any intro I would tell a class to take a blank piece of paper and exactly and neatly write their name in the very middle of the page. Then I would go around to look at them and go "No...no...no!" They would look at me in great surmise. "I meant...backwards!" So painfully as if it were a hard maths question they would backward themselves and ask me how to pronounce themselves. And then with their new "selves" I would get them to invent who they "now" were. They went at this with great gusto and characters born purely form pure sound would be created right in front of me> They're "I" had changed into a hee hee hee "HE" and suddenly there were all these different people running around in their minds. They even drew these new "thems" and the playground resounded to the new sounding Nairbs and Yrams who had sloughed off their usual monikers to be born anew as an inventive character.

I would never not do what I would tell the kids to do...so I became this LLANOD YESPMED who had problems with a border guard somewhere in the 25th century.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2017
'**** THAT JANICE WINDLE & DONALL DEMPSEY
. . .**** 'EM!"

January & June
were having fun

hanging out together
not just for

sweet alliteration's sake
but because

- they could.

And they had always
secretly fancied each other.

Time had taken
a holiday.

Not an every day
occurence.

So they took
advantage of

this once
in a blue moon

- happening.

Monday & Sunday
were in bed together

( don't ask me what
they were doing ).

A century & a second
were gazing into

each other's eyes
amazed to see themselves

reflected there.

The hands of the clock
were spooning.

An hour was courting
( such an old fashioned word )

a beautiful young ahhhhh
moment.

Time itself
was sulking

because the lovers
weren't paying him

any mind
what so

ever.

They seemed to live
in the "...now, now, very now"

( as Mr. Shakespeare puts it )

scattering their smiles
here and everywhere

see them blossoming
into squeals and laughter.

A new millennium
had just turned up &

was at once
( "Wot de...!")

press ganged
into one of their forever

kisses.

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

Time throwing a hissy fit!

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

"**** 'em!"
"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

the frog slid
slowly down
my throat

its legs sticking out of
my mouth...
still kicking

the world
was running away
into the final darkness

my eyes were robbed
of trees and sun
the day being stolen from me

"Death by frog!"
how unlikely
a dying

the bullies all
short-trousered
lads like me

the moment sculpted
from the sunlight
of 1963

then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick
or I silently yelled

and expelled
friend frog who
having escaped death

by swallowing
hopped it
lost itself in the long grass

perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet
is told still

to its descendants
far removed from
that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver
making her little tiddlers tremble

with trepidation
"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"

*

I was having a bad day....nothing going my way....but still Kim Moore  managed to wring this out of me in her wonderful writing workshop. She applied a Chinese burn to my mind and out popped this in a seven and a half minute sprint of the mind. I was halfway through reliving the trauma of a frog being shoved down my throat to gales of laughter when I suddenly thought "What about the poor frog? How did he cope?"

What did he tell the other frogs and how in the world of frogs it became the tallest of tall tales and my name entered the lexicon of frog horror stories that have been passed down through generations of frog families despite being the innocent victim! All the frog heard in its terrification was my name chanted over and over again in great grievous glee "Ha ha ha...Donall Dempsey!"

Me and friend frog were in this tormenting together. But despite all this my name has gone down in frog history as if I were a Grendel or a Grendel's mother or a Jabberwocky. Just say Donall Dempsey and see what the reaction is...faster than a Basho plop and splash.

Still have nightmares about it! Another time they took off my pants and I had to run all the way home bottomless. In memory no one can hear you scream.

But no one thought of the poor frog...except me. I hope he didn't think bad of me...it wasn't my fault.

Frog saved both our lives by kicking free....his own and mine as I was being held down and could struggle. He saved me from choking on him and I probably gave one last choking cough to expel him from inside of me.

When in France I couldn't even look at a frog's leg without choking.

Ahhh but a bullied frog in the throat is worth a poem in the mind. Both friend frog and myself surviving to tell the tale.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2015
January & June
were having fun

hanging out together
not just for

sweet alliteration's sake
but because

- they could.

And they had always
secretly fancied each other.

Time had taken
a holiday.

Not an every day
occurence.

So they took
advantage of

this once
in a blue moon

- happening.

Monday & Sunday
were in bed together

( don't ask me what
they were doing ).

A century & a second
were gazing into

each other's eyes
amazed to see themselves

reflected there.

The hands of the clock
were spooning.

An hour was courting
( such an old fashioned word )

a beautiful young ahhhhh
moment.

Time itself
was sulking

because the lovers
weren't paying him

any mind
what so

ever.

They seemed to live
in the "...now, now, very now"

( as Mr. Shakespeare puts it )

scattering their smiles
here and everywhere

see them blossoming
into squeals and laughter.

A new millennium
had just turned up &

was at once
( "Wot de...!")

press ganged
into one of their forever

kisses.

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

Time throwing a hissy fit!

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

"**** 'em!"
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
THE PICTURE OF DONALL GREY

My face distorted
in a tea spoon

( much more the real one
that I feel )

than the me
I am.

I hide this real me
under my palm.

I can feel it

biting into my flesh
refusing to be

hidden.

Reality takes a step
...back.

I pour a cup of tea.
Earl Grey in a China blue cup.

No sugar.
Slice of lemon.

And taking the spoon
from under my palm

drown the real me
in the lemon'd tea.

I smile falsely & hope
no one else noticed.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
Two fictional characters
walk into a bar

in Malta
( * Marsaxlokk - to be precise ).

"To...be....tooo beee. . ."
stammers Hamlet.

"Oh fer Gawd's sake...two beers!"
J. Alfred Prufrock snaps.

"You really milk that
"To be or not..." thingy."
J.A.P. scolds Hamlet.

"Tsk...tsk!" Hamlet tsk tsks.
( sticking his tongue out ).

Two Cisks are plonked
down before them.

"No...I am not Prince Hamlet or
was meant to be..!"
J.A.P. quotes him self.

"Awww fer Jaysus sake...loooook
just for the fun of it...the gas of it

we swop
texts!"

Hamlet interrupts Prufrock's
protestations.

"Ohhhh....o.....K?"
Prufrock ponders somewhat doubtfully.

And, so:
Hamlet the Dane

( for yea it is indeed he)
dares

(1) to eat a peach (2) wear the bottoms of his white
flannel trousers rolled (3) parts his hair behind even

(4) dares
to aks

the overwhelming question

"( Oh, do not ask, what is it! )"

Oh & (5) gets to hear
( ** ** ** )

"...the mermaids singing...."

Prufrock "Hum...."
kills the king.

Becomes the king.

Beds.
Weds
Ophelia.

" Buzz buzz...come come..go...go!"

"It's a very
foreshortened
Hamlet...I know

but - what the heck!

"See..? slurps Hammy
". . . now, that wasn't so bad...was it?"

"Another Cisk?"
"Naw...I'll have a Becks!"

"Jaysus Prufrock now
...what's up?"

"Don't know..."mutters J.A.P.
wearing a frothy beer moustache.

"HURRY UP PLEASE...IT'S TIME!"
roars the barman in Maltese.

"I can connect nothing
with...nothing!"
Prufrock almost sobs.

"Like that time
on Margate sands..."

Hamlet cuts him curtly off.

"Don't even go...there!"

"But I still get that squirmy
...you know...feeling

we are just
fragments of

the imagination of
some *
long haired Irish poet

sunning himself by
the waters of

the shimmering waters of
a Sliema hotel pool

...up up in the clouds!

Hamlet sighs.

"Yeah, me too
spooky...innit?"

Hamlet looks behind him
checking for what isn't

there. . .

"Ahhhh well, never mind eh?"

Prufrock attempts an attempt
at being cheerful.

Fails miserably.

"Let us go, then
you and I...

when the evening is spread out
against the sky..."

Like a patient etherised upon a table!
they both sing outta time and outta tune

stumbling one
into the other.

A long hair Irish poet
smiles as he watches them

go.

"Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!"
the barman roars.

NOTES

Pronounced MAR SA SCHLOCK. Those Maltese Xs being really SHs in disguise.

* Pronounced CHISK but the new barman is obviously new to the language and pronounces it TSK which makes him think that is what our two fictional characters are ordering.

Not to be confused with mobile texting but rather the literary texts of which both of them owe their existence.

*
The play bounded in a nutshell as it were.

One Donall Gearld Oliver Denis Dempsey is a good example of this sort.

* The No. 1 song all over Heaven...beating Sparks THE NO. 1 SONG ALL OVER HEAVEN  to the top spot.

** "Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!" Once again the new Irish barman hasn't got his tonsils around the Maltese lingo and comes out with this terrible mish mash of the typical barman's cry.
Donall Dempsey May 2019
"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

The frog slid slowly down
my throat.

It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.

The world was running away
into the final darkness.

My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.

The day being stolen
from me.

"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.

The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me

sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.

Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick

or I silently yelled
and expelled

friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing

hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.

Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet

is told still to its descendents
far removed from that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver

making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation

"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"
"DONALL DEMPSEY INDEED!"

'LLANOD YESPMED?"
he squinted at my driver's licence.

"It's pronounced CLANOD!"
I said with extreme exasperation.

"Y'are not from these here parts
. . .are ya fella?"
he drawled dryly

squinting closer firstly at me then
back again to my !D.

"I'm of Welsh/Turkish extraction
but I was born on Venus!"

I explained as if to
a little kid.

"Ha ha...haha!" he snorted
a tiny trickle of snot

yo-yoing up and down
his hairy left nostril.

"Ha ha...if you were to
spell yer name backwards
it would spell:

Donall Dempsey!"

I was not amused.

"Ya know...that crazy hairy
Irish earthling poet dude!"

"I'm not him!"
I fumed.

"Alright...alright...keep yer
antenas on...geeeez!"

He handed me back
my Id ID.

Tipped his hat.
Wiped his nose across his sleeve.

"Welcome to Mars.
You drive carefully now!"

I stepped on the rocket boosters.

Left him eating my stardust.

"****** customs!"
I yelled to myself.

"Huh...Donall Dempsey
...indeed!"

*

Without any intro I would tell a class to take a blank piece of paper and exactly and neatly write their name in the very middle of the page. Then I would go around to look at them and go "No...no...no!" They would look at me in great surmise. "I meant...backwards!" So painfully as if it were a hard maths question they would backward themselves and ask me how to pronounce themselves. And then with their new "selves" I would get them to invent who they "now" were. They went at this with great gusto and characters born purely form pure sound would be created right in front of me> They're "I" had changed into a hee hee hee "HE" and suddenly there were all these different people running around in their minds. They even drew these new "thems" and the playground resounded to the new sounding Nairbs and Yrams who had sloughed off their usual monikers to be born anew as an inventive character.

I would never not do what I would tell the kids to do...so I became this LLANOD YESPMED who had problems with a border guard somewhere in the 25th century.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018
THE STATUE

'Dying is fun! ' you say
'...once you get the hang of it...'

'...& as long as
the pain stays away! '

Your face says ouch
without saying 'Ouch! '

'It adds an extra spice to life
knowing how many minutes there are left! '

'I calculated it  with my solar power
pocket calculator! '

'It seems like you live it twice
as fast...twice as intense

seeing everything
so precise

seeing even
what's.. not...there! '

The pain laughs at your puny efforts
to control it.

'Doc...says a year(at the most)  
maybe a matter of months...weeks! '

'It depends on what the cancer thinks! '
you laugh.

'And to think I'm a Cancerian! '
The pain has not got your sense of humour.

Already I can see it is bored by you
tries to wipe that grin off your face.

It almost...succeeds.

'Seems like I'm nothing now
but this cancer! '

'It's all that anybody can see! '

'Like it's been rubber stamped
on my forehead or something! '

'Well, Mrs. Cancer...'
I swore I heard the doctor say.

'And, all that my friends can see is...my death! '
'They annoy me with their crying! '

'Hello...hell.. o! I'm not dead yet! '
'This ****** cancer has taken on a life

of it's own

tells me what I can or can't do! '
'It's the boss! '

'Now...that there's a limit to it
Time...is precious
can't bear...to waste a minute.. of it! '

'It feels as if the cancer
is a famous sculptor

& labours to create
the shape of my death

bit
by
bit! '

'Seems like it's one of those
ugly modern abstract statues

you know

meaning nothing
with a hole in the middle! '

'And everyday the cancer
chiseling away at it

striving for perfection! '

'I tell the cancer
Oh...get on with it! '

'Get it over with! '

'See...I'm becoming quite the philosopher! '

'Now...get out of here! '

'Stop talking to a dying woman
get out in the sun don't waste
a min-
-ute
of
it! '

I laugh.

You're still so.. you!

You ask me for a favour
before I go.

I scratch your ***
(you can't reach it no more) .

You tell me
'That's the best scratch in all the world! '

I smile tell you
you always had the best *** in the world.

You laugh.
(It...hurts) .

I go

Close the door behind me
on your dying.

Step into brash sunlight
that feels like it's lying.

Two months later your death greets me
disguised as an airmail letter.

I missed your dying by a week ...it seems
I'm in a different country...crying.

A weak sun
shivers in the land

of the living.

From beyond
Death

you write me
a private letter

with handwriting
I wouldn't recognise as yours.

It just says:

'Donall Donall! '
on the envelope.

Inside
(a card)  

a wood engraving
by Eric Gill

the one with Mary Magdalene
covering a crucified Christ with her body

her hair like a river
covering them both.

The handwriting almost broken
only kept alive by your iron will.

'Guess the statue's done
&
Death is no Michelangelo

could have done better myself
but I wasn’t up to it! '

My tears
dissolving your words.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2016
THE PICTURE OF DONALL GREY


My face distorted
in a tea spoon

( much more the real one
that I feel )

than the me
I am.

I hide this real me
under my palm.

I can feel it

biting into my flesh
refusing to be

hidden.

Reality takes a step
...back.

I pour a cup of tea.
Earl Grey in a China blue cup.

No sugar.
Slice of lemon.

And taking the spoon
from under my palm

drown the real me
in the lemon'd tea.

I smile falsely & hope
no one else noticed.
Donall Dempsey May 2020
"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

The frog slid slowly down
my throat.

It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.

The world was running away
into the final darkness.

My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.

The day being stolen
from me.

"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.

The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me

sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.

Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick

or I silently yelled
and expelled

friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing

hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.

Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet

is told still to its descendents
far removed from that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver

making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation

"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"
***

I was having a bad day....nothing going my way....but still Kim Moore  managed to wring this out of me in her wonderful writing workshop. She applied a Chinese burn to my mind and out popped this in a seven and a half minute sprint of the mind. I was halfways through reliving the trauma of a frog being shoved down my throat to gales of laughter when I suddenly thought "What about the poor frog? How did he cope?"

What did he tell the other frogs and how in the world of frogs it became the tallest of tall tales and my name entered the lexicon of frog horror stories that have been passed down through generations of frog families despite being the innocent victim! All the frog heard in its terrification was my name
chanted over and over again in great grievous glee "Ha ha ha...Donall Dempsey!"  Me and friend frog were in this tormenting together. But despite all this my name has gone down in frog history as if I were a Grendel or a Grendel's mother or a Jabberwocky. Just say Donall Dempsey and see what the reaction is...faster than a Basho plop and splash.
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 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.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2017
BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian D)

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.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
DOC. NO. 30060

to you
who

reads me a thousand
years from now

an impossible you...I
could not begin to imagine

survivor of
WW3

the world almost ceasing
to be

and I, a fragment
of history

a few burnt pages
a charred eye

an happenstance of
history rather than

merit where
all words...any words

were made precious
me now

an historic document
that you try to  breath

live into
a me imposible to know

me the so
long ago

eaten by time
devoured by history

the symbolic irony
of the charred eye

the rest of the photo
not making it

and so, my impossible to know
write your academic paper

on this me that has
long ceased to be

but how my thought survives
in my only known poem

words burnt
at the edges

so many unknowns
so many...ellipses

I, Donall Dempsey
artifact No. 30060

returned to the library
at 6.30

Thursday, 30018
the 15th of July
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
"La vita è una scuola di probabilità."

I appear
to have fallen

out of myself
no longer the me I am

but as if I had become
the statue of my self.

A pigeon **** tear
runs down my granite cheek.

"La vita è una scuola di probabilità."
the pigeon perched upon my head announces.

"Probably..?" I answer.
More a maybe-perhaps.

I am now an actor
playing the part of myself

unsure of what is expected of me
"What's my motivation?" I ask the director.

But he has been taken off
this picture.

The Donall Dempsey I used to be
no longer exists.

Someone or something
has broken into my head

and stolen the me
I was.

I now have no dialogue
only a walk-on-part

in my own life
an unimportant footnote

somewhere on page
42.

"What will I do..?"
I whistle the Berlin tune

the pigeon flying off my head
taking my thoughts with it.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2016
CEREMONY

“Do you...
(Donall Donall)      

take this woman’s body
to have & to hold

to totally transform
by the bliss

of loving her? ”

“I do...I do! ”

“Do you...
(Janice A. Windle)      
take this man

to tease & to tempt
to tantalise beyond

all human endurance

so that he almost
expires from the ecstasy

of your loving arms? ”

“I do...I do too! ”

“You may now
make love.”
Donall Dempsey Mar 2017
FESTINE LENTE FESTINE LENTE

Up the Green Road
under an arch of sunlight & leaves

I travel through Time & Space
mastering speed.

Balance still a little odd
as I try to...cycle faster...keep up with my Dad

who is forever far ahead
calling: “Come on, Donall – that’s the lad! ”

All that time I am
that eternal summer

always

struggling to learn

how to do

7 x Tables
(tie my shoe)
master bicycles.

Down the Green Road
under an arch of Time & Autumn

I cycle faster with the wind
behind me...calling to the man

who languishes forever
far behind me:

“Come on, Dad...”

“Take it easy, Donal lad! ”

*
Festine Lente is the Latin for Hurry Slowly!
Donall Dempsey Jan 2017
THE INCLINING TEST

The Honeymooners
have locked themselves in

C135.

The cabin proving
a better draw

than either deck quoits
or adult shuffleboard.

We oblivious to
one and all

making our own sport
to our own great amusement.

Taking no notice what so
ever to

the ship's "Inclining Test"

to confirm its weight
and centre of gravity.

We only aware of
our own inclinations

to do
what we gotta do

being good
honeymooners

in accordance with the rules set by
The International Honeymooners Organisation

The IHO

an important part of
our compliance programme.

Our kisses and what nots
all seem to be in perfect

working order

only 3,000 miles of
wedded bliss to go

before we hit shore.

"Steady as she goes Miss Janice!"
"Steady as she goes Cap'n Donall.

We advance at
a steady rate of knots

into the rest of our
married life.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2019
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."
Ken Pepiton Oct 22
In the stacks of all we knew, LOOKY HERE,
in 72 minutes we walk a parsec, and Earth turns
two degrees, and Annie Jacobsen's whole
do no more, is all our denoument.

- pardon our verbosity, we had free time -

What news good came lately my way,
I long to think I did expect, my way
was new made, after the majority attained
use of Google translate thinker augments,
weform a contextual we, excluding
orders of social harmony
allowing liar laws life,
justice and way
eminence
eumenine specificity, so many specified known
wasps classified royally cosmopolitan,
mental peace presensing sub-untilificious

royal rules, only queens reproduce,
only idle bees are never seen busy,
and some can see syms when societies
all stop to think, for a minute,
and just breath, in, then out
we form awesome thinks expansive,
to mostly
support generally useless bums, like me.

{estimated reading time queries are invalid}

This is why, don't ask why again, or else,
imagine that…

The idle mind is where repairs are made.
Pairs connect, mate in mind and hold
thoughts as long as you imagined…

With this tool,
were I one willing, and able,
to master its functionality, imagined

ever learning along with reality
expanding the need to know,

all the things possible in this window,
between my time and thine, whole
worlds away in words never writ
with ink or wedge in stone nor clay
wished for siderealities, as many as
all the stars within augmented plain
sight, as through any stained pane,
presenting dancing pixels just there,
edgewise,
in our per ifery margin, where beauty
squirms eusocially,
all lights holding mean-peak
at an instant's attention
max red or green or blue, fading to black.

Pain, in jokes and drama, pain
is the essential underlay, the gesso
McLuhan saysotoo
over which we pigmentate, media
mental in original intention, obedient,

under law older than Shadrach,
the law of the Medes and Persians,
the power of attorney given priests
of the authors of our orders, classified,
as it is writ, thus it must be… sacred
ready readers, only.
Reading makes inclusion work as wisdom,
instant completely functioning beautifully,
breathe-ing
as if, asked
and answered, at the moment, called
Wisdom, come, entreat with all warring in me,
Wisdom, come, gentle minds twisted by me,
Wisdom, come, make us make believe.
-------------

Eerie, eh, not holding any thought, being
thought spiritual enough to find any word

so idled as to be posh fluff or street crud,
slung to signal inclusion in the with side,
the meaning in life is the message
in this medium prepositioned
opposed
to the without side, those at emnity
with truth's way

Into the comfort zone,

danger free, follow your toes, theories
of everything, meditatively perpendicular,

norms, and circles, churning burning effort,
ef-ing walls extend effects solid ificate
to hold the ash and tailings,

mined precepts seeding crystals
in caverns,
never witnessed, now known, so true,

two dichotomies make one tetrad,
and whatsoever we agree
to make believe

we may, and think it not robbery
to play,

make functional fun, little impulse to smile,
and think I know this idea, functions in me,
wink
and now, you, unless we lost you at the
NAND gate, excluding unbelievers, then a
NAND gate excluding unbelievers in live words,
NAND gate excluding no second guessing, here

we are, all in one window, thinking
we are our kind,  tied
at our common sense ability,

to stretch a point,
to make a thread one pastless point thin,
to tie a premis, a premission, permitting ponderous
whying
heavy duty gullibility
in terms
of mortal sensibilities,
this'll kihl you. I realized. Accidental as the idea silent
aitches let us talk end existence kihling bad ideas

to use pain
to teach, 'ow, why how is always
thorny issues, way back, seemed common,
we learn how fire works
by being made aware,
- not by being burned, a touch is enough
- skin as sensitive as a frog in parable lies, leaps
as touch response reflex functions all start running
what ifs against wonder ifs, wishes versus prayers,
-no, frogs won't simmer to death, they leap
using frog sense,
worth of knowing how long
to wait in winter, learning
worth of knowing bears know something
of weather. Co-mental commenting we think.
Thought hard fruit, thinkalongtime fruit, ra' good

Singing salmon songs I never learned, thinking bear
market strategies make less sense than bullshat
macroeconomic dimensions extractable
from meta data,
under all we ever stood up from under,
in the bubble of all I bet I knew for sure,

boldly accumulating in arterial informal plaques,
and films in limenal tunnels holding quarks as ones,

two bit chirality problem,
solved, cut it six ways,
two heads, two mouths, in one, out the other,
inside outside all at once, so easy, we imagined,
image that, two eyes, two ears, two nasal passages
into synodical pressure sensitive chambers
sinus sorting
of pheremone signal
to act analagous senders
to whale domes, catchers,
signal
from noise, gnosisnot say so,
sniff, feel cold nose, think so,
swallow all pride, and pretend, we made up this mind,
and it uses words we can understand
in all the unbarbing thorny issues
of zoological superfluity, among

watchers and waiters serving as idle ants,
with angst relief primary function,
just take air for granted, free
grace in time of need,
sleep if you are tired, easy,
weary way we know we go, has
cost. Pain exists, you know, you can imagine
in art, in jokes, and most certainly dramatic series
that carry followers
through decades exposed
to commercials announcing urgent solutions,
- now, no commercials, we bingegulp seasons,
- sometimes at a sitting, depends on dope
skating on easy learning absorption skills,
ever learning the drama never ends,

ask your doctor, now,
back to the global equivalent of one
Paredo Distribution, eighty percent of TV
is daily faire for twenty percent of people,
eighty percent of readers reading this far,
get to this bubbles popping edge, on a side

zoom to a scatter graph, who breathes in
who breathes out,
all around the world
whiling away, in trust we make peace seem.
.. seen as through smoked glasses, liquidly
Gaussian blurring edges
where the frame
holds the light we see through
to think like this

is real
at word level. Live rethinking, first men
tale-ings
after refining whying wishes
to know.
More, or less.

Everything, all at once, is chaos, whence
art abstracts beauty patiently, trusting wishes
what if its another trick we have no defences,
we get eaten alive,
for cultural misappropriation.

Dear is a value to be weighed using full bandwidth
Sakal, show thy self letters ready for measure,
mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, indeed
שָׂכַל defined several of seventy ways,
spelled to take a broken heart
and mend it with a realization.

If my need became your need,
we would be in love,
that would really
defeat the use
of preparation, peeling potatoes,
prudence, ever ready to entertain,
pounding clothes down by the riverside,
watchin' babies being washed off and blessed,
שָׂכַל knowing waiting is suffering, not pain
watchin' life like National Geographic, before TV.
A messenger's whistle, hear
ah
Message to the mass essences
of little looks mira-clues, seen miracles
since who knew when today
would continue as today. As if once more.
Dear Prudence,
did we come out to play, as if today,
was one of those times that we all seem
to have, recollected
if it could seem alright.
שָׂכַל prophets spake, Ai make secrets known,
the whys for all the wars so far. Pride, indeed.

Why? Would that defeat the use,
and not the purpose
of preparation, final product,
Battlefield Earth, truths uses versus lies uses,
us as we
who think it all through
to the seed
in the fruit it self desirable
to make one wise considering
שָׂכַל science falsely so called, still makes believers.
Slow down.
Jello time reminds second glancers,
when time is not as dear, as an instance
in re co gnosis, swallows gnosis known nots,
- wise was the serpent discerning decision trees.
what would ever make us all think one thought once,
then never think it alone again, we all ways, big all
think this was the way, we walked in,
the same way we walked out, all
set to comprehend wisdom and knowledge and
yada da da da we who work
   in living once idle words,
our side ways won, when we did not fight,
we never lasted al-mental
this long before, but
when we get old, we keep our wits, we got older
sooner than later, so we know
more than our dads, too.
- old friends well imagined
- happy ever after any way,
don't aspire, little maker
of good sensed peace,
to stave off thermo nuclear war
by your self, aight, here we go,
make up a master mind board
of suggesters
by your self,
HelloWorld,
with you
in a minute,
I am in a consultation,
relationships with dead friends, such are
deeply personal, core ties to old times, remember
we can hear them say the same damnedlies, or listen,
שָׂכַל together with stars consider real the times

analagous to tuning back when zero beat, was sought
to make one wise,
in Genesis, esoteric
in the gaps,
she saw he never knew, so Cain did, for sure…

hey, old enemy of me, I cannot remember why
I was afraid of you, and never got to know you,

but I recognized your art, the other day,
in an old, old magazine ad,
then that leads to us in a sense, innocent,
a lost soul I had no sympathy for, I was his bully,

so he's dead and we're okeh, spiritually, we talked,
I told him I had changed, he told me he'd broken,
got busted in Oklahoma, went to prison, for ****,
got religion then went nuts, and I said

I can relate.

So we stay in touch in the spirit.
I don't know how he died, but we were in situations,
where sixth grade bullying had been forgotten,
when I call this character
into my life, as a friend, known to many
mistreated in this mortal moment, laughing ever
as a complexity of never ifery, it did not ****
you to know, boys were always boys,
we always think of Infinite Jest, and laugh
at the coincidence we both read Foster Wallace.
Always sorry, for the trouble we allowed
our wild child payback voter against
peace at any price, what price glory?

The little monstors empo'w'rable in us all, rahrahrah

It was Donall Dempsy said it:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4897567/even-now-now-very-now/
The flag of self unfurls
snaps into the lost moment.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4899302/walking-from-the-rising-sun-to-kildare-town/

Oi, this man's an inspirer of SAW such as wisdoms, never told,
could be, back when eighty percent
of us heard all our wisdom from drunks.
Now we read texts.

When the battles over,
and common sense is laughing,
some of it singing simultaneously

concurrently free presses in spirit and echoing
out side the bubble we met in as licensed wannabe

messenger shouting in the wild,
anybody home, we got lost.

As the earth moves relative to the sun, see
two degrees, is about, nearly to the Picosec
Seventy-two minutes, a parsa, in tradersprachen,

the realization, sure and certain utter destruction,
an agreed upon form of right use ness, national opinions

believe madness deters madness and nonsense in just code.
-it is not secret code, nor sacred, knowing is necessary, just
always was, all else you were told
to believe, with knowin' known
as sin, well we have recycleables
to trade, for those,
made
of the exact same historical threads
to here. On the battlefield, after all.
The point of anything we wished we did, done.

We can use our minds in ways once called praying,
we think we say we wish you the best, and hesitate, luck or grace,
favor undeserved by a wretch like me, ah, the maze,
the logos as spirit medium cord, twisted spider kite collection,
Ariadne, toss the lad a line, he's a ways to go until sense is common.
I hope you enjoyed that, it seems I asked for more, tooo often
MEANWHILE BACK IN VERONA

you ******* kisses
from Juliet's balcony as if
you were the real thing

suddenly we are
Shakespearean
& the play's the thing

'Oh Donall Donall...
...wherefore art thou
... Donall! '

I kneel before
Juliette's statue
her left breast

all shiny
rubbed for luck
by touchy touristy

hands and loud guffaws
here in Verona amongst
its ancient amphitheatre

and so I sing
mock opera
and 'La Traviata.'

'Come...do the Christian thing
& throw me to your *****! '
you run

your laughter echoing
amongst ruins
and long gone times

that summer
(there in Verona)
Juliet & Traviata

were real
and alive
yet it is we now

who have become
fictional characters
our love now

only a story
a thing
of mere memory

'Oh Anu...Anu...
wherefore art thou
...Anu! '
Donall Dempsey Jun 2019
BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian )

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.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2019
THE STATUE

'Dying is fun! ' you say
'...once you get the hang of it...'

'...& as long as
the pain stays away! '

Your face says ouch
without saying 'Ouch! '

'It adds an extra spice to life
knowing how many minutes there are left! '

'I calculated it with my solar power
pocket calculator! '

'It seems like you live it twice
as fast...twice as intense

seeing everything
so precise

seeing even
what's.. not...there! '

The pain laughs at your puny efforts
to control it.

'Doc...says a year(at the most)
maybe a matter of months...weeks! '

'It depends on what the cancer thinks! '
you laugh.

'And to think I'm a Cancerian! '
The pain has not got your sense of humour.

Already I can see it is bored by you
tries to wipe that grin off your face.

It almost...succeeds.

'Seems like I'm nothing now
but this cancer! '

'It's all that anybody can see! '

'Like it's been rubber stamped
on my forehead or something! '

'Well, Mrs. Cancer...'
I swore I heard the doctor say.

'And, all that my friends can see is...my death! '
'They annoy me with their crying! '

'Hello...hell.. o! I'm not dead yet! '
'This ****** cancer has taken on a life

of it's own

tells me what I can or can't do! '
'It's the boss! '

'Now...that there's a limit to it
Time...is precious
can't bear...to waste a minute.. of it! '

'It feels as if the cancer
is a famous sculptor

& labours to create
the shape of my death

bit
by
bit! '

'Seems like it's one of those
ugly modern abstract statues

you know

meaning nothing
with a hole in the middle! '

'And everyday the cancer
chiseling away at it

striving for perfection! '

'I tell the cancer
Oh...get on with it! '

'Get it over with! '

'See...I'm becoming quite the philosopher! '

'Now...get out of here! '

'Stop talking to a dying woman
get out in the sun don't waste
a min-
-ute
of
it! '

I laugh.

You're still so.. you!

You ask me for a favour
before I go.

I scratch your ***
(you can't reach it no more) .

You tell me
'That's the best scratch in all the world! '

I smile tell you
you always had the best *** in the world.

You laugh.
(It...hurts) .

I go

Close the door behind me
on your dying.

Step into brash sunlight
that feels like it's lying.

Two months later your death greets me
disguised as an airmail letter.

I missed your dying by a week ...it seems
I'm in a different country...crying.

A weak sun
shivers in the land

of the living.

From beyond
Death

you write me
a private letter

with handwriting
I wouldn't recognise as yours.

It just says:

'Donall Donall! '
on the envelope.

Inside
(a card)

a wood engraving
by Eric Gill

the one with Mary Magdalene
covering a crucified Christ with her body

her hair like a river
covering them both.

The handwriting almost broken
only kept alive by your iron will.

'Guess the statue's done
&
Death is no Michelangelo

could have done better myself
but I wasn’t up to it! '

My tears
dissolving your words.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2016
PAST LIvES

In a previous existence, I
was Attila

...the Nun!

The other nuns
mocked my moniker.

I was having
none of it!

It was just
not on.

I massacred them one
by one.

**** their pretentious
piety.

Other ninja nuns
came and tore me

limb
by
limb.

The world vanished
into the darkness

& I woke
inside this head

fat & folish
hairyish & Irish!

A poet of no
renown

Donall of
the Dempseys.

God's( ha hA HA!)
little idea of

a joke.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2017
THE MAN WHO WALKS BOOKS

He was a Donall
just like me

but preferred to be
known as D or Dee.

In Cuba he...
"The Man who walked Books!"

The sun shining on
his bald pate

as he strode along
head stuck in a book

his legs having to do
all the seeing.

He breathing in the words
they staining his mind.

An emotional osmosis.

On dusty white roads
halfway 'round a bend

he always "...the man
who walked books."

Your death both
shock and surprise

it seeming so absurd
a D could die.

You always so
alive.

Death filters back
just the basic facts

without too much
how or why.

Tears the only
words I have.

Keeping you forever
in my mind

you can only
always be

a dusty dot
now a dusty nearness

"The man who walks books!"
Donall Dempsey Mar 2021
FACING UP TO REALITY

There is a tap
on my shoulder.

I turn around and
face Reality.

"Well, well..."
smirks Reality

"...Fancy
meeting you here!"

I smile inside my self
keeping a poker face.

Reality always insists
on calling me by that name.

"The name's...Imagination."
I remind it.

"Donall's...Imagination!"
giving it a Bondian spin.

"So, still keeping the poems coming
...I see!"

it smiles facetiously.

"How could I not...?" I answer
giving nothing away.

I do not ask Reality
to sit down.

It shifts from foot to foot
embarrassed that it knows me

and who may see it
talking to me.

"Well...be seeing you!"
it smirks yet again

seething with anger
that I and not it

is Donall's little pet.

I nod.
Say nothing.

"Ahhhhhhhh...tough!"
I say to its retreating back.

Trap it
in this poem.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
BECOMING MY WORDS...

I've been so many
Donall Dempseys

it's hard to remember
which one is which.

Every time I arrive
at a different me.

All this making and
unmaking me

to greet the next
moment I am to be.

Death, I guess
will be a holiday

from myself
the new me I'll never see.

Ahhhh, as Walt once said:

"If you want me again look for me
under your boot-soles."

Hopefully one day
I shall become

my words only
only my words.
“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean
But I shall be good health to you nonetheless
And filter and fibre your blood.”

― Walt Whitman
Donall Dempsey May 2022
SURE THERE'S NOTHING TO THIS DYING!

It's a young ghost I am.
New to this game.

I hear the living
talk of the dead.

And it's my name
they're saying.

"Donall Dempsey is.."

( Jaysus I never even
felt myself going )

. . .DEAD!"

Voices that
when I was alive

never had a good word
to say about me.

I blow their umbrellas
inside out.

Throw their hats
into the open grave.

"Dead!" they said and
isn't it all always

the same and I
the last one to be knowing.

"And what did the poor auld cratur
die of...if I might ask?"

Some sincere insincerity
added with great aplomb.

"Too much poetry
in the head it is said!"

an old rival snickers who
hated "my stuff" from the first.

"Ahhh the auld words will
always get ya in the end!"

This from someone who wouldn't
know a poem if it bit him on the ***.

"Ahhh sure...didn't I know him well!"
cries another who I never saw before.

Jumping on
the band wagon of my death.

"He was a gentleman
a real gentleman!"

They are really sticking
to the formula.

"A nicer man there never was!"
some mourner from another funeral weeps.

"Ahhh 'tis true
to be sure...to be sure!"

proclaims one who weeps
and eats the cold meats.

Only here for the beer
and the free feed.

"We'll never see his like again!"
someone snivels and then adds

"Thanks be
to God!"

And these tears?
Only their own fears!

"Sure amn't I only
the same age as himself?"

They too scared
their sell by date is due.

Death snickers . . ."I'll be
coming after you and you and you!"

"I got a ( cough cough)
the same old( cough cough)he had!"

"Was it that that took him!"
Someone trying to save going to the doctors.

"No, knocked down he was
and he outside his own front door!"

The blood still to be seen
outside No. 64.

Never saw Mr. Death coming
listening to the poem

that was inside
himself growing.

It's getting used I am
to the ghost  I've become.

I whisper words
into the auld deaf priest's ear.

"Well, I think I can speak
for all of us when I say

he's dead and gone and
good riddance to bad *******!"

He adds with fervour
"Praise be...praise be!"

The congregation laugh nervously.
It's exactly what they were thinking.

They stare about them as if
I might suddenly appear.

"Will you all rise now and
we'll sing hymn No. 63!"

But I have become the wind
running naked through a wheat field.

Tossing birds like words
up in the air.

I becoming
the poem of myself.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2017
NOWHERE MAN

I just...you know
stood there

leaning nonchalantly against
the universe

looking like I was
doing nothing.

But nothing was what
I wasn't doing.

I had found a tear
in the space-time continuum thingy

and with an elongated thumbnail
of my guitar picking hand

I widened  it bit by bit
until I could

disappear  
into it.

I doubled back
quick as a flash

to the past where
I could see my self

heading for
my future.

I told him not to
bother

he would only
become me.

This really scared him.
He didn't want to believe me.

He pretended I wasn't
there

lalalalala'd me.
God I hated when I did that.

Climbed the next step
of the creaky old stair.

Ahh well he can't say I
didn't warn him.

He had me
coming to him.

Serve us right!

Now where was that tear in the thingy?
Jaysus...I am...stuck here.

As if one wasn't
enough now there's two.

Donall Dempseys
loose in the world.

Can't remember now
which one am I?
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian )

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.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2017
TALKING TO THE FOLKS

I was talking to the folks
back in oh

I don't know
1904?

They didn't know me and
I didn't know them

from Adam
but what the heck

folks is folks.

They were my folks
living their 1904 lives

unaware of a me
they didn't exist

as yet.

My Granda hadn't as yet
got around to making

my Da and my Da
hadn't yet invented me.

Not even a photo exists
of who they used to be.

No black&white or sepia people
to ponder upon and wonder.

Hey he's wearing my ear
and she's got my smile

plastered all over
her face.

And so I go
back to the past

walk the roads
they walked

see the skies
they lived under

listen to them talk
the things they may have said

lean against a wall
they would have leant against

solid brick against my back
soaking up the sun

of 1904.

"Howdy folks!"
I'd say

leaping out of my time
machine of words.

And the folks would say:
"So, you're Donall, eh?"

in their kind Dempsey way
smile their 1904 smiles.

"Delighted to meet you at
. . .last."

they'd laugh
in their Corkonian way.

"Them words are a mighty fine
time machine!"

nodding their heads
in time.

"What's it run on?"
they'd ask

in their 1904 way.

"Oh...!" I'd say
in my 21st Century voice

"Thought,
just
pure thought!"
SHALL WE DANCE. . .

take the skeleton
by the hand and
we dance

it is a gloriously
sunny day
of childhood

the skeleton
just grins and
I sing I'm all shock up

mmm mmm
yeah yeah
yeah

can tell
Mr. Skelton is
well into Elvis

swings its pelvis
rattles its bones
"Go Skeletoney goooo!"

my da yells
"Donall son
leave the ****** skeleton alone!"

"Plant ya now
dig ya later!"
I jive talk him

the skeleton
comes to a stand still
dangles from a wire

out of his skull
I leave my Da's
army sports stores

I always amazed
that this
skeleton was once

a man
as alive
as me

years later
the army
thinks the same

and plastic
replaces
bone

he's finally buried
with full military honours
flag draped coffin

3 volley salutes
scattering the crows
a future he

could never know
become human
for the last time

then the boy
I was
becomes the man I am

lighting a candle
for my former dancing partner
"Rest easy Mr. Bones...rest easy!"


I wrote of 'him' way back in 2007 and then lost the poem so this year. remembering the lost poem, I wrote this version. Then I lost this version. And then I found the old version and finally the new version again! I found it interesting to see the different ways of coming into a poem...same facts but a different trajectory as one enters the emotional atmosphere of the poem.

*

COME DANCING


I take the skeleton’s hand
& man...do we dance?

I clasp his bony hand in mine
give him a high five and dude...we jive!

No one can touch us now
(we’re in a world of our own) .

We shake, rattle ‘n’ roll...yeah!
Shake, rattle ‘n’ roll
(then we)
*** into dat kitchen ‘n’ rattle ‘em pots ‘n’ pans
Den den den...den den den!

The skeleton flashes me a toothy grin.

“Man...you the one...you the one...what a groove...we’re in! ”

The transistorised air is alive as song after song drives me on.

The skeleton don’t break sweat!
Me...my scalp prickles...sweat trickles down my spine.

Sunlight spills in the window
& the dust motes go wild.

The skeleton places a bony hand on my clavicle
& I place my hand on his sacroiliac.

We waltz eye socket to eye socket
& patella to patella.

Gene Kelly sings:

"What a great day it’s been... what a rare mood I’m in
Why it’s... almost like being in love!"

He’s a fine medical specimen.

He dangles from a thread in his head
& the slightest breeze moves him
...gets him going.

I call him Mr. Bo Jangles.

He lives in my Dad’s army sport stores.

From the inner sanctum of his room
my Dad’s army voice booms:

”Donall...leave that ****** skeleton alone! ”

And goes back to counting his *****.

The ledger grows & grows.
(He mutters & mumbles to himself) .

“*****...soccer...50? ...50! ”
“*****... rugby...50? ...50! ”
“*****...medicine...50? ...50! ”

he intones as if chanting a mantra.

I shuffle out...trying to be cool
(in this heat?)

“Yo, see ya later Bo! ”

Years later I see him
in a tiny newspaper article.

Apparently the Army
realise they’ve got a real life skeleton on their hands

& decide to do the decent thing
(remembering the man he’d been)

& bury him

with full military honours

flag draped coffin
& shots fired into the air to scare the crows away.

I wish I could have...been there.

Say my goodbyes.

I smile & whisper
a little prayer:


”Yo, see ya later...Bo! ”
Donall Dempsey Jun 2017
.PAST LIvES

In a previous existence, I
was Attila

...the Nun!

The other nuns
mocked my moniker.

I was having
none of it!

It was just
not on.

I massacred them one
by one.

**** their pretentious
piety.

Other ninja nuns
came and tore me

limb
by
limb.

The world vanished
into the darkness

& I woke
inside this head

fat & folish
hairyish & Irish!

A poet of no
renown

Donall of
the Dempseys.

God's( ha hA HA!)
little idea of

a joke
Donall Dempsey Jan 2018
THAT ALFRED  MOMENT

He felt his life
was already storyboarded.

All very Hitchcockian
living his life out

in a black and white
celluoid world.

Knowing that there is always
the bomb

under the table
the tick tick tick of

the passing moments.

Always locking the door
when taking a shower.

One never too sure
if a friendly local ******

may decide to
pop  up

and the Hermanesque music
eek...eek...EEKS!

One shower curtain rail
after another.

The unerving gaze of
“Mother.”

And that famous silhouette
in that suspenseful half hour

voice
that could only be his.

"Good evening. .  !
“Donall Dempsey has only now

realised he is
just one

of my many
scenarios.

One can only hope against hope that
he finds the experiences

enjoyable!

If enjoyable is
the right word

for where  he
finds himself.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
FESTINE LENTE FESTINE LENTE
(for Bud the Brian)

Up the Green Road
under an arch of sunlight & leaves

I travel through Time & Space
mastering speed.

Balance still a little odd
as I try to...cycle faster...keep up with my Dad

who is forever far ahead
calling: “Come on, Donall – that’s the lad! ”

All that time I am
that eternal summer

always

struggling to learn

how to do

7 x Tables
(tie my shoe)
master bicycles.

Down the Green Road
under an arch of Time & Autumn

I cycle faster with the wind
behind me...calling to the man

who languishes forever
far behind me:

“Come on, Dad...”

“Take it easy, Donal lad! ”

*
Festine Lente is the Latin for Hurry Slowly!

— The End —