It was old, carved and made of wood
For years at the foot of her bed it stood
We never ever thought to look inside ..
Box of Memories
Poems
Local Hero
Beehives and ponytails, skirts below the knees
High collars, low necks, designed for all to see
Going to my Hometown
Parading a musty clop along the mall;
Redbrick and granite should glimmer in their boast.
Razing a glint in bier-garten toast,
I’m jealous – their sip, lip-locked – I’m enthralled.
The chivalrous sweat in musical droves,
Saluting the weather with world-weary wink.
The steeples, serene, without rain to drink:
A clan wry, a-flowing – a city of mauve.
Borderline bubble I love you so well.
I source you for boredom, ’tis true, ’tis true,
For dryness can seem here the hottest of hells
But I would be dead if ’twas not for you –
A cynic. A liar. A lover. A son –
A soul wracked to bone mass from valley-sought glue.
Four Ducks on a Pond Poem
If you feel strange using this revamped format, just join the gang! This is my first effort at adding a story. This is a short but memorable poem by William Allingham.
Four ducks on a pond,
A grass-bank beyond.
A blue sky of Spring,
White clouds on the wing:
Ah, what a small thing
To remember for years –
To remember with tears!
I walked the road
Today I walked the road
I skipped along when I was young
And fought to quell the rising melancholy in my heart:
My Ain Native Toun
In an attempt to cushion the blow for Santanta, on his imminent return to his ‘ain native toun’, we publish this earlier tract from another Ulsterman.
Lucy Poems
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love
No Hell At All
‘It was Sammy McNally what did it
He was never done swinging the lead
And one sunny day as he swung it
He hit me a blow on the head.
‘Get up’, says he trying to lift me
I missed every word that he said
‘Are ye deaf?’ said he, trying to shift me
But I wasn’t deaf … I was dead!
Of course I went straight up to heaven
It’s three million miles past the Sun
I arrived at a quarter to seven
In the year three thousand and one.
I spied this big lad in the hallway
Says I, ‘I’m just in from Belfast!’
”S’that so?’ says he, ‘I’m from Galway
So they let an oul Prod in at last.’
I said I was happy to meet him
And I asked him what I should do
‘Come with me’, says he, ‘and I’ll show you
We have a special department for you.’
I followed him down a long passage
To a place where yer man wouldn’t tell
But, by gum, I soon got the message
When I saw a signpost to Hell.
Says I, ‘For God’s sake have pity’
Says he, ‘Blame yer sins of the past’
As he led me right into a city
A place the dead spit of… BELFAST!
‘Is that Hell,’ said I, quite astounded
‘It is so, indeed!’ said yer lad
‘Well, if that’s Hell,’ says I, looking round it
‘If that’s Hell, it can’t be that bad!’
The city was just as I’d known it
All the old friendly places were there
Street by street I went through it
To the centre at Donegall Square.
And there, God love it, before me
The grand City Hall stood in state
With a tricolour flying above it
And two Civic Guards at the gate.
It was only the start of my torment
I soon was to learn all the facts
The Pope was settled in Stormont
And Paisley was cleaning ‘the jacks’!
The head of the great Orange Order
Had long ago given himself up
Ahearn had abolished the border
..And Linfield was OUT OF THE CUP!
To the Shipyards I hurried like lightening
I knew I’d find Orangemen there
But what I found was real frightening
All talking Gaelic, they were!
The whole bloody city was stinking
There was nowhere a Proddie could go
What desperate thoughts I was thinking
Then it came in a Flash!! … Sandy Row!
I knew they’d be loyal to Lizzie
And I wouldn’t be left in the lurch
But when I arrived all were busy
Building a Catholic Church!
I went back to the fella that brought me
He was having a snooze at the gate
I tried to get by, but he caught me
‘You can’t get away from your fate!’
Says I, ‘I don’t like where you sent me
If I’d known, I’d never have come.’
Says he, and him standing fornenst me
‘In here shure we all are the same.
In here, every freedom is given
To wander about at your will
It’s just that some think it’s heaven
While others think that it’s Hell.’
While on Earth I hated the Shinners
But if I was a mortal again
I’d be nice to the Fenians and Sinners
And I’d write to the Pope now and then.
Each man on this Earth is your brother
So don’t write those things on the wall
If only we’d love one another
We might find there’s no Hell at all!
The tourist in Algeria had the address of a person in a remote village whom he had to contact. He hailed a car with a Taxi sign displayed and agreed a price. The driver wanted paid in advance.
Four hours later and at some remote spot in the desert, the driver turned and offered him the keys.
‘Take the car,’ said he. ‘This is as far as I go!’
The astonished and frightened tourist objected.
There was no point.
‘But how do I get to my destination?’
‘Take that dirt track over there,’ your man pointed,
‘And on Tuesday, turn right!’