"garda" poems
FANCY AS ****
I knew something was not right. I went in with a sledge hammer challenged the truth and you put the phone down. Me in London, You in Dublin. One day to our planned London Weekend.
*I came in like a wrecking ball
Yeah, I just closed my eyes and swung
Left me crashing in a blazing fall
All you ever did was wreck me
Yeah, you, you wrecked me
I never meant to start a war
I just wanted to know the truth
I wanted you to tell the truth
I couldn’t live a lie; I was running for my life*
When you put the phone down on me on Wednesday night Oct 10th followed by a solicitor’s letter the following day, that was abuse. That letter was profoundly nasty. It was all a lie, just like as I now know, the rest of our relationship was. You went to the Garda, anything just so I would not discover the truth.
Your abuse is not without it's consequences. I needed you to tell me to talk to me. I don't feel revenge, anger, hate; I just feel utter shock, used, physically abused and mostly devastation.
But you know what, it hurts like hell, but I will fight back and I will find my way out of this abuse. I find it hard to believe you want me to suffer like this. Now I know you ‘Fancied Me As **** Why not just be straight up? Why all the lies? Why not give me the chance to walk away when I wanted to?
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
I find myself in a coverless Italian summer.
Grass browned. Skin freckled.
I find myself impatient,
no longer willing to entertain
the destinies of the salt and sea.
I edit video of you in a cobbled basement.
There's a knowing look that lasts four seconds.
I split it into six fragments and set it in reverse,
an unknowing, a deletion.
The crook of your neck
and shoulder blade. The red of your hair.
Some nights I hang from the rails. Five minutes.
Ten. And pull myself up.
Tented and mad by August,
stabbing ice with a little
black cocktail straw.
How can I change my
How can I love my
How can I erase my
body?
The rains wet me.
The wind wrings me.
This city we used to walk
under streetlights.
Now I bike through,
pedaling, furious and blind,
toward a place I don't know until
I arrive, and I kiss a young woman
who looks a lot like me. I ask her
to say my name over and over.
I want to fully occupy the moment,
the space, this time. Her lips
remain closed and her
hands linger on my shoulders
and no music plays and
there are voices, loud and
happy, speaking a language
that's completely new.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
We all piled out of the pub
****** as a load of newts;
'Where to now boys?'
Bellowed naughty Niall O 'Neill
(that's notorious nineteen pints a night Niall)
As he tottered over to his Pa's Rolls Royce.
*'Do ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful
I just seen you put away?'*
Enquired serious Sean slurringly
From his slightly inconvenient
Viewpoint in the beery gutter.
So we all clambered gaily into the car
And roared off into the enchanted night
And then this ****** stupid clodhopper
Who didn't even have his driving licence yet
Came round the next corner in his Ford
And got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come.
*'Oh **** would ye just look at the mess
The oul' fella's made of me Daddy's car,
And it's his pride and joy so it is!'*
Cried Niall O'Neill in incandescent rage,
As he surveyed the largest insurance claim
In the County Wicklow for twenty years.
How fortunate Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both testify from their vantage point
In the front seat of the devastated Roller,
The accident was not Niall's fault at all, at all,
As the other stupid sober ****** was on
The wrong side of the ****** street.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
She belonged to him, no other man,
So he said to her each day she left.
To sell the eggs and the dress she made,
To pull them from the line of the poor.
On the way to town each day she passed,
The rings of County Tipperary.
The ancient rings that live the wee folk,
Who dance in moonlight and trick us all.
That day she waited to see her kin,
But she left no gift to please the old.
So home she came with arms still heavy,
and a chest that weighed a cough so foul.
“My Bridget” as he knelt by her bed,
Holding her hand as it shook with cold.
In the crack of the flame voices he heard
To hang him from his grief with despair.
The news he heard was of his father
Whom died the evening he felt alone.
Mr Cleary swore and slammed his fist.
“Midnight tonight or Bridget is lost!”
The men in village knew the tale,
Of the wee folk who cursed Bridget.
The woman in the Cleary home bed,
Was an echo of the wife he loved.
They held her down and asked her, her name,
She screamed and growled but did not reply,
Three times they asked and still she refused.
So tight the grips they beat her to sleep.
The morning arrived, Bridget awoke,
To her husband who looked upon her.
His eyes full of loss and fear as-well,
“my Bridget?” he asked “are they gone now?”
She smiled and agreed, she was alone,
So the priest came to deliver mass.
Mr Cleary agreed and drank from the cup
But he knew that his wife was not home.
He asked her again, three more times; “Speak,
Your name to me now, are you my wife?”
Each time she replied “It is I, Yes.”
Michael still knew his wife was away.
That evening men from the town arrived
And took Bridget deep into the bog,
Where they bound her and lay her down flat,
As she screamed for her husband to help.
“It is I, It is me, Your sweet wife,
Believe me my husband I am here,
No faerie has seized my soul from me,
No witch has uttered a devil curse.”
Her mouth was covered and bound so tight
Her screams were made only with her eyes.
In front of the men, Michael asked her.
“Are you my wife? My Bridget Cleary?”
No voice or reply came from the girl.
Her body lay still in the bog land.
So onto a bed of wood she was placed,
And burned in the cold evening moon light.
The story was told through the village,
That Bridget had fled with another,
A man who bought all her eggs each week,
But not everyone believed this tale.
The priest of the village found Michael,
Praying blood, sweat and tears in the church.
He told him the fairies had taken,
The changeling they had placed there before.
The priest told the men of the Garda
That ****** was rife in this village.
That men had taken a sick women
And burned her to death in the bog land.
Michael was guilty of Manslaughter
No conviction of ****** was passed
For the people believed his story,
The woman who burned was not his wife
To this day the rings of Tipperary
Still grow foxglove and weeds in the cracks,
The Faerie mounds are feared like darkness
And steered clear of, by those who live near.
Even now it is heard in the school,
By the children who skip on the rope.
“Are you a witch, or are you a fairy,
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?”
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
Where the lake meets the quaint red roofs
Where the water is chill fresh despite intense July heat
Where cloud hangs as if tied atop mountain high
Is the imperious Lago di Garda
As the Peler bounds relentless until it finds the Ora in fine fettle winning the day like the plume of a freshly boiled kettle
The windsurfers and kite surfers enter their domain only too willing to jump on the nature train
Take me there
Let my heart rule my head
Let it’s beauty win the day
Let Lago di Garda have the final say
Jul 4, 2022
Jul 4, 2022 at 9:50 AM UTC
Sur le chemin de l'autre côté
Quand c'est perdu
Soigneusement gardé dans le coussin
Il cherche ça.
Sur le chemin de la maison, devant le bateau
Sous le fond du four, sous le banc de la pièce, sur les côtés de la maison.
L'adolescence et la jeunesse ont traversé
Maintenant la vieillesse est venue.
Néanmoins, il garda la main dans l'espoir
Un jour, il retrouvera son précieux bijou perdu.
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 11:09 PM UTC
Black & milds burning my fingers.
I know that it's bad, but it feels so good.
Stress weighing on me heavy.
I talk to God, but, no clear answers.
Tell me what I'm fighting for.
Dear God, if you're up there, tell what I'm fighting for.
What am I crying for?
Hoodie over my head, God, what am I hiding for?...
You spend your whole life trying to be perfect,
Just to find out that you ain't ****
You try to be the guy that carries all the burdens, including your own,
But you realize you're ill-equipped.
You break everything you come across: glasses, vases, and hearts that are now lost,
Because of you.
This poem is not from my point of view,
But if it was I'd understand why he feels so blue…
You see living in this life, you're bound to feel doomed.
Good things can happen to you, but negatives will still loom.
And people wanna be all close and personal with you and your truths,
But nobody's loyal around here, all they want is your truce;
Not to be cordial, but just to get in on the news,
That's why I choose a lane to pave, and never say when I move.
But even when you try to be humble,
You start to get in your feelings when you hear the slightest mumble.
And then you wanna rumble,
All along we've been living in a jungle, and I don’t mean no New York.
We in a world and generation where your “homies”’will eat and not bring extra forks,
They will let you starve.
Selfish and self righteous,
Very messy with their moves.
That's why I rarely go out, and my friends, I let God hand pick and choose…
Now the perception is mine.
Hoodie still on, world’s cold, but I'm doing fine.
Black N milds still sitting in the cup holder while I drive,
Formulating lies in case my mom found out like “they ain't even mine.”
“Well why they in your car? You want your lungs get black and die?”
“Man, momma them ain't mine. They must belong to one my guys.”
Can't erase the unerasable, or trace the untraceable.
10 times out of 10, all your wrongs will come back to you.
That's why I keep my guards up like Garda,
Because karma’s like that crazy ex girlfriend you can't shake off of you.
I've been finessing the systems.
I've been showing all of the symptoms of a hardheaded BOY that just won't listen,
And think he's a man, and that he can stand on his own to.
And will tell you to your face he never wanted you.
Counterfeit power.
Egotistical attitude,
That is sure to fall through.
Let him fall through…
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
Tadgh Sé was Seacht when he discovered
Dara and Beirt behind a Trí.
Naoi, he said when they told him to get
Ocht.
Dó Dó Driscoll was summoned, he took
none of their nonsense.
Deich Ban Garda arrived with Aon, his first
day in Mallow, he asked, “ Who’s getting Náid “?
Cúig we join in, we don’t Ceathair about Amhain
off, besides, high time someone Ochtar.
Ps.
This is a colloquial poem in Irish and English
mixed, I don't expect many readers to understand.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 8:26 AM UTC
Quand Michel-Ange eut peint la chapelle Sixtine,
Et que de l'échafaud, sublime et radieux,
Il fut redescendu dans la cité latine,
Il ne pouvait baisser ni les bras ni les yeux ;
Ses pieds ne savaient pas comment marcher sur terre ;
Il avait oublié le monde dans les cieux.
Trois grands mois il garda cette attitude austère ;
On l'eût pris pour un ange en extase devant
Le saint triangle d'or, au moment du mystère.
Frère, voilà pourquoi les poètes, souvent,
Buttent à chaque pas sur les chemins du monde ;
Les yeux fichés au ciel, ils s'en vont en rêvant.
Les anges secouant leur chevelure blonde,
Penchent leur front sur eux et leur tendent les bras,
Et les veulent baiser avec leur bouche ronde.
Eux marchent au hasard et font mille faux pas ;
Ils cognent les passants, se jettent sous les roues,
Ou tombent dans des puits qu'ils n'aperçoivent pas.
Que leur font les passants, les pierres et les boues ?
Ils cherchent dans le jour le rêve de leurs nuits,
Et le jeu du désir leur empourpre les joues.
Ils ne comprennent rien aux terrestres ennuis,
Et, quand ils ont fini leur chapelle Sixtine,
Ils sortent rayonnants de leurs obscurs réduits.
Un auguste reflet de leur œuvre divine
S'attache à leur personne et leur dore le front,
Et le ciel qu'ils ont vu dans leurs yeux se devine.
Les nuits suivront les jours et se succéderont,
Avant que leur regard et leur front ne s'abaissent,
Et leurs pieds, de longtemps, ne se raffermiront.
Tous nos palais sous eux s'éteignent et s'affaissent ;
Leur âme à la coupole où leur œuvre reluit,
Revole, et ce ne sont que leurs corps qu'ils nous laissent.
Notre jour leur paraît plus sombre que la nuit ;
Leur œil cherche toujours le ciel bleu de la fresque,
Et le tableau quitté les tourmente et les suit.
Comme Buonarroti, le peintre gigantesque,
Ils ne peuvent plus voir que les choses d'en haut,
Et que le ciel de marbre où leur front touche presque.
Sublime aveuglement ! Magnifique défaut !
432
Tu mere bol ni sune
Me teri chup nai samji
Te wekhde wekhde
Sab garda wich gum gea
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC