Archive for the ‘Things That Rhyme’ Category

Feel Them Roar

Wednesday, November 13th, 2019
Feel Them Roar
They’ll huddle on crowdless platforms, alone.
Or on decks that are windswept, without cry or moan
It’s daunting, on boat rides, with noone that cares.
As rain falls and winds blow,
They’re tired, they’re scared.
With illness, with secrets, nobody to tell,
A foreign land waits,
There’ll be whispers, not yells.
They’re travelers, not tourists, mere patients, on boats,
With no arms to hold them, they’ll shiver in coats.
Generations of beaten, disadvantaged and poor,
Seen as fallen, they’re broken, forgotten, they’re ‘hoors’,
But they’re daughters, they’re sisters, they’re schoolfriends, and more,
And they’re closed off from mankind, as churches shut doors.
800 in Galway, so long they were lost,
Their parents, who were they? And suffered what cost?
For Savita in Connacht, Longford’s young Ann,
Joanna in Kerry, and an unpunished man.
They’d so much to live for, but so little choice,
Remember them, think of them, so they may have voice.

Boy of the Bowery

Wednesday, November 13th, 2019

’m a boy of the Bowery,

I’ve nowhere else to go,

I’ll end up on Hart Island,

In the sun, the rain, the snow.

2nd Verse

I came to New York City,

A young man with hopes and dreams,

But all I’ve got’s the Bowery,

With its nightmares and its screams,

Chorus

And its hail to the Bowery,

It’s where I’ve lived me life,

With bums and filthy scoundrels,

Where hopelessness is rife,

And it’s long live the Bowery,

Be here when we’re all gone,

Although I’ll be forgotten,

They’ll remember us in song,

3rd Verse

There’s poets, painters, workers,

And brothers, husbands too,

They walk and sleep the Bowery,

Though their weeks and months be few.

4th Verse

And we’ll walk along these city streets,

Look down for coins and bills,

And all we do is drink, sing and talk,

We’ve so much time to fill.

Repeat Chorus

5th Verse

It’s survival of the sober,

But it’s easier when drunk,

It’s often pals forget to wake,

And Bowery hearts are sunk,

6th Verse

And I’ll think of those we’ve loved and lost,

All those poor girls and boys,

To us their laughs were symphonies,

To others, just white noise,

The Boys on the Benches

Wednesday, November 13th, 2019

The Boys on the Benches

I’d see them in springtime, the summer, the fall,

In winter, when sunlight’s reduced to a crawl.

In mornings, when rushing, during afternoon walks,

The boys on the benches, enjoying their talks.

I’d see them, I’d nod, a brief chat or a wave,

And think of their histories, and all that they gave,

As the world continued to revolve and change,

For the boys on the benches, so little was strange.

They’d see us, they’d comment, our own kids now walking.

They’d smile at us, remembering babies, now talking.

Impressions long-forming, their legacies made ,

The boys on the benches, we wish how they’d stayed.

They’re no longer there now, their places are taken,

From dreams of past glories, we all just awaken,

When passing the benches, I’ll offer a nod,

To the memories of Jimmy, Mike, Charlie and Rod.

Empty Nest/Missed Flight

Wednesday, November 13th, 2019

Missed Flight

An immigrant’s nightmare,
That phone call we dread,
Whether out at a movie,
Or wrapped up in bed.

A quest to go home,
To go book that next flight
No chance for advice,
Or to turn wrongs to right.

Things will be abandoned,
Planning futures so strange,
A last minute trip scheduled,
To a lifetime now changed.

Drop what you’re doing,
Pack up turn the locks,
For the one whom we fly for,
We can’t turn back clocks.

There’s what-ifs and how-comes,
If only they’d stayed,
But hope they were proud,
Of the life that you made.

Things never said to them,
But thought every day,
It’s easy to love one,
Though harder to say.

So much was missed,
During times spent away
But remember those feelings,
That don’t go astray.

The feeling of emptiness,
May one day be filled,
Until then just memories,
And tears that are spilled.

Glasses be raised,
And memories shared,
Good times remembered,

But hearts unrepaired.

Empty Nest

No prom dates, no college,

No walk down
the aisle.

No first dance with father,

No first tooth-lost smile.

No driving a first car,

No honk of a horn,

No waving from doorways,

No fix of hearts torn.

No time to be grown-up,

No teen angst or cool,

No playing on beaches,

No splashes in pools.

No rides on the schoolbus,

No homework to do,

No sickdays with mom’s care,

No thoughts how time flew.

No footsteps in snowfall,

No running in rain,

No squinting in sunshine,

No escape from the pain.

No hiding, no seeking,

No playing of games,

No flowers, no dolls house,

No more snaps in frames.

No reasons for leaving,

No harm did they cause,

No anger, but sorrow

Just beauty, no flaws.

Lyra

Sunday, July 14th, 2019

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Lyra
There’ll not be a statue, but maybe a plaque.
A reminder to us, when time seemed to go back,
To an earlier Ireland, a Derry long gone,
An Ulster of which is in poem and song.

Her voice for now silenced, her visions live on,
Ideas, the stories, she’d worked on not long,
All crushed in a second, a coward’s attempt,
At an unknown glory, who knows what was meant.

Give a gun to a boy, make him feel like a man,
He’ll aim it at random, and shoot what he can,
He’ll ignore the murals from a stolen car,
Twenty Good Fridays, we’d really come far.

A mother’s child, a campaigner, a writer,
A partners lost love, now a legend, a fighter.
She’d stood up and won, versus enemies stronger,
Than a child with a pistol, time should’ve been longer.

Her name will go down, with writers on lists,
Whose lives ended early, eternally missed,
Lived with the words, and worked with the pen,
Murdered by cowards, not heroes, not men.

Ana

Sunday, July 14th, 2019

62350513_10156635084628458_7408549252495835136_nAna
When Mothers are lucky, their boys become men.
But some don’t quite make it, no why, how or when.
With fortunate fathers, of daughters with dreams,
They’ll think of the wonders, not horrors or screams.

It happens in cities, in London, New York.
Not our little suburbs, of Dublin and Cork.
Never our doorstep, this terror unseen.
It’s not what we’re used to, this ungodly scene.

The whispers that follow the police sirens blare.
Her family, forever, stuck with this nightmare.
A beauty no longer, if just in our thoughts,
A life barely lived, a battle long fought.

They’re out there, among us, these monsters, our hell,
But what do they look like, there’s no way to tell,
Just brothers of sisters, sons of good folk,
No way of knowing, their fire, our smoke.

A baby, a beauty, a daughter, in school,
An object, a victim, reminder life’s cruel.
Some parents aren’t lucky, they don’t have a choice,
It’s so hard to whisper, to call with no voice,

A blessing, a wonder, a miracle child,
A nation awakens, forgets for a while,
She’ll not be returning, not now, or again,
To a world filled with beauty, and the evils of men.

Big Hand, Little Hands.

Thursday, March 2nd, 2017
Will this be the day, when he pulls his hand away,
And decides to walk on like a man.
No longer a baby, nor a toddler but maybe,
I’ll hold on as long as I can.
With the passing of years, and the changing of gears,
As the journey from childhood moves quicker,
He’ll turn round and wave, and still think that I’m brave,
But inside my worries get thicker.
He’ll walk in with his friends, to the school he attends,
As he strives to become educated,
And as the door closes, I’ll try smell the roses,
But I’ll stand there, just feeling deflated.
It’ll happen some day, the thoughts won’t go away,
When he’ll no longer be my small boy,
‘Till then I’ll keep walking, and playing and talking,
And the childhood days left I’ll enjoy.

Orlando 5-0  

Saturday, June 25th, 2016

california-beach-bonfire3

A man, and another, a song, a dancefloor.
A man, and his lover, a gunshot, a roar.
A man, he’s a brother, a nephew, a friend.
A man, of a mother, not his time to end.
It’s senseless, it’s ludicrous, we’re angry, we’ll cry,
It’s happening, and America’s too tired to ask why,
It’s schoolkids, just starting their journeys in life,
It’s a husband out working, in love with his wife.
Just dancing, enjoying a warm summer night,
Just feeling that aura of love at first sight,
Just thinking of futures that now are no more,
Just watch as a world lets its feelings outpour.
Light candles, sing songs, of love, peace, good times,
Just dancing, just loving, no horror, no crimes.
No laughter, no heartbeat, no walks on the beach,
But hope that an end to the hatred, we’ll reach.

Always Faithful, Always Loyal*

Monday, January 11th, 2016
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His eyes have closed,
He’s resting now,
And from this world,
He takes his bow.
We think of the things he has done,
That he’s seen.
This brother, this father,
This son, this Marine.
A mysterious man, unlike so many others,
At ease when with family or his Band of Brothers.
A humble individual, without airs or graces,
We’re left with hearts broken and tear-battered faces.
The reasons he left us, we’ll not find out why,
Just picture him smiling, he’ll call Semper Fi*.
The courage, the heart, that incredible mind,
Have left us for elsewhere, we’ll always rewind,
To the years he was there when we were afar
And now when he’s needed just look for a star.
A leader, a warrior, a father of five,
It’s our turn to battle, keep memories alive.
We’ll mourn for him, talk of him, love him the same
Always Faithful, Always Loyal, Bob was his name.
*’Always Faithful’ or ‘Always Loyal’, is what ‘Semper Fi’, the US Marines motto, roughly translates as.

Where Oscar Rests (A Tribute to Paris).

Tuesday, November 17th, 2015

paris

There’s a tower over there, where lovers propose,
And barges filled with tourists, where a famous river flows.
An historic painted lady with an enigmatic smile,
For now, they’ll take a back seat, as we stop and mourn a while.

An Irish wit, a French chanteuse, a US lizard king,
Resting for eternity, with millions visiting,
A city with horizons, resplendent with an Arc,
And now 10,000 candles, will help it through the dark.

A brave Resistance fighting bad, a Legion known all over,
Beaches that ended heroes’ lives, they now rest under clover,
A city known for history, for love, for wondrous fashion,
Why it was picked for terror, this city charged with passion.

The Tower’s there, the Arc still too, the lady’s always grinning,
The river flows, as do the wines, the world will keep on spinning,
The souls still rest in famous graves, and will for the rest of time,
But now they’re joined by hundreds more, a devastating crime.