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Ryan Holden Aug 2018
Always wake with choice
Let everyday be as
Perfect as your last.
Bummer May 1
Insomnia isn't so bad when you are on my mind
Simon Soane Mar 28
I’d hazard a guess there aren’t many folk who don’t know the tales of Harry, Hermione and Ron
and how with a cast of a multitude of friends they defeated Voldemort with aplomb,
rightly these heroic adventures are held in the highest regard,
and will be told forever by musicians, singers and bards,
these stories will be remembered, people will talk of those courageous and brave
and how they turned the evil tide of The Dark Lord with everything they gave,
how they dispelled the magic of horror with the strength of the Gryffindor lion,
but less well known than this wonder is the fable of Tayrn and her Ryan.
R and T arrived to Hogwarts  10  years after He Who Can Not Be Named was vanquished in the great struggle,
Tayrn was pure wizard born whereas Ryan was pure muggle,
both took to wizarding school easily and did well in all their classes,
of course Tayrn was a hit with the lads and Ryan a swoon with the lasses,
but it didn’t matter they gave all folk in their year at Hogwarts an involuntary love shudder
because ace Tayrn and Ryan only had eyes for each other!
Their wonderful sweet love was easy and went without a hitch,
spent Saturdays gazing at each other when they should have been watching Quidditch,
hand in hand they skipped around The Forbidden Forest, their romance knowing no rift,
saying hello to a friendly centur or a flying hippogriff,
they galloped around Diagon Alley, their souls full of cheer,
or sat relaxed and tranquil in The Leaky Cauldron sipping butter beer.
T and R were ace at spells, Tayrn’s best was with a wand swish creating healing
and Ryan’s wonderful arty prowess was painting The Sistine Chapel on any ceiling;
yes they were each other’s equal in the way they weaved the magic from above
and this is one of the reasons they were very much in love.
One night T and R were going on one of their romantic walks
and decided to have a jaunt to a wonderful clearing just near Hogwarts,
they sauntered through the darkening evening with a song on their lips,
swaggered along the green with the music of love on their hips,
as they got to the secluded clearing they were anticipating with glee each other’s hold
but then all of a sudden they started feeling very cold.
They both noticed that the summer grass was covered in a blanket of frost,
the trees were looking pale, freezing, withdrawn and lost,
the air was filled with frigidity and held the hints of scare,
the flowers were wilting with chilled terror, bloom given way to despair,
as Tayrn and Ryan wondered what was the cause of such floral bad health
just a few yards away  the answer revealed itself;
over a hill came a hooded figure that immediately brought fright to the fore
as Tayrn and Ryan paid attention in Defence Against The Dark Arts they instantly recognised it as a dementor,
but they noticed something different about this one, it was nearly trebled in size,
and had a deeper blackness where should have been it’s eyes.
Being skilled at magic they knew what they had to do to avoid any harm
so both quickly fired off their best Patronus Charm,
but these spells had no effect, the huge dementor merely shrugged them off
and they could have sworn beneath it’s hood it let out a derisive scoff.
The enormous dementor hovered over Tayrn and Ryan and from its mouth emerged a hiss,
as it prepared to give the two lovers their final goodbye kiss,
but as it stooped over them with it’s awful deathly hue
T and R looked into each other’s eyes and figured out what they were going to do;
they remembered in one class learning about the bravest man Hogwarts had ever knew
and how he was able to hoodwink The Dark Lord with a love strong, solid and true,
how Snape drew on his love of Lilly to ride through any storm,
even on his darkest night it was what kept him warm,
so Tayrn and Ryan pushed their wands together and thought of beautiful Severus
and how they both too shared the romantic love buzz,
and channelling the wonder of that special feeling thus
they both pointed their wands in unison and screamed Expelliarmus!
Emitted from the tip of each wand was the half of a love heart projected from each soul
that both came together to create the fantastic whole,
in the shine of such love the vast dementor instantly recoiled,
knowing that it’s draining wish was in no doubt foiled,
it writhed around and in the glare of joy did it’s nefarious purpose erode,
every bleak and blank about it started to corrode,
the dementor slowly ebbed away until all of it did go
and in it’s place was left a striking brown young doe,
it bowed it’s head to Tayrn and Ryan and then it flew into the trees,
gliding with majesty on the sweet night breeze.
Awed by what had happened Ryan and Tayrn turned and started to walk back to the dorm,
aware of what occurred was special and not the norm,
but then they stopped in their tracks and at the same time both did say,
“oh my beautiful love, I know  I’m going to marry you someday!”
Penmann Jun 7
When you feel weak and powerless...
Think and act like Ryan Gosling.
Be smug
wear that snobbish smile
ignore the ambient.
You will prosper on the technique.

...and this way maybe,
someday,
for the sake of god,

finally someone outperforms him.
Ryan Holden Dec 2018
Breaking everything I love,
Letting my insecurities ruin me
In ways I could never describe,
Never to see
Dimming lights
That disappear in the distance,
Over that hill we used to lay
Shining away
Eating at my conscious and heart,
Echoing my regrets as you go.
An acrostic poem I wrote that says “blind to see”. I wrote this on the train a few months back. Enjoy peeps.
kirk Oct 2018
Ryan he likes slags called kim
I wonder if Kim's fat or slim
Is she ****, is she grim
I guess Kim's good enough for him

Kim she's Ryan's piece of trim
Is it because she licks the rim
Are other slags out on a whim
Maybe their filled up to the brim

Bus stops talk they say so much
They seem to have that magic touch
Slags lives scrawled on shelters hutch
Straight to the point, not double Dutch

No other slags are good enough
perhaps their skanks and far too rough
Slags called Kim, must be so tough
When Ryan does not get enough

Not slags called Julie, Emma or Jane
Jodi and Rachel must be too plain
Just try Michelle, are you insane ?
Limiting tarts is loss not gain

Is Ryan partial to whips and chain ?
And Kim obliges him with pain
Kim must be different with the cane
It's no wonder he wants Kim again

Kim maybe great, from where your stood
She's just a ****, who likes hard wood
Come on now Ryan, you know you should
There's other slags that's just as good
Inspired from the words "Ryan Likes Slags Called Kim" that I saw written on a bus stop
KCibot May 14
Humanity sometimes evolves
much like time
non-linearly

Me:
Chimp
Baby Girl
Ghost
Baby Boy
Rat
Human
Mushroom
Butterfly
Tree
Ghost
Banana
Bunny
Egg
Snak­e
Monkey              Elephant
Witch                       Angel
Robotnick                Sonic
Ryan                          Evie
U?
Love Unlocks
And I
Evolve
Francie Lynch Apr 2018
Who's comb-over looks like *****?
Donald's comb-over looks like *****.
Who scared us shitless election night?
Donald scared us shitless election night.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump

Who's got a tie that's long and red?
The Don has a tie that's long and red?
Who pays hookers to **** on beds?
The Don pays hookers to **** on beds.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got hands tiny and slight?
The Don has hands tiny and slight.
Who spews lies out day and night?
The Don spews lies out day and night.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got a vocab small and trite?
The Don has a vocab small and trite.
Who whines Fake News out of spite?
The Don whines Fake News out of spite.
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD?
The Don likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD.
Who likes a spanking when he's bad?
The Don likes a spanking when he's bad.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

How many minions leave today?
So many so far went their way.
Comey, Priebus, Flynn and Bannon,
Tillerson, Spicer, Hope and Ryan.
Leave today. Gone their way.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
Hope you can sing along.
Sung to Raffi's version of "Must Be Santa."
All mafia bosses are called Don.
Others who have jumped or disembarked or been fired are Cohn, Shulken, McMaster, Powell, Scaramucci, McEntee, Porter, Omarosa, Price, Gorka, Dubke, Yates. Yikes!
Francie Lynch May 2018
Who's comb-over looks like *****?
Donald's comb-over looks like *****.
Who scared us shitless election night?
Donald scared us shitless election night.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump

Who's got a tie that's long and red?
The Don has a tie that's long and red?
Who pays hookers to **** on beds?
The Don pays hookers to **** on beds.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got hands tiny and slight?
The Don has hands tiny and slight.
Who spews lies out day and night?
The Don spews lies out day and night.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got a vocab small and trite?
The Don has a vocab small and trite.
Who whines Fake News out of spite?
The Don whines Fake News out of spite.
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD?
The Don likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD.
Who likes a spanking when he's bad?
The Don likes a spanking when he's bad.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

How many minions leave today?
So many so far went their way.
Comey, Priebus, Flynn and Bannon,
Tillerson, Spicer, Hope and Ryan.
Leave today. Gone their way.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
REPOST
If you know the Raffi song, "Must Be Santa," you'll get it.
beauty took your eyes
as we flew the dark skies
a fated brief juncture
our smiles shared
absent their disguise
an iridescent shine in the night
never counting in time
the view of our dreams
nibble’s like soft rain
brush tender on my face
this place I keep safe
to be forever mine
a wager with the devil
paid with free will
to know why
beauty took your eyes  


Terry Darcy-Ryan
When I was a child my father was just short of a Hero. Tall, strong and young. As we get older Dads become so normal and we see them as just human. I myself have refused to grow old as long as I can. My Father is 79 years old he is no longer the young man but an older version I barely recognize. Yesterday I paid my dad a visit, I can now look him in the eye's he has lost inches of his height. No longer the vision of youth. Our visit was good and talking to him I can still see a glimpse into the Dad of my youth. He speaks of my mother and his beloved second wife most the time I was there, they are both deceased. When I left I stopped briefly to write this line. " Beauty took his eyes, their almost all he sees, besides me " If you are still reading I thank you and God Bless
an arcane sculpture of trees
evolutions of an umbrella completes
the verdant swaying arbor of leaves
straining limbs hold branches to please
arm to palms and leaf to feet
strive to possess a neighbor sweet
twisted sprigs move wicked feet
knotted legs reach outskirts weave  
wander free as the forest grows      
sowing slow the harvest beneath                      
sedate to foster sticks and stones
nurturing bluffs of tangled trunks
overgrown postures and bent back bones
reveal agonies dim gallows
mocking mortal remains



Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
TerryD'ArcyRyan Oct 2018
the pull of a stare
a flicker of sparks
eyes meet so sweet
caught in the stare
cheek to lips a gentle brush
desire delivers in the click of a lock
hands clutch tight on your neck
a gripping strength, a slow squeeze
the mind dazed, a hunt to breathe
hardwired impulse, to a raw surging force
reaching, touching, the rise stricken
claws at hands in a grip
the steadfast capture
enforce of an iron reap
the heat and hiss of a monster
sounds a sharp slice in your ear
tears fall for God’s wretched care
the kiss dry's upon your cheek  

final is so clear
a silent suffocation
an impression sincere
pain defends the will to suffer
wounds heal and fade
separates the mind free to fear
a look of your outline is everywhere
turning quick to catch the heavy stare
caught off guard bows down to despair
the power deprived is no longer mine
broken twisted places it deep inside
drowning beneath a shallow surface
paralyzed by the danger of your kiss
stopped by a red light remembrance
fingers still search and retrace
the dignity ravaged in a waste
incapable of trust
I live buried alive
I look for you everywhere
I sleep on the furthest edge of a cliff
I wake trespassing the abyss



   Terry D'Arcy-Ryan
TerryD'ArcyRyan Mar 2018
knots and weaves
windward gales quickly deceive
ever moving the undertow
constant curves dip in the winds and below
blowing off the waters deep
leaving a mist so sweet
hand to cheek
blue waters press further
possessed by the wind
willful turbines stay in sync completing the cycle
shaping and sculpting the swells
creating an undertow struggling to be free
choose to swallow in pleasure
choose to wallow with the pain
an answer returns with demand
beating fists upon the sand
the wind answers back with violent command
to the tides, to the swells, to the surges, hit the rip current
so powerful, so aggressive, she intimidates
all to catch the craze
ocean, she see's and waves
man is met
sized and weighed


Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
TerryD'ArcyRyan Feb 2018
monstrous sound slashes silence
the bellow of a giant beast,
the flutter of a thousand wings
elevation and indiscriminate creed will not heed
sinister stirs the mix, the rise of wicked extravagance
black feathers flutter to bewilder against the pale frontier
the mock of a starlings flight, the fall in a sparrow’s might
countless sullen wings unfold, to rally their squadrons for show
a mobbing cry meets a redeeming sky,
their rising tones mimic heaven heralding high
contrast to the core, countless black rap-tor destroy
the fading blue sapphire display
a rebel twist in the storm suspends them again
harbingers dawning
a verge of wonder, stands close
the small dark outlines, bask a golden shine
peripheries slight motion, a graceful shimmer
perched as an alert, the slight snap of the fingers
a single feather cascades
turning in the elegant dance of a ballerina's descent
laying at the step vaguely pointing to the entrance,
the pride of a black bird,
there is no place for an Omen here,
one last frailty, is my secret near and dear

Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
TerryD'ArcyRyan Nov 2018
the embark of a new day
kilters to the hand on a rail
lost beside the meager display
ground down remains of prey

the shuffle of blind insist
a march of unraveled bliss
all aboard a near miss
no time to resist

time wanders a train
the slow motion of a stain
bends back the will
misery’s honor forever stills

a life within reach
belief lies beneath a mask
arms a pressing disguise
bangs at an irrespective demise

daydreams for impressions bloom  
cracked glass still reflects
the worlds mass on the move
turning hope in a kaleidoscope view

conflicts try a mind for limits
defend a paradox unseen  
the fury to push back mean
runs free while praying for a leash  


Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
When the dear donorcard bill's deliverance kills
& al-Keith McCamelton from Marakeshchester
inherits my corneas (I believe in unicorneas).

When I'm a recreational relic, comminuted & tooted,
chewed or voodoobied by a jejune hoochie *******
professional, Mama Shango - O that Mambo Sheena, she's a
ladydoctor of hooey! When my legbeforewicket bone a.k.a. shin,
not to menchin chin, grin, gelatin untoned (soamilar
to that o' Fatty Soames, who'll be quite a spread when
we eat the rich), & my fey ofay thighs
& my interthigh Fyffes (all fyffe inches), are finely ground
to a juju smeddum Mama Shango crumbles l/ homjom pollen
for a snirtle-haven even humdrum jumbies can't deaden.

When I'm a Uruguayan rugger teammate's
PTSDinner on an Andine ice plate.

When I'm past repulsive rasper, post-pulmonaryvascular massacre;
when I've given up my last gasp because I couldn't ever
make this gasper the last. When I've capitulated my Casper,
after gravel gurgle of my rale de la mort, after my outboardmotor
voicemail a la Monsieur Valdemar. When Alzheimer-
memorrhaging eulogists are ponderous & sotte voce,
as far removed as I at the time mine is up  
from the Fay Wrays, Screamin' Jays,
the rainbow rowdiness of orbling warbs & better days.

When I'm Senor Mucho Sueno, meeting Meesta
Mortimer Mortimer the missingmaker (this latter no
Gallup poll p'ruser, but that illimitable chooser
of every Ryan Otto Thyme from Calcutta to Corsica,
Kent to Lollapalooza). Whether gallbladder bleeders
or Gallipolosers, all of us were or will be absolosers
lapped like a catbowl by that mincemeat
mogul, Trim Reaper, jogging ahead to clock in
chisellaxed floruits where the hyphen's left hanging.  

When I'm dead as a coinop conversion,
depodiumed from 3initialled pantheon
of a special scartlead channel
for 8bitsprites' improbable kungfu,
by a hiscorewayman of the highest scorder,
Mombre's hombre & warriorthumbed wristola,
a lightening limpet on the d-pad
l/ Speedygonzalesterpiggot logrolling an e-dam home.
When I'm PK prey to this *******
of a flyingkickducker, some 'NewBieDie!'-greeting
PewDiePie-beating
finja-ninger l/  90s MooBiePie-
eating Arnold Schwarzensega of electronic yubiwaza,
Danny Curley. Jumplead cannulae in his Jabba The Shutt-in
bingo veins, Danny Curley foresees
w/ Pyrenese peerin' ease
my hadouken, counters w/ a shoryuken.
Game over. Fuqouken.

When I've gone beyond a shocking stroll
on a tumbledown terrain. When I'm jumbled
stoatskin unidentifiable remains.
When erstwhile strappingness is soil steroid,
gristle gift for the roses
'hind a urodorous hospice, when I'm lastminute
saprophytic herbal rohypnol for rose hipsters
(wifebeaters & musefloggers).
From a vulture's mulch blooms
damask artillery in the battle of the sexists,
botanical trope of blandishment
oftpictup w/ twenny Benson & Aspidistras
on a cancaining, Canaanwavy way home,
or requisitioned by a frugal doghouse ghoul
from gardens of engravings.

My carkedit plaque might caveat
'La vie was a lavvy but Eve was veal',
but Ms. Lilith Hewett,
she was sensual suet.
& my carkedit plaque might quote me that
'Life was ngandodowndilly wellingup for real',
yet fumiphant of  my crematory smignels
could divine Ms. Rosebud Bignold
16 again in a smile,  
in the cloud of my claripyre.
For when I'm husk past flames, hark the Sid James
squeal of my subcutaneous sizzling,
the memories of past glories haunter's quanta
among my charnel char, whithersoever it blows
once my urn's spurned.
In posthumous fernweh:
Nantucket, Hunstantucket, Saint-Tropez way?
Nah,the deadbody of a homebody
could not be more stuck in its ways.
For the dead are not so different to the living:
love makes us stay.
grand towering limbs
reach to meet
branches a flourishing keep
twigs to trunks create
a stretch to breathe
crooked seedlings bow in need
live to die, and sow to reap
sewn together a needle to seam
hand to cheek
a means plunges deep
moves a steady pulse to bleed
seeping shallows underneath
beating tree to tree
a hollow quant and sweet

free will drives the darkness
a gesture to greet
the animal unseen
shadows join in to deceive
the passerby and inbetweens
a hunter to a prey
the profile of trees  
dazed in the headlight beams
outline reality as a thief
stealing moments
yet to be
the forgotten trinkets  
hang from trees

a keepsake for a figurine
trapped beads concede
to a broken string
fall along the wayside
finding hope is still free
playing content in the wind
chasing tossed debris
gathering leaves
one by on they fall weak
remnant colors in deceit
raise to a scatter
a boundless retreat
content to repeat
the redeeming sweep


Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
Ryan O'Leary Jan 28
Jacob Rees-Mogg
had offered May a
Broiled ERG for her
Brexit, but, as there
was nothing to toast,
she just had freshly
squeezed Orange,
Ordered, then, she
looked out, at yet
another Ryan Air
Jet, with a Harp, and
no strings attached!
Ryan P Kinney Jul 2018
by Ryan P. Kinney
Assembled from works by J.M. Romig and Chuck Joy

I glance out of my driver’s side window
and see a boy
trudging miserably down an expanse of windswept prairie
big sky, maybe one persistent contrail up there
establishing the general era, airplanes fly
People, still, do not

a road crosses this windswept prairie
a dirt path really with twin ruts
a boy came walking up that road many years ago
homesick from summer camp
he couldn’t be without his mother

If time is fluid, like the oceans
then maybe I’m glancing over as a wave breaks
I couldn’t tell you how many times
I made that journey on foot
my heels throbbing, my legs begging to be broken
my hitchhiker’s thumb, had given up all hope at that point

Later a teenager passed in the other direction
his essence radiating awkwardness
this long haired kid,
just turned thirteen
wore hand me down boots that are too big for his feet,
ripped jeans, and a bookbag slung across his shoulder
in the dying days of July
whispering under his breath
maybe reciting poetry
or telling himself a story
running fast, he couldn’t wait for his bright future

I think about giving him a ride
to wherever I may be going
where more drive than ride
some have stopped driving, for various reasons
some lose the ability to drive before they pass

but then I remember all the lessons I’ve learned
from time-travel movies
the one universal rule being not to meddle with the past
something about a butterfly’s wings flapping in Beijing
and a tsunami in New Orleans
so, instead I honk my horn
and the traffic light turns green

I watch the boy,
who might have been in some distant past,
look on with curious anger as the car passes
for a moment
then returns to the story already in progress

not much traffic on this path anymore
but yesterday a guy came by riding a Segway
said he was on the way to visit his mother’s grave
said she died a pioneer to this lonely country

he grows tinier and tinier
in my rear view mirror
no longer even special
here in the middle of nowhere
until he is yesterday again
TerryD'ArcyRyan Oct 2018
trapped in a snare
captivated by the glare
a primitive trap its clear
the startle from a borrowed gesture
provoked the out gunned deer
trespassing all fear
a perch the measure of a wire
hovering the dawn of a fighter

conviction is the large leaps
belief the hesitant small steps
slumber holds every wonder
keeps your eyes on the prize
hope is still the promise
beating rain from the sky
bliss performs a final trick
now yellow bricks are only bricks

cannot choose a side
constitutes a place to abide
self preservation yields
an action ambivalent to strife
the cowardly deceit
a willing disguise
once upon a time
begins again, and despite

feeds the hand of despair
narrows the mind
bleeds what remains
slowly carves a heart in vain
free to balance a chain
the high price of pain
renders a perpetual device
incapable of compromise

push back or die
swallow the vile
be the end to denial
nothing is final
the fire inside struggle
rises beyond rubble
shines for a reluctant fighter
captivated by the glare
trapped in a snare


                                            Terry Darcy-Ryan
Her baby was buried
in a grave alongside 827 other babies.

Who knew no mothers.

Her mother thought it best
to let the nuns help her sell the child to the Americans.

The babies would have had names like Dermot, Aoife, Sandra and Sean

"Would have" isn’t an awfully good thing to think about.

It was a typically miserable November Sunday
When they brought her over there
after that last mass.

Unrelated to this, there is a launderette named the Magdalene
in the city I live in, which is nowhere near Tipperary but in the East of England.
In fairness, it is located on Magdalen Street, without the second “e”,
A once rough and tumble but now up and coming kind of place,
where among the students and young professionals getting their whites cleaned
the only ones likely to take offense at this are students of history or the named émigré children of
Irish parents.
I’ve been told it’s now a chain of launderettes, but I imagine the owners have enough on their mind
without constantly Googling their services.

When they let her out of the home for troubled girls,
it was the warmest July she’d ever seen.

Some days the baby’s name is Michael, others it’s Matthew, recently, it’s been Corey, Ryan, even Sean.

But she never wishes that it would have been a girl.
The Fifth Interim Report of the Commission of Investigation into Mother and Baby Homes in Ireland was released to the public yesterday, April 18th 2019. These "Homes" facilitated the birth and adoption programs instituted by the Catholic Church in Ireland, with the purpose of incarcerating women who fell pregnant outside of marraige. The mother and babies who did not survive life in these non-hospital envoirns were buried in mass graves in sites such as that of Tuam, co. Galway. The full report can be located here https://www.dcya.gov.ie/documents/mother_and_baby_homes/20190416Mother&BabyHomesBurials5thInterimReport.pdf
Eugene Oct 2018
"Ilabas ninyo ang kuya namin!" sigaw ni Mon.

"KUYA! Kami to mga kapatid mo!" sigaw naman ni Jef.

Halos magambala na ang mga kapitbahay sa kalye Casa dahil sa ingay ng pagsisigaw ng magkakapatid. Mahigit sampung taon na rin nilang hinahanap ang kanilang nakatatandang kapatid. At may nakapagsabi sa kanilang nasa kalye Casa lamang ito at kasama ang tunay nitong mga kapatid.

"Anong problema ninyo ha? Nakakaistorbo na kayo sa kabilang at sa kalye rito. Sino ba hinahanap niyo ha?" lumabas ang isang matangkad na lalaki at nagsalita sa kanila.

"Alam naming nandito ang kuya Regie naman. Ilabas niyo siya!" sigaw ni Mon.

"Walang Regie dito. At sino kayo? Ni hindi ko nga kayo kilala e," sagot ni ng lalaki.

"Kilala ka namin at ikaw ang nakatatandang kapatid namin. Magkakapatid tayo sa ama. Ikaw si kuya Ryan," wika ulit ni Mon.

"Ah ganun ba? Bakit hindi ko yata alam? Sino bang tatay ang tinutukoy mo?" takang-taka ang mukha ni Ryan nang sabihin nito na magkapatid daw sila sa ama.

"Hindi ikaw ang sadya namin dito. Ilabas mo ang kuya namin!" wika ni Jef. Agad siyang nakipagpatintero upang makapasok sa loob ng bahay. Pero napigilan ito ni Ryan.

"At anong karapatan mo, ninyo na pumasok sa bahay ko? Kayo ba ang may-ari?" mataas na ang boses ni Ryan nang mga sandaling iyon pero nanatili pa rin siyang mahinahon dahil ayaw niyang gumulo pa. "Ang mabuti pa ay umuwi na lang kayo. Walang Regie dito. Nagkamali kayo ng pinuntahan."

"Hindi kami aalis dito. Alam naming nasa loob ang kuya namin. Ilabas niyo siya?" nagpupumilit pa rin si Mon at bigla na lamang niyang iwinaksi ang kamay ni Ryan na nakaharang sa pintuan ng kaniyang bahay. Hindi naman hinayaan ni Ryan na makapasok ito at doon ay ibinuhos na ang kaniyang galit.

"SUBUKAN NINYONG MAGPUMILIT PA NA MAKAPASOK! Ipapa-barangay ko na kayong lahat!" halos kita na ang mga ugat sa leeg ni Ryan sa pagsigaw nito sa kanila. Pero hindi pa rin natinag ang magkakapatid.

"Wala kaming pakialam kung iyan ang gusto mo!" bulyaw naman ni Mon.

Magsisimula na sana ang matinding kaguluhan sa pagitan ni Ryan at ng magkakapatid nang isang boses ang kanilang narinig.

"Sino ba ang hinahanap ninyo ha?" wika nito at mula sa likuran ni Ryan ay nakita nito ang kaniyang kapatid na inaalayan ng isa pa niyang kapatid. Mangiyak-ngiyak naman ang magkakapatid na Mon at Jeff nang makita ang pakay nila.

"Kuya! Kuya Regie!" magkasabay na tawag nila sa pangalan nito.

"Sinong maysabi sa inyo na lapitan ang kuya Ron ko ha?" sigaw naman ng isang binata na nakaalalay kay Ron.

"Hayaan mo muna sila Anghel," saway nito sa kapatid na patuloy pa rin sa pag-aalay kay Ron.

"Kuya, ako ito, si Mon at kasama ko si toto Jef. Kuya, miss ka na namin. Uwi na tayo, please!" nang mga oras na iyon ay nanatiling walang emosyon si Ron sa mga salitang kaniyang naririnig.

"Hindi ako si Regie at lalong hindi ako ang kuya ninyo. Wala akong kapatid na Jeff at Mon. Anghel lang at kuya Ryan ang mayroon ako. Kaya, pakiusap umalis na kayo rito!" wika ni Ron.

"Kuya, bakit? Ano ba ang nangyari? Anong ginawa niyo sa kuya namin ha?" nagtatakang tanong ni Mon nang mapansin sa iisang direksyon lang ito nakatingin.

"Bulag ang kuya Ron namin. Naaksidente siya. Kaya kung maaari ay lisanin niyo na ang bahay namin dahil hindi ito makabubuti sa kaniyang pagpapagaling. Pakiusap," sagot ni Anghel.

"Kuya. Alam naming ikaw iyan. Ikaw si kuya Regie namin. Ikaw ang tumulong sa amin nang mga oras na kailangan ka namin at nandito na kami upang kami na ang mag-alaga sa iyo. Please bumalik ka na sa amin. Nakikiusap kami kuya Regie. Kuya Ryan, payagan niyo na po kaming iuwi kuya namin," parang gripong sunod sunod sa pag-agos ang mga luha ni Mon.

"Walang isasama! Hindi niyo siya kuya. Kuya namin siya! Umalis na kayo rito!" bulyaw ni Anghel. Naitulak ni Anghel si Mon at muntik na itong matumba. Nang makabawi ay sinuntok niya si Anghel sa mukha at nakipagsuntukan na rin ito kay Mon. Pilit namang nakikinig at nakikiramdam si Ron sa mga pangyayari.

"ITIGIL NINYO 'YAN!" sigaw nang sigaw si Ron pero tila walang nakakarinig. Panay naman ang awat ni Jef at Ryan kina Mon at Anghel. Hindi na nakatiis si Ron at muli itong sumigaw.

"TITIGIL KAYO O AKO ANG AALIS!" lahat ay napalingon kay Ron at maagap na bumalik si Anghel sa tabi ng kaniyang kuya upang pigilan ito.

"Sorry, kuya," pagpaumanhin ni Anghel.

"Kayong dalawa, Jeff at Mon, pakiusap. Ayaw ko ng gulo. Umuwi na kayo dahil walang Regie sa pamamahay na ito. Hindi ko kayo kilala at lalong wala akong matandaang tinulungan ko kayo bago pa ako maaksidente. Kaya, umuwi na kayo!"

Hindi naman nakapagsalit sina Jef at Mon. Mabibigat ang mga paang nilisan nila ang bahay na iyon na patuloy pa rin sa pag-iyak dahil nabigo silang iuwi ang kanilang kuya Regie.

Habang papalayo naman ang magkapatid ay doon na bumigay si Ron at hindi na napigilan ang pag-agos ng kaniyang mga luha. Ang totoo ay kilala niya sila ngunit ayaw na niyang matali pang muli sa nakaraan. Masaya na siyang malaman na ang kaniyang mga step brothers ay nasa mabuti nang kalagayan. Kahit sa kaloob-looban ng kaniyang puso ay sabik din itong mayakap sila pero naipangako niya sa kaniyang sarili na kalimutan na niya ang kaniyang pinagmulan at ang mga taong naging bahagi ng kaniyang nakaraan. Nais niyang ituon na lamang sa kaniyang tunay na mga kapatid ang pagmamahal na hindi niya naiparamdam sa mga ito buhat nang sila ay nawalay sa isa't isa.
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2018
En France il y a
Mille Feuille
(a thousand layers)

William Wordsworth
said about daffodils
(ten thousand saw I at a glance)


In Ireland they say
Céad Míle Fáilte
(a hundred thousand welcomes)


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This today dear readers is my
(1,000th poem for 2018 since Jan 1st)

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Ryan O'Leary
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