These Are the Days
These are the days
When nothing seems to happen
When plans go awry
Someone mentions pancakes
Instead and off we go
Pancakes too thick as bread
Others thin and crispy
Like cardboard someone said
Extra large square shaped and folded
Like a broadsheet, The Daily Pancake,
Unleavened, brittle like a parchment
sacred book this Easter Sunday Morn
Luscious Chocolate everywhere.
Laughter mixed with maple, lemon, sugar
As everyone ate too many.
Dad told them something about
Baa Baa Blacksheep and tax
Which was interesting, but not funny.
Nothing happened. Everything happened.
These are the days when life happens.
Martin Swords April 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A Bowl of Rice Always
A Bowl of Rice Always
A fractured home
A distanced heartache
A chopstick, an empty cup
A windchime in a garden
A bowl of rice
Always the small things
Martin Swords
May 2009
A fractured home
A distanced heartache
A chopstick, an empty cup
A windchime in a garden
A bowl of rice
Always the small things
Martin Swords
May 2009
Listening at Sally Gap
Listening at Sally Gap
There is always a wind
one or other of the four winds blowing
moaning with the loneliness of the place
soft ground tough grass and hard sheep.
Ghosts of silent footed rebels tramping to the
safety of their mountain valley holds
before the Military.
The wind still carries their shouts
their cries their pleadings and their hopes
mixing with the bleak empty sounds of this place
a trickle of water on stone
a gurgle of water on wet black turf
Is that the thin echo of a sleán slicing sods,
or that heavy hollow sound, the turf-cutter’s
clunkin’ bottle of sweet milky tea
corked with a scruntch of newspaper
Or a bit of broken fence banging in the wind
Martin Swords
May 2009
There is always a wind
one or other of the four winds blowing
moaning with the loneliness of the place
soft ground tough grass and hard sheep.
Ghosts of silent footed rebels tramping to the
safety of their mountain valley holds
before the Military.
The wind still carries their shouts
their cries their pleadings and their hopes
mixing with the bleak empty sounds of this place
a trickle of water on stone
a gurgle of water on wet black turf
Is that the thin echo of a sleán slicing sods,
or that heavy hollow sound, the turf-cutter’s
clunkin’ bottle of sweet milky tea
corked with a scruntch of newspaper
Or a bit of broken fence banging in the wind
Martin Swords
May 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Far From Athy
Far From Athy
Pat told stories of old times, living in digs
in Athy, working on the roofin’ for aul’ Hammond.
Me with my booklearning piped up
“I heard of Athy,
“And look! a barge comes bringing from Athy
And other far- flung towns mythologies.” ”,
lines from the canalbankpoet.
“Bet he never saw it in the lashing
rain”, Pat observed dryly.
No. Nor I had never seen it his way,
from a cold slate roof breaking galvanised
tacking nails with the long ripper,
and only the price of two pints in his pocket,
till Friday.
He was glad for me that I hadn’t.
Martin Swords May 2009
i.m. Pat Swords 1915 - 1978
On His Birthday 1st May
Pat told stories of old times, living in digs
in Athy, working on the roofin’ for aul’ Hammond.
Me with my booklearning piped up
“I heard of Athy,
“And look! a barge comes bringing from Athy
And other far- flung towns mythologies.” ”,
lines from the canalbankpoet.
“Bet he never saw it in the lashing
rain”, Pat observed dryly.
No. Nor I had never seen it his way,
from a cold slate roof breaking galvanised
tacking nails with the long ripper,
and only the price of two pints in his pocket,
till Friday.
He was glad for me that I hadn’t.
Martin Swords May 2009
i.m. Pat Swords 1915 - 1978
On His Birthday 1st May
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
