"mammy" poems
"Whist," is what Mammy said,
As she whisked us off to bed.
Usually we'd go quietly.
But a gypsy woman sat at our table,
Reading tea leaves,
Pouring prophecies.
Guests were few, and she I knew
To be a special one.
She saw dark clouds in a cup.
My sisters, past the tender age,
Stayed up longer to hear her say,
"Tall dark men are on their way."
I pricked my ears from upstairs,
Tried to put both on the vent,
Both of them were forward bent.
Just then my father
Climbed the stairs;
I saw the dark mop of his hair,
He was tall,
He wasn't humming;
No one else foresaw his coming,
But I vanished off to bed.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.
7.2k
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
I've got a gravy train riding hefer
and she's ready to deliver
all the goods and the services that I never give her
cuz she's mother ****** queen absalom
in the directory's cut
of the film that won a grammy and a mammy
and made it all the way to flavortown
in the south bahaman outback of queens land
and ate all my chili beans so that I would be sad on a green day
cuz I got granades in my ******* about ready to be pulled,
and there aint no sunshine when she's gone, and there's only darkness every day, but she's never gone too long because I never learn to live without her anyway.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
THIS is the song I rested with:
The right shoulder of a strong man I leaned on.
The face of the rain that drizzled on the short neck of a canal boat.
The eyes of a child who slept while death went over and under.
The petals of peony pink that fluttered in a shot of wind come and gone.
This is the song I rested with:
Head, heels, and fingers rocked to the ****** mammy humming of it, to the mile-off steamboat landing whistle of it.
The murmurs run with bees' wings
in a late summer sun.
They go and come with white surf
slamming on a beach all day.
Get this.
And then you may sleep with a late afternoon slumber sun.
Then you may slip your head in an elbow knowing nothing-only sleep.
If so you sleep in the house of our song,
If so you sleep under the apple trees of our song,
Then the face of sleep must be the one face you were looking for.
2.8k
Too many bottles of this wine we can't pronounce
Too many bowls of that green, no lucky charms
The maids come around too much
Parents ain't around enough
Too many joy rides in daddy's jaguar
Too many white lies and white lines
Super rich kids with nothing but loose ends
Super rich kids with nothing but fake friends
Start my day up on the roof
There's nothing like this type of view
Point the clicker at the tube
I prefer expensive news
New car, new girl
New ice, new glass
New watch, good times babe
It's good times, yeah
She wash my back three times a day
This shower head feels so amazing
We'll both be high, the help don't stare
They just walk by, they must don't care
A million one, a million two
A hundred more will never do
Real love, I'm searching for a real love
Real love, I'm searching for a real love
Oh, real love
Close your eyes for what you can't imagine, we are the xany gnashing
Caddy smashing, bratty *** he mad, he snatched his daddy's Jag
And used the **** for batting practice, adamant and he thrashing
Purchasing ****** grams with half the hand of cash you handed
Panicking, patch me up, Pappy done latch keyed us
Toying with Raggy Anns and mammy done had enough
Brash as **** breaching all these aqueducts; don't believe us
Treat us like we can't erupt, yup
We end our day up on the roof
I say I'll jump, I never do
But when I'm drunk I act a fool
Talking 'bout , do they sew wings on tailored suits
I'm on that ledge, she grabs my arm
She slaps my head
It's good times, yeah
Sleeve rips off, I slip, I fall
The market's down like 60 stories
And some don't end the way they should
My silver spoon has fed me good
A million one, a million cash
Close my eyes and feel the crash
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC
Gramophone records play
Scratch, play, scratch, play
Soft in the background, edging into me
Slow and easy, gentle waves.
Granny, play me La Wally again
Turning, spinning, round and round
Take me away on audio-pearls
Peace whirls me on a magic dance.
Pappa, hide the ugly monsters
Keep me safe in Noddy and Pat tales
I'd rather be caught in merry tune
Than in webs of yonder folk out there.
Momma, put on Golden Slumbers
"Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby"
Yes, I find my way homeward...
Gramps, sing me a Holliday song
The kind that lifts one so high
With Mammy and Pappy blessing all of me
Yes my happiness, I've got me own!
Dear Heaven, open windows and walls
Swirling, flowing its beautiful energy
Sore needed peace and beauty
That no eye can truly see.
Star Toucher, 02 March 2013
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Mammy never owned a dryer,
She would always use the fire
To dry clean clothes for her eight kids,
Who played in pants as if on stilts,
Wore Goodwill shirts like cardboard fibre.
We'd no money for laundromats,
Immigrants don't waste like that;
We made the move from Ireland,
Turned our backs, washed our hands;
Chose Sarnia to make our home.
Yes, Mammy washed our clothes with stones;
She'd string lines from wall to wall,
And draped our patchwork overalls.
In autumn, winter and early spring,
Our house was strung with clothes line string;
Socks dropped on chairs near heating vents,
Every room had ***** like tents.
One day Daddy stretched a line
From our back porch
To the farthest pine.
Looped the wire on a tubeless rim,
Secured the ends with linchpins.
Mammy was so pleased with him.
We four saw what he'd done,
He'd made a ride for his sons.
We were gliding like clothes drying,
Riding down the yard.
Flapping, laughing, having fun,
Like human clothes under the sun;
We , however, were burdensome,
The line gave up, and we fell hard.
On blustery days when sheets are snapping,
I recall the clothes line cracking,
Our fall from grace had nothing lacking.
Oh, I remember he chastised,
But I also remember
Daddy's eyes,
And how they smiled
When he told his friends
He hung his sons
Out to dry.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
That's me in the picture,
A collage of brothers and sisters;
I'm held high in my Mammy's arms,
Days before leaving Ireland.
Six months later, in our new home,
On a couch in our front room,
We pose again.
(See the console in our romper room?
It's testament to our boom and boons)
There's thousands of miles between those shoots,
And four million loved ones left behind
In a life and land we won't have again.
(That's the way life was back then)
No Face Time, #MeTime,
Sometimes a landline,
But always a letter in a card at the right time.
Brothers and sisters are missing.
In neglected churchyards,
And yet my mother smiles,
All the while.
Sixty years on, we pose again,
Sharing four hundred years here,
With seven hundred left behind:
Years of Famine and Hedge Schools,
Foreign invasions and Imperial Rule.
We stand ***** shoulders touching,
Between them loved ones missing;
Gone before the shutter opened,
A partial story as pictures go.
We're Irish proud,
Some of Canada's best;
An Irish-Canadian
When laid to rest.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 10:14 AM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
Following Friday's sins,
I'd usually sleep in.
That Saturday Mammy called up;
There was Daddy dripping blood,
Clinging to his thumb.
He was stubborn.
He sat back,
I drove fast,
And left him in emerg.
Hours later,
Back at home,
The phone.
The power switch
Was already off,
But on the floor,
Next to the saw,
I saw the thumb
Lying strangely alone,
The skin, the nail, the bone.
He died incomplete.
His stump was a talisman.
Grandkids got a kick from it
Asking him to count to ten.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
I found a hole in my bucket list
Like an hourglass
My dream are slipping,
Dripping on my bare floor.
I should be really ******
Because I'll miss
Entering through unknown doors.
I haven't time to fix the hole,
The grains are moving,
And Mammy's calling her babes home.
My favourite just hit the ground,
Like a blood stain,
Or a sewer vein,
It makes not a sound.
Two floats in the air,
Three's on the lip,
Four swirls near a hole,
The remaining dreams
Are caught in the eddy;
The final drop's precariously ready.
Eliza's fix would surely falter,
My bucket list can't hold water.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 9:12 AM UTC
Mammy vacuumed
So the grandkids
Could play.
The kids have grown,
Mammy left,
Just the other day.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
The sirens blared that 4th of July
Officer Duncan gave Mammy a ride
An emergency dash to the hospital
He’s 2 months premature Mammy cried
Deaf, dumb and blind is what the doctors said
To our mother when Sammy was born
But none of us kids ever were told
Until Sammy was stable and grown
Pappy declared that they’d both be fine
Not believing dire news doctors gave
We happily named him Uncle Sam
Trusting in him to be strong and brave
His 1st 5 months in an incubator
Hooked up to every device
In Newton Wellesley Hospital, 1959
A miracle saved his life
Reaching gloved hands through holes in the side
Weighing just a bit over 2 pounds
Looking more like a spindly ET
I was amazed to be hearing breath sounds
Sam worked on doubling his weight by Christmas
Nothing seemed easy or fast
Still Mammy survived the eclampsia
And Sammy went home at last
Returning a few years later
Sammy’s doctor she would find
To show off to all the nurses
Her son NOT deaf, dumb and blind
I so love my brother Sammy
Always felt like a sister and mother
I’d give all I have for the time
Just a minute more with my dear brother
I’d speak to you of those 57 years
Of the great whirligig you carved with your hands
All the times you showed up for me
Through the good and the bad our love stands
You wasted no time hating anybody
Children and dogs always your friends
Quick for a laugh despite any lack
I draw comfort that all your pain ends
The sirens blared once again for you
The ambulance came, the paramedics tried
Racing you trying to save you
All in vain, in the OR you died
Like Tommy’s rock opera is over
Perhaps you paused to speak to a stray dog
While keeping your divine appointment
By reaching right into the hand of God
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
Sitting here trying to figure my thought process,
Trying to describe the only one I want to impress,
Thinking of ways to give you what you're due,
When all it ever takes is a simple ' I love you '.
The 9th of May 1978, a few years past,
Our 1st public introduction, yet it could've been our last,
You stopped breathing as things weren't going right,
I'm forever grateful, you turned back from that light.
I always had a reputation as a Mammys Boy,
No longer an insult, I am one with pride,
You thought me how to stand up for myself,
Most importantly, to search inside for my strenght.
Along with all of that, you gave me 4 sisters,
For my nieces & nephews, you gave 4 great mothers,
You take on our problems, like they're your own,
You always make sure, we are never alone.
They say all men search for one like their Mother,
Well, 'they' have no clue, for there is no other,
One with such skills, to attempt to name is unbelievablle,
Mammy, Ma... to the girls & I, to everyone else it is Carmel.
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 4:00 PM UTC
to see alonely child
no mother to confide
a mother once so close
bonded side by side
till illness claimed
left children maimed
stunned in solitude
no calming song
a mammy gone
that fed you love and food
but mother proud
from watching cloud
will guide and shepherd you
with loving arms
and all her charms
from smiling skies of blue
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 12:56 AM UTC
THE MILK drops on your chin, Helga,
Must not interfere with the cranberry red of your cheeks
Nor the sky winter blue of your eyes.
Let your mammy keep hands off the chin.
This is a high holy spatter of white on the reds and blues.
Before the bottle was taken away,
Before you so proudly began today
Drinking your milk from the rim of a cup
They did not splash this high holy white on your chin.
There are dreams in your eyes, Helga.
Tall reaches of wind sweep the clear blue.
The winter is young yet, so young.
Only a little cupful of winter has touched your lips.
Drink on ... milk with your lips ... dreams with your eyes.
2k
Sure, if all
Yer sorrows
Aren't fixed
Wit' a pill
Then fer
Jaysus' sake,
yer jus'
Not ill.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
Peace! God’s Peace upon you all! The Bishop blessed
The dyed-young congregation: dyed fathers ‘n mothers,
Grandpas ‘n grannies, great-grandpas and great-grannies.
The demons of decadence--Hair dye, ****** and Spirits –
Chuckled and giggled, crouching well under the pulpit.
Dyed gurus ‘n financiers, dyed lawyers, doctors n’ nurses,
****** entrepreneurs and ****** entertainers, dyed judges
Dyed ‘n spirited evangelists, priests and vergers on ******
Peace be upon thee all! Blessed the Bishop from the pulpit.
Now, the demons in the hiding iterated and reiterated it.
A Sunday spirited chat—all smiles! -- in the church portico:
The Viagra-dyed banker in later life smiled a dyed smile
At the elderly dyed mother of three; and she said: they say,
In spite of my age, you know, I look so young and pretty!
And the thick flanks under her chin jiggled in approbation.
The ****** great-grandpa said to the dyed Justice of spirits:
Milord, they say: “The stuff brings cancer;” Fools! Idiots!
“The gloves—the condom-like device—that’s our safety!”
“Milord! This trinity wizard, they bring a million crores
To the exchequer of this famished democracy, milord!”
“Milord! The nature lovers say, we wash billions of bottles
Of these magic stuffs into their rivers and the seas, milord!”
“They say we all-- dyed ****** men-- are sissies and doofuses!”
“Milord! Our tubby women dye young, lest they’d be labelled
Mammy, Granny, Grandma, Old Granny, the decrepit ‘n that!
Now, the dyed media reported: father mated with his daughter,
Mother with a teenager, grandpa with an infant; and Ministers,
MLAs, MPs—all spirits-Viagra-dyed-- are in a ******* spree!
Now the Dark Trinity cried “Wow! In this world of ******
The Kingdom, the Power and the Glory--all are ours! Amen!
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Poetry is the direct cause of death of boredom.
Spoken words exist to excite the human soul
and to crown artistry with the nectar of wisdom
Poetry has more decibels than the Superbowl.
Poetry is the Ganga of the human soul.
It induces a beautiful feeling that stupefies
and leaves the mind dazed like a drunken fowl,
yet it delivers results that really satisfies.
Poetry flows from the fountain of Wakanda
and permeates the arid soil of Timbuktu.
Poetry is the vault to the treasures of Zamunda,
where Mammy Wata guards the Kane of Mobutu.
Poetry is the language used at the creation.
When earth was young and everything was dark,
The great arbiter called out light and put things in motion.
He used spoken words to tell Noah to build the ark.
Poetry is life and life is in coexistance with poetry.
Before ancient Africa and the pyramid of Egypt,
Poetry was cooked and stored in God's pantry.
Ready for use in the Garden of Eden's script.
#IvanBrookspoetry ©️
#Bassapoet✍️
5.24.2019
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
Oopy Doopy, Super Sloopy.
Loopy snoopy, pants apoopy.
Lippy hippy, slippy dippy.
Nasty-nicey, normally snippy.
Loosey goosey, chocolate moussey.
Usually *** goofy as Gary Busey.
Hinky-stinky presidential *****
Winky-blinky, dangerously stinko.
Hippity hoppy, flippy-floppy
Get a mop, it never stops.
Laughy gaffe-y, riffy-raffy
Face as gross as rotten taffy.
Whammy-bammy, scary scammy
Mammy-jamming Uncle Sammy.
Lumpy-dumpy, far from humpy
******* up future jumpy bumpy.
Glossy boss, a frightful loss
Ungathered moss at twice the cost.
Serious gap while the country naps
****** sap giving us a slap.
Frightening nooses tightening,
Rights denied like summer lightning.
Ignoring Popes and Snopes
Hopeless dopes put us on the ropes.
Immune to our cries, elected guys
Make horrifying decisions most unwise.
Like black magic before all our eyes
We’re leaderless as freedom dies.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 5:43 AM UTC
An unusual name in most places
For Mother.
Quite common
In Ireland.
Unusual how all my friends
Became Irish
With Mammy.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
mammy bear and daddy bear took baby to the zoo
where his friends and relatives would be all on view
first they saw a panda he was just the same
a different colored bear with a different name
then they saw koalas another type of bear
to see them in zoo this was very rare
then they saw a grizzly the biggest bear of all
he was very large in size and very very tall
they enjoyed there day so did baby to
and wont forget his family at the local zoo
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
We lived
In our Goodwill bathing suits
During our arduous summer isolation
From school and friends.
They were shiny, silk-like.
The scrotums were always
A size too big,
And so, sagged,
Exposing us like water snakes
Raising heads from darkness.
We sat in the back seat of the Rambler
Like three monkeys,
Towels wrapped sarong-like.
The heated air rose from the hood
As visible reminders.
This was Mammy's idea,
Hoping he would feel obliged
After many hours of hoeing and weeding.
Just an hour at the Beach.
I longed for the sound of slowly crushed stone
Beneath the tires as we backed out.
He emerged from the house,
Walked to the garage,
Never glancing our way,
A half hour later we got out.
But I saw, I heard, and now I speak.
Some fathers are never Dads.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
Tammy,Tammy,call your mammy
daddy's run away.
Buildings built of stilton cheese and Wilton rugs,bugs that run round in my head,silver diamond ten gauge thread to tie my eyes up.
Tea leaves tell no lies,
I've seen them in a broken cup where broken people all look up to watch me fall.
I call the Master of Ceremonies,also made of Stilton cheese,eaten slowly by the mice,made from chocolate covered rice cake crisps and baked in ovens,gas mark seven and ask him,
where did daddy go?
he doesn't know and never did and slowly drops off from the grid,
in hidden thoughts behind veiled red eyes where riots run with teddy boys,who ride Italian imported scooter bikes,
twenty thousand Facebook likes for what,
a **** *** underneath the bed?
more bugs that run wild in my head,
another silver,sugar coated thread to wrap me in when I am dead,
but I'm not there yet
I've got to shift the fuzziness,the interfering laziness,be blessed twice by his Holiness,undress the dressings I am wrapped in,bleach my skin and reach inside to clear my mind.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC