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Kimmy-Nichole Jul 2011
so this just in.
last night, after a grueling  day of nanny-ing, I went to  the davis consignment store and broused around   finding some numerous  cute tops and shorts as well as purchasing 2 new books to add to my reading collection ( i just finished the time travelers wife.)
so than  around 4pm  I  was heading to B st  where I   was meeting with my future roomate, who by the was amazingly nice and pretty and has a boyfriend and turns 21 in september. Im so excited to leave parkside apts - living in north davis is such a drag. Central Davis here I come  ( Ill be living   5 minutes to  UC davis, an amazing arbotreum, pools, the davis Arc and frat  row and party city. This is going to be the best thing  that has happened to me.)
So after that  I went back to my  apt  and as giddly as ever, called my mom to  tell her my amazing roomate  news.   ( mY moms finally really proud of me. I am working 2 full time jobs as a nanny  from 8:30 am  to 2:30 pm than my night nanny job  4:30 pm to 5:30 am except on wed thur fridays.)
so it being my night off, i   figured why not go out.  so my apartment neighbor whom i met at the gym friend jesse who is 29, studied as a foreign exchange student in finland for a year, gotten a dui, is a davis townie, went to a  college called will-am-eit  and was in a fraternity out there. he is fun to go out with and bar hop in downtown with; the last time i was  out with jesse, i went to a bar called sophias than later on met up with my ex crush who is this charming dbag from winters named chad and got fun drunk. Well in aims for that spirit again we started off  by drinking and laughing at my apt . we decided to go lay out by the hot tub  and drank beer  being sillly kids. we decided to hit up downtown davis for this bar called the grad. It was beach themed  country line dancing night. Yeah , being alone because  your friend is off showing off his line dancing with precision kinda moves and meeting line dancing babes in bikinis ...awkward for sure. so amungst bying my own 2 beers which were hand picked by my big  and sure of himself bartender, which eventually  led to my  very  interesting night of drunken madness. It kicked off on as previously mentioned on the way to the grad which lead to me leaving with this older woman in a cab to another bar that was supposed to be more enertaining.  I ended up forgetting my id at the grad, my phone was dead and to top it all off  i didnt know anyone s number at the top of my head.  i decided to take matters in to my own feet and chose to hoof it back to my apt on f street. god, what a long and stupering night that was.  when i finally made it, out of exhaustion and drunkness , i  collided onto my neighbors couch still in    last nights outfit. karla  woke me up at 7 :30 and i showered  feeling super ****** and groggy , i couldnt eat or drink. I had work at 8:30. not feeling so hot, i was slowly getting through the day. the kids and i all layed on and under blankets and stuffed animals, and i told stories. it was really cute and relaxing. i love those kids.prior to that i threw up. after that it was time to drop off timothy at therapy, than abigail and abraham at speech therapy. I threw up in the bathroom, and on the sideof the minivan in front of ruth and timothy. ugh.    
so  than after i talked to my neighbor  slash ex boyfriend patrick about getting in connection with a a herb that helps me feel better by increasing my appittie and helping me sleep. he provided wth that special  herb. while sitting and smoking, i felt the spark that we used to have. i confessed to sleeping with a guy i met in newport two weeks ago on the fourth of july when i went back home. patrick told me he has hooked up with this slutty townie girl, and i wish them both std free happyness.

here i am typing away , getting sleepier and sleepier. Tonight will be a  early night indeed. i love my new spirit and i love who i am. i love where i am going. i will not exceed more alcohol than my tiny light weight body can handle.. Well it feels good to write. i know i must get back on that writing more often. until next time,
-Kimmy
Duke Thompson Jun 2015
The Great Newfoundland novel (summation)

A young man brimming with
Townie **** and vinegar or
Bay boy brimming with obnoxious  bravado

Eventually he leaves and discovers
How people  treat fellow man
Seemingly beaten down
Genetic history Of Newfoundland Truck System

Alongside founders population variance,
Upward spike in heart disease, stroke, diabetes, cancers

Lurks engrained learned hopelessness
Smouldering in "Newfie" jokes
You'd better hope I let it slide
Unless you wanna find out
What a peat moss bog smells like
Or how it feels to freeze to death
Tied to a crucifix
"Man, I can't stand the people who just panhandle and heckle the passersby. It's not their job to support your lifestyle and/or habits! I had one friend who was just harassing people; hey man, leave them the **** alone! I just wanted to punch him in the ******* face. Get a job, ya ***! Trim some **** or some ****!"

"Heh, yeah.. people can be obtrusive about some things.. I still like to try to help if I can; I mean, we're all in this together."

"I don't want your ******* money! Well, I mean, I have a job; I could go over to that ATM and take my money out and spend it.. .but why the **** would I want to?  I only say that 'cause some ******* **** me off. Support yourself, like the rest of the Natural World, you selfish *****!"

"Well, I'd feel better with my cash in hand than in some bank owned by some greedy, shifty, slick, loophole-******* *******."

"Wait a second, boy, do you paint your fingernails?"

"..Yes."

"Are you hetero******?"

"... yes."

"Okay, just checkin'. I'm just curious. I don't care what you do with your **** as long as you're responsible and don't **** with well-meaning girls' hearts and ****. We got too many diseased and pregnant *******. People deserve better than that stupid ****. Some of 'em like being treated like objects, though. Them's the filthy'ns."

"Ookay.. thanks for the advice. I'm going to be on my way now. Have a great day."

"Alright. Don't be an ******* to anyone until they show that they deserve it! Be a ******* Person to other ******* People, you know what I mean, boy?"

"Yep, I sure do. It's been an experience; good morning."
This just happened.
Everybody knows
Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic
as the Three "R's" you need
Without them
you'll go nowhere
and never will succeed

Writing...that's a W
and Arithmetic an A
so, who ever came up
With "Three "R's"
was having a bad day

Now, go and ask a cowboy
what the three "R's"
are to him
You'll get a different answer
I'll bet you
one to ten

Ropin', Ridin' and Rodeo
The cowboy's three R list
Reading, Writing, Arithmetic
the big three that I missed

But if they do not have the first three
They are not a cowboy
not a chance
they're just another townie
just another fancy pants

So, to be a proper cowboy
there's six "R's"
they must know
the first three
along with
ridin', ropin, and
rodeo
Lucius Furius Dec 2021
"Janice, I sat next to you in Latin.
We were sophomores.
You were a cheerleader
but smart too.
The excitement was unbearable
(Cicero; the shape of your sweater . . . ).
I asked you to play tennis."
"You did never."
"Yes, I did."
"I suppose I didn't want to get sweaty."
"So then you would have gone with me to a movie?"
"No, I doubt it. . . . I was a brat."
"You were divine.
I wrote a poem for you in Latin."
  
"Lynda, we met at The Three Penny Opera.
You were an usher.
I was a college student; you were in high school."
"Yes, a 'townie'."
"I put my arm around you.
I stroked your hair.
When I tried to kiss you on the forehead our noses collided."
"I was expecting a lip kiss."
"It was a powerful attraction,
but it wouldn't have worked."
"No, we could have made great love,
but it wouldn't have lasted."
  
"Gina, you lived on that 'hippie farm'
at the edge of town.
I was the 'knowing elder',
the one who'd worked on a real farm.
You were so high-energy, so alluring.
Guys flocked to you:
William and Michael; Davy, back home;
sexually involved with all of them."
"Not Michael really."
"You seduced me--
I think you wanted to make William jealous--
not that I was unwilling. . . .
I was, however, impotent."
"I wanted adventure and, yes, I suppose I did want to make
       William jealous."
"Our intimacy awakened me.
I realized what I'd been missing.
Your rejection was devastating."
"I didn't mean to hurt you.
I didn't know you were so fragile."
  
"Carla, I loved you in your apartment.
It was all softness and warmth;
**** carpet, soft bed,
Carole King on the stereo. . . .
We slept together, showered together."
"I really listened to Carole King?"
"Your parents were divorcing.
You didn't have time for a relationship."
"I don't think I was ready."
"Just as I was overcoming my impotency. . . ."
  
"Sarah, I loved you on a camping trip.
We kissed at dusk in the Great Smoky Mountains."
"I remember."
"I felt so connected--
physically, intellectually, emotionally.
You smiled with your whole face, with your whole being.
I wanted to be with you steadily.
You said it wouldn't work.
I guess you were right:
I couldn't love someone who couldn't love me completely.
When we parted,
I cried uncontrollably."
"Yes,
I remember."
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_037_former.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
undefined Feb 2013
found out my friend's husband had a stroke,
he's in a wheelchair now
corporate America has bought
all the places where i use to hang out


"fry street" is now townie's
the whole vibe's kind of moved to the square
and those run down old apartments
have a waiting list up to six years



a place where ya use to drink all night,
play chess, or stop to cool your head
now sales sandwiches
made all... on Pita Bread

there's a place beside where the "hack-circle" is no more
that says "crusty.." something by the door

making it clear that my days of 'rad' are dead
(screwit)
i think i'll get a bite down at "banter" instead
wrote this while exploring my town again the other day
ahhh, still like taking walks down memory lane ...

this isn't very good i think hahahh, but my roommate likes it, so i'll leave it here :)
Wk kortas Dec 2016
It was not smoke getting in my eyes;
More likely the third shot of Wild Turkey
In relatively short order
Which made my eyes a bit misty.
I had come up North to that cold cow country north of the Thruway,
Ostensibly to reconnect with the prospective love of my life
To start anew, to set things aright
(She was a grad student, Electrical Engineering
But not precise at all--she was mercurial, Plath-esque,
Prone to both epochs of silent introspection
And inexplicable spontaneous combustions of rage.
I heard later she’d dropped out of the program
Without a word to advisors or anyone else.)
It had not ended up hearts and flowers,
The breakup, which left feelings bruised and china broken,
Was both unpleasant and irrevocable,
So with an evening to **** before the next day’s flight
(Out of Ottawa, **** near a two hour drive)
I was haunting a bar stool
At the prototypical North Country townie bar:
An endless series of the owner’s cousins jamming on stage,
Several dogs wandering the premises
A veritable kaleidoscope of buffalo plaid
In shades of red, green, and gray.
In such places on such occasions, somebody ends up as your buddy,
Which is how I came to be doing shots with one of the regulars
Who listened intently, sympathetically to my particular tale of woe
Until such point he blurted out (if one can blurt something sotto voce)
I used to bone a girl in the nuthouse up in Ogdensburg.

The particulars of the liaison came gushing out like whitewater;
He’d been laid off from the Alcoa plant up in Massena,
And landed a temp job at the state mental hospital.
There had been, so he said, no shy romancing, no overt flirtation
(And as my drinking buddy pro tem put it,
It’s not like we could do dinner and a movie)
She’d simply followed him out to the trash compactor
And, the whining of cardboard
Going to meet its maker serving as cover,
They had simply let Nature take its course.

The girl was not like the other denizens
Of that particular soft-walled motel,
A broken factory-second of a human being;
Christ, she was beautiful, he lamented,
Red hair, skin like half-and-half,
Green eyes that ate you up and spit you back out again
.
He’d never been able to figure out the attraction--
I was just a schlub guy who’d never had anything but schlub girls
But he said that she’d told him she loved him--no more than that,
He was her very salvation, the feeling mutual enough that he said
If I’d been there any longer,
I probably would have tried to bust her out myself.


He found out later that she’d been put inside for killing her old man,
Hacking him into dog-food sized bits,
Then walling up the pieces in her dining room,
But he insisted, slapping his palm on the bar,
Swear to God, even if I knew that
I would have risked sneaking her over the border anyway
.  
I asked why he’d never tried to hook up with her on the outside.
He stared straight ahead for a few moments.  
I dunno.  I heard she hung herself, but I dunno.
We drank more or less in silence after that,
As there wasn’t a hell of lot more either of us could say,
And as I drove the sparseness of southern Ontario the next morning,
I said a silent thanks to whom or whatever kept me
From giving voice to the urge to express my respect and admiration
For any woman with the ability to hang drywall.
Zachary William Feb 2018
I can taste the cheap beer
and hear the people screaming
to be heard over the bass-driven
music being blasted by a DJ
even though I'm too afraid to go
out in case I run into one
of the many ghosts of my pasts
Terry Collett Jun 2012
That’s a Small Skipper
Jane said

And that’s a Clouded yellow
as two butterflies

flittered overhead
as you both lay

in the tall grass
on the side

of the Downs
and you followed

her finger
as it indicated

the butterflies’ flight
and then they were gone

and she gazed at you
and said

What?
How do you know

the names of things?
I’m a country girl

not a townie like you
she replied

her lips moulding
the words like a potter

moulds clay
and you caught a whiff

of her perfume
carried on the calm breeze

over your heads
and you looked

at her there
in the grass

her head turned back
to the sky

her eyes reflecting
the summer blue

and her left leg
bent upwards

so that her knee
stood naked

beneath the sun
and her right hand

lay next to yours
the white blouse

open at the neck
and she said

I often used to lay here
alone listening

to the overhead birds
and the winds’ moan

watching tractors
in the fields below

and mother wondering
where I was

And now?
you asked

Does she wonder
where you are now?

she turned her head
and gazed at you

No not now
she knows I’m with you

and that I’m showing you
the store of nature

and the panoramic view
And she trusts you?

you asked
sensing her hand

touch yours
the flesh warm

and soft
She trusts you

Jane said
and another butterfly

fluttered by
like a ballerina overhead.
Terry Collett Jul 2012
The summer sun
warmed you and Jane

as you made your way
up the dried up

muddy track
towards the Downs

the sunlight
pouring through

the branches of trees
overhead

you thinking
of your work

on the farm below
the day before

the weighing of the milk
the clearing out

of cowsheds
and the cowman saying

what do you want to do
when you leave school?

to be a cowman
you replied

you want to get yourself
a proper job

you don’t want to do this
for a living

and Jane said
breaking you

from your thoughts
I want to show you

where I used to sit on the Downs
and where I used to collect

bones and skeletons of rabbits
and moles and birds

and you turned
and looked at her

as she walked beside you
her hands swinging

as she walked
her black hair tied

in a small bun
at the back

and her yellowy flowered dress
capturing your eyes

my father works in the woods
further along

you said
he works in the ditches

and hedgerows too
she bent down

and plucked a flower
that’s Squinancywort

she said
showing you the flower

as she twirled it
between fingers

she offered it to you to smell
lovely isn’t it?

you nodded
and carried the scent

with you as you both
moved on up the track

she turned to you and said
your dad does well

at his work for a townie
and you smiled

and so did she
and you captured

her lips parting
and her bright white teeth

and her eyes
moving over you

like a soft caress
and she whispered

turning her head away
do you love me?

and you whispered
yes.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2019
DIRECTIONS

I’m heading West
(where ever that is) .

I march off into the distance
of field & sky.

West is where
my uncle is.

I cut through
the heat haze.

My uncle’s dinner
wrapped up in a scarf on the end of a stick

as if I am
running away into forever.

Tea slops in an old milk bottle
with a piece of cloth as a stopper.

I stare into the empty air
as if suddenly I will discover there

a sign saying:
“West – this way! ”

My Auntie Nellie’s instructions
still stamped on the inside of my stupid skull.

“Go west into the field
with your Uncle Michael’s dinner.

“Tell him. . .”

Me too terrified to tell her
I don’t know
where West is?

Typical townie!

I search the farm field by field
‘till I finally find him

sprouting out of a field
with a cloud attached to his head

beside the broken rickety gate
where the tiniest ever wild strawberries grow.

So this is where West is!

Why didn’t she say so in the first place!
This I know!

Why send me like a fool on a child’s errand!

My uncle devours everything ‘cept
the scarf & the stick.

Tells me
(“Oh no! ”)

to go South to where Uncle Seanie is

and. . .
Antony Glaser Aug 2016
That nobody editor from Leeds
she thinks she can tell us
who should write the garden reviews
She likes to think she"s backbone of the society
she's a townie from a town
too small for its yolk.
One day I push her into some thorny
spinoza
that be a gadfly for her big mouth
Mitchell Mar 2014
The night is nigh too close for
The weathered sword of her love hangs
Like a pendulum in stormed' weather.

Break fast, the leather neath' her eye
Is worn two years far the past.
Since then, since her daughter passed,
Thoughts are merely illusory illusions.

She swears love and fear are the same.
I tell her different, though she swears by it.
In her eyes though, I can see the damp sweat
Of the beat of a million lost battlefields,
A dying trumpet call sounding for every forgotten solider.

Laying there, cramped and despaired',
I wonder if her father knows what he has done.
There are scars so deep they turn invisible;
Cuts so long they are but miles on an infinite cloud.
Each pasture holds its fruit until it is time to pick.

At night, the fields glow like stars wilted on the waves of the ocean.
We are men with tepid souls waiting for our loneliness to be broken.
A stern hand, a fatherly hand, a grip that said, Speak when spoken.
Great clock. Golden hands. Spinning for all that see that land.
No peace shall we find with God. Peace rests solely in our skinned' hand.

A broken neck sleeps with the dirt,
And though I hurt, I rest inside of the mud,
Receiving golden studs from horses whose names
Are not the same as the Gods I was brought up with.

Belts bend with the bullet crazed war so long
As the generals have their milk, their maidens, and their pudding.
She bends her brow toward the table, where I soon see
Her misfortune of antiquated loyalty.

Some men are born to be together.
Some men are born to be alone.

Since then, the hens lay their silver eggs like war chores.
An exhale and the tenses go all soft in the smoke.
She cries like she's never experienced pain before, yet I know,
Human beings were born to go through such a blow.
Create yourself from the clay,
Laying waste to all hands that touch thee' in their minds eye.

Due daises dare to stake the fake
That rests between the cracks of the chosen seed.
My oil, pressed black and clean like laundry,
Reminds me of a man named David - a ***** townie.
Since when have I then addressed love as a real thing, since now?

Tangible, we are.
Infallible, we are not.
Infinite, some are.
Forgettable, we all are.

Let our tags wear with the salt water
Of the ocean, the Earth, the millennia;

Till our
Time to
Burn has

Come.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
DIRECTIONS

I’m heading West
(where ever that is) .

I march off into the distance
of field & sky.

West is where
my uncle is.

I cut through
the heat haze.

My uncle’s dinner
wrapped up in a scarf on the end of a stick

as if I am
running away into forever.

Tea slops in an old milk bottle
with a piece of cloth as a stopper.

I stare into the empty air
as if suddenly I will discover there

a sign saying:
“West – this way! ”

My Auntie Nellie’s instructions
still stamped on the inside of my stupid skull.

“Go west into the field
with your Uncle Michael’s dinner.

“Tell him. . .”

Me too terrified to tell her
I don’t know
where West is?

Typical townie!

I search the farm field by field
‘till I finally find him

sprouting out of a field
with a cloud attached to his head

beside the broken rickety gate
where the tiniest ever wild strawberries grow.

So this is where West is!

Why didn’t she say so in the first place!
This I know!

Why send me like a fool on a child’s errand!

My uncle devours everything ‘cept
the scarf & the stick.

Tells me
(“Oh no! ”)

to go South to where Uncle Seanie is

and. . .
HeWhoExplores Sep 2019
Guided by thick blankets of fog; Morning-time

Anxious thinking remains her close ally during this journey

The wooing of the spring winds clamber fourth

And as the dire dredge towards Santiago de Compostela carries on; she stops

Her pursuit of a goal takes a momentary crash

This heroine remains nameless, but only to a select few

As she paces along the lonesome road, where silence sleeps

A single tear, channelled from her right eye; falls

Her map makes for confused reading, a blinded book

Darting around for new meaning, a whisper of life is summoned

A townie owl, a juvenile of sorts

Sits atop a moss laden branch, its eye’s so wide

And in this moment of hesitation, the circular sun rises from its slumber

Bursting to life with energy

The road awakens

A passage? Perhaps

She marches on; hopeful

    Doubtless
Terry Collett Jan 2015
Isn't it a lovely day
and O look at this snow
and how it covers
everything like

a huge great cloth
and the birds still come
to the bushes for food
and I love it

Jane says
and I meet her
by the back gate
of the cottage

and I look at her
standing there
in a woollen hat
and scarf and gloves

and a grey overcoat
and boots
and she's happy
and her eyes sparkle

as if candles
had been lit there
it's a bit cold
I say

opening the gate
and watch as the snow
that was sitting on top
falls to the ground

O you townie boys
this is how it is
in winter
here in the countryside

and where's your
big coat?
I have a jacket on
and an old scarf

and gloves
my mother knitted
and my jeans
and two jumpers

I haven't got one yet
I close the gate
behind me
so that next doors mutt

doesn't get out
onto the country lane
don't you have
winter in London?

sure we do
but it seems different
like an invasion
not a bit natural

as it seems here
I say
we walk down the lane
beside the cottage

the high hedges
are covered in snow
the ground is inches deep
in whiteness

I feel the coldness
bite at my toes
I look at her
as we go down

the winding lane
and she's so happy
so alive
and I want to hold her

and seep some
of that warmth
into me
but I don't

I just look out
at the fields beyond
like a spread
of white sea.
A BOY AND GIRL IN A SUSSEX LANE IN 1961
Wk kortas Jul 2017
She is lying on her side, propped up on one elbow
(Her visits are infrequent, always unannounced,
But welcome all the same, more or less)
Affecting a smile which is as adorable as it is inscrutable,
Abed with but not quite next to me,
As she insists on a bundling board between us
(Not due to any chaste modesty on her part, God knows,
But, as she says in her best Blossom Dearie sing-song,
I don’t bestow my favors on just anyone.)
She floats back to this plane of consciousness
From some reverie, some flight of fancy
Her gestures and expressions
Reflect the practiced repertoire of the veteran actress.
Tell me a story, she exhorts
(I have asked her in the past why she never regales me with a tale,
To which she fixes me with a nearly benign
And wholly silent smile.)
And so, having received my marching orders, I proceed.

We knew these guys, I began
(Thus signaling yet another tale
Residing firmly in the once-upon-a-time camp)
Who moved off campus to an old house near Analomink.
A shambling old thing
Which had been added-to and cobbled-together
To the point of an adequate habitability,
(Not that the code inspector could find the place,
Let alone bother with it)
Providing shelter from the elements
As well as the occasionally inconvenient
In loco parentis  of Residential Life,
Leaving them to certain extra-legal proclivities
In the consumption and manufacture of sundry consumables
(The back yard was a warren of copper kettles, tubing, and wire
And the word was they made their own acid in a back bathroom)
Their Merry Prankster-esque weekend excursions
From campus to liquor store to homestead,
Carried out in various states of impairment
And general disrepair of the central nervous system,
Becoming the stuff of legends and let-me-tell-you this tales,
As these were heady, open-ended days,
Mortality being a thing for hundred-level classes
In Norse mythology and cellular biology,
But one time the boys made one of those Saturday night decisions
To combine microdots and cross-country skiing,
And one of them, known to all and sundry as Mad Jack
(Georgia-bred and majoring in academic probation,
His undergraduate career a reverse Sherman’s march northward
From one undistinguished institution to another;
He’d left us shortly thereafter
For some state school just below the Canadian border)
Had failed to show back at the house.
There was frantic, perplexed debate what to do next;
Surely the authorities should be notified,
But that would require an on-site presence of the gendarmerie,
With the subsequent prospect
Of dismissal and possible confinement.
Sunday afternoon came, all whistling freezing rain and wind,
And, just as they were ready to lift the receiver and gravely dial,
Jack burst in the doorway, grinning and chirping madly
About how he’d hooked up with a townie divorcee in Stroudsburg
Dude, you’re full of **** and covered in mud,
One of his roomies stammered,
But Mad Jack simply chattered on, saying that her boyfriend
Had showed up unexpectedly,
And that he’d had to beat it through a window
Standing half-dressed in the cold for a couple of hours
While they’d argued loudly and then equally loudly made up.
Hell of a night, huh boys?,
And then Jack laughed the laugh of the living,
******, isn’t someone gonna get me a beer?

So whatever became of all your friends?, my companion asks me
I shrug my shoulders, empty palms extending upward
As if expecting someone to toss a quarter
Or some other alms my way.
Don’t know for the most part.  Jobs, marriages, life its ownself.
She fixes me with the better part of a pout,
Not much of an answer, is it?
I have very little to say for myself at this point,
Save to offer up another little shrug,
And she says Well, we do what we can with what we have,
And before I can ask her what she means by that,
She has turned away from me and burrowed into the sheets,
All but indistinguishable from the covers themselves.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2020
PÚCA ULCHABHÁN( GHOST OWL)


"So, it's afraid of the dark y'are?"
Uncle Mikey squints at me.

I give a nod hoping
the dark doesn't hear me.

This is not just dark
but country dark.

Unable to even catch sight of
my own hand in front of my face.

As if the darkness
had solidified around me.

My body melted away
and I only a tangle of thoughts

floating through the air
being both there and not there.

"Sure don't ya know
your grandfather was born a ghost!"

Uncle Mikey attempts to
comfort my six year old self

"And sure wasn't your grandmother
a banshee for over a century or more!"

Granny in her chair
turns up her eyes.

I sit stunned at
all these revelations.

"And your grandfather
had a terrible habit of

turning into
an owl!"

I can hardly believe
what I am hearing.

"So if the dark
ever comes after ya..."

"Yes...yes...!"
I wait with baited breath.

"Then your grandfather
will give a hoot and

no one not even the dark will argue
with a  a natural born ghost!"

Outside an owl hoots.
Uncle smiles to himself.

After that the dark can't
lay a finger on me.

*

Nyctophobia struck deep into the heart of my six year old self. I was a townie and the dark never touched me until I experienced Cork country dark which was terrifying...you simply vanished into it as if it had consumed you and you were in the belly of the beast. Uncle Mikey had a unique way of dissolving the dark for me and did a good impression of an owl as well.
Nyctophobia struck deep into the heart of my six year old self. I was a townie and the dark never touched me until I experienced Cork country dark which was terrifying...you simply vanished into it as if it had consumed you and you were in the belly of the beast. Uncle Mikey had a unique way of dissolving the dark for me and did a good impression of an owl as well.

It was a strange sort of comforting but it worked...after that I always thought the dark was afraid of me and didn't want to argue with a natural born ghost!
DIRECTIONS

I’m heading West
(where ever that is) .

I march off into the distance
of field & sky.

West is where
my uncle is.

I cut through
the heat haze.

My uncle’s dinner
wrapped up in a scarf on the end of a stick

as if I am
running away into forever.

Tea slops in an old milk bottle
with a piece of cloth as a stopper.

I stare into the empty air
as if suddenly I will discover there

a sign saying:
“West – this way! ”

My Auntie Nellie’s instructions
still stamped on the inside of my stupid skull.

“Go west into the field
with your Uncle Michael’s dinner.

“Tell him. . .”

Me too terrified to tell her
I don’t know
where West is?

Typical townie!

I search the farm field by field
‘till I finally find him

sprouting out of a field
with a cloud attached to his head

beside the broken rickety gate
where the tiniest ever wild strawberries grow.

So this is where West is!

Why didn’t she say so in the first place!
This I know!

Why send me like a fool on a child’s errand!

My uncle devours everything ‘cept
the scarf & the stick.

Tells me
(“Oh no! ”)

to go South to where Uncle Seanie is

and. . .
Steve Lee Brooks Apr 2018
To be a man is quite unknown
How to rule this earthly throne
Not many men, i fear do know
What it is to rule this throne i know
A macho man with hard spiked hair
Will run from virtue hard and fair
Honour, truth and fairness just
To swallow pride and loose his lust
There's many things a man must know
That make him male that make him so
The path I choose, the image I take
May seem effeminate, to fools I make
A truth beknown to me, I say
To be a man takes many a day
It's not enough to lust and drool
To chase your pride around a fool
Discipline, honour, strength and trust
Much what I hold higher than lust.
A macho man, a townie lad
Aren't men to me, and I'm so glad
That with the pain I tolerate
that I am man i think they hate
The strength I get from all due pain
To be a man, to smile again.
A poem from my book `Woodwhispers` published on Amazon.
PÚCA ULCHABHÁN( GHOST OWL)

"So, it's afraid of the dark y'are?"
Uncle Mikey squints at me.

I give a nod hoping
the dark doesn't hear me.

This is not just dark
but country dark.

Unable to even catch sight of
my own hand in front of my face.

As if the darkness
had solidified around me.

My body melted away
and I only a tangle of thoughts

floating through the air
being both there and not there.

"Sure don't ya know
your grandfather was born a ghost!"

Uncle Mikey attempts to
comfort my six year old self

"And sure wasn't your grandmother
a banshee for over a century or more!"

Granny in her chair
turns up her eyes.

I sit stunned at
all these revelations.

"And your grandfather
had a terrible habit of

turning into
an owl!"

I can hardly believe
what I am hearing.

"So if the dark
ever comes after ya..."

"Yes...yes...!"
I wait with baited breath.

"Then your grandfather
will give a hoot and

no one not even the dark will argue
with a  a natural born ghost!"

Outside an owl hoots.
Uncle smiles to himself.

After that the dark can't
lay a finger on me.

*

Nyctophobia struck deep into the heart of my six year old self. I was a townie and the dark never touched me until I experienced Cork country dark which was terrifying...you simply vanished into it as if it had consumed you and you were in the belly of the beast. Uncle Mikey had a unique way of dissolving the dark for me and did a good impression of an owl as well.

It was a strange sort of comforting but it worked...after that I always thought the dark was afraid of me and didn't want to argue with a natural born ghost!
Ryan O'Leary May 2020
When I began my track of green
Two horses pulled a harrow
Since them days I'm in between
Despite my lane being narrow.

When upon me, you are found
Where power poles seldom travel
They'll say I thrive on stoney ground
With potholes and no gravel.

In April/June cow parsley grows
Up high beyond my level
In either ditch, hill water flows
With harmony they revel.

Sometimes when I pass a gate
Where sunlight hits in patches
Pre balding always is my fate
Bare spots expose my thatches.

I wind along like Patrick's snake
Past farm yards prim and proper
Sometimes I smell the morning bake
But I can's stop till supper.

I hear donkey's, dogs and hens
Bray barking and brood clucking
Often sheep enclosed in pens
Or pigs in mud and mucking.

Though my crease is never split
It's often greased and oily
Those leaky sumps and axle grit
From farmer Pat O'Reilly.

From up above I'm rarely seen
When passing under bridges
But rest assured I'm evergreen
A home to ants and midges.

There is no road without a bend
It's here they make a wasteland
Our Emerald Isle is but pretend
Our brooks a septic mace brand.

But I digress, I must move on
And wait beside that junction
Many the likes of me have gone
But I still have compunction.

I went to see if it was better
On the far side of the hill
But no its not and even tattier
What's there’s the same old drill.

I'm Median Green and center-ist
I'm country and I'm clean
So keep your townie offal list
It's not for me to glean.


ps..



The green line of grass on the
centre of a road by Courtney
Atkinson's farm in Mallow Ireland
talks about its origins and destiny
and what happens in between
in a day of its life.
GO WEST YOUNG MAN...!

I’m heading West
(where ever that is) .

I march off
into the distance
of field & sky.

West is where
my Uncle is.

I cut through
the heat haze.

My uncle’s dinner
wrapped up in a scarf
on the end of a stick

as if I am
running away for ever.

Tea slops
in an old milk bottle

with a piece of cloth
as a stopper.

I stare into the empty air
as if suddenly I will discover there

a sign saying:
“West – this way! ”

My Auntie Nellie’s instructions
still stamped on the inside of my stupid skull.

“Go west into the field
with your Uncle Michael’s dinner.

“Tell him...”

Me too terrified to tell her
I don’t know
where West is?

Typical townie!

I search the farm
field by field

‘till I finally find him
sprouting out of a field
with a cloud attached to his head

beside the broken rickety gate
where the tiniest ever wild strawberries grow.

So this is where
West is!

Why didn’t she say so
in the first place!

This I know!

Why send me like a fool
on a child’s errand!

My uncle devours
everything ‘cept
the scarf & the stick.

Tells me
(“Oh no! ”)  

to go South to
where Uncle Seanie is

and...

— The End —