Baby

 Baby in a bassinet

Baby in a bassinet

Hardly two weeks old

Stretching out her little frame

Discovering her fingers. 

Five a.m. - the witching hour

Only baby and me

Watching ancient movies

Followed distractedly. 

The dogs are sleeping on the couch

Somehow conscious they must kept still

While baby makes her little sounds

Creates a little thrill. 

She’s battling the reflux

The acid in her tummy

When she cries all hands on deck

To help her sleep starved mummy. 

She will grow out of this

In weeks or months for sure,

In the meantime we treasure

The precious moments when she’s dozing. 

Every day a baby victory

After a traumatic delivery 

Everyone has rallied round

It’s when we value family. 

It takes a village to raise a child

We help out as best we can

Keeping vigil as we did before

Her mother in the eighties. 

The steps before the baby steps

When she lies so helpless 

The infant so dependent 

On her doting parents. 

The time will come when she in turn

Will care for her little bairn

Down from the attic will come the bassinet

And the cycle begins again. 

Over?

 Omicron over?

Could Omicron be the parting shot?

The last fracas between men and Covid?

We’re scared to whisper victory

When it’s made us fools before. 

And yet do we sense that science

Has gained the upper hand?

While the plague runs out of strength

The allies may soon overcome. 

Deep in the trenches this Christmas

We take refuge with our loved ones

While bullets fly above our heads 

And relief seems as distant as before. 

But come the New Year comes new hope

Built on the solid building blocks

Of vaccines and of drugs 

To release us into the sun again. 

This time next year will we remember 

These times of awkward greetings

Avoiding friend and neighbor

As we celebrate being human?

Our exile finished, our return enjoyed 

In sporting grounds and noisy clubs 

With hugs and kisses, the touch and feel

Of skin on skin and lips on lips?

Ojalá.   

Glenageary

 Glenageary (Gleann na gCaorach). 

The valley facing towards the sea

Where once the white sheep grazed

Facing towards the morning light

Falling back to mountain night

Standing sentry over granite piers

The outstretched arms of Dun Leary

Comfy in suburban clothes

Steeped in history and times before

The builders came and built the roads

That mark our houses and our homes

Polite and pleasant neighbors

Overseeing tidy gardens. 

Once preserve of church of ireland 

Now home to all and sundry

Mercifully saved from ostentation

From private roads with mansions. 

Middle class without the airs

At ease and comfortable in its skin

With a necklace of neighbors

Glasthule, Sandycove and Dalkey. 

Not forgetting Sallynoggin

Still affordable and pleasant

And friendly Monkstown 

Demarked by unknown boundaries. 

A melting pot of workers

Teachers and plasterers

Dentists and bankers

Electricians and managers.  

A suburban Bermuda Triangle 

Where many enter and few will leave

Content to dwell between sea and hills

To see out our lives in this vale. 

The old bar stool

 The old bar stool

The pint of plain’s his drink

Followed by a chaser

Three or four each evening 

As regular as a postman. 

The doctor would advise

Against this alcohol 

But he hasn’t seen the doctor

Since he cut his knee aged five. 

The bar man, solid fellow

Pulling pints for forty years

Whose father was a  lookout

For Paddy our daily drinker

He’d bring the wife around

For a drink on Sunday 

A sweet medium sherry

Would last all the evening. 

He stepped well clear of politics,

He didn’t keep opinions 

He reasoned the room was full already

Of certainties from wealth to stealth. 

Besides he often reasoned

His views wouldn’t tilt the spinning world

Nor check the excesses in faraway lands

Or in nearby Leinster House. 

His handsome stomach spread 

Over many days and years

Propping up the counter

Untroubled by fashion or comment. 

We’ll raise a drink this Christmas

Since the pubs are closed

To Paddy beloved of the Anvil Bar

Til we meet again in the New Year. 

Erin

 Erin go brágh

Erin go brágh, Erin forever

Born in twenty twenty one 

A century lies ahead of you

Ten decades in Shankill. 

Welcomed with love and prayers

As you clasped onto life

And doctors fought to save you

Precious bundle of this special season

When all babies are remembered 

And cherished as we do not take for granted

The miracle of life this Christmas 

And in the years that stretch ahead. 

A tiny fighter in intensive care

Your first toys machines and monitors 

That whirr and turn to help you

To come out strong and thriving. 

It’s Christmas time when magic’s real 

And miracles available

To those who seek them 

Believing in the common good. 

A time for presents by the Christmas tree

In the baby wards of hospitals

Where love is served each day 

With every infant meal. 

17/12/21

December 15th

 December 15th

December fifteenth, two days after Erin

Appeared to the world with some entrée

Grateful to doctors and to the nurses

Who saved with skill her life that day. 

We enter the week of the shortest days

The longest nights and the lowest sun

That barely clears the damp garden wall

And blinds the cars on Killiney Hill road. 

December thirteenth, my mother’s birthday

Now Erin’s too, a day to celebrate

Separated by a hundred years of wait

Same country still but whole worlds apart. 

We look  forward to the homecoming 

To the Christmas tree in Corbawn 

What will she make of the neighbors igloo?

The world of wonder lit up next door. 

The champagne’s on ice for not much longer

The beer’s on tap in the gleaming room outside 

The bunting goes up, touching the ceiling

Bring on the chaos, to the sounds of bells pealing. 

Four o clock sunset

 Four o clock sunset 

Four o click sunset

As December moves in

Counting the days

Til the season turns round. 

Sweet precious light

Escaping out west

Filling the sky 

With orange ‘fore night 

Sweet precious days all the sweeter

We treasure the hours and minutes

With lights that brighten home windows

Now that Christmas comes nearer.  

Greystones Marina

 Greystones Marina covered in concrete

Their sins cry out to the heavens

Ugly, brutal and cold hearted

Beloved by builders who hurry

To finish what they’ve started. 

Power handed down without wisdom

Upturning centuries of clear beauty

Who discard the ancient wheel 

And try design a new one. 

Greystones lying peacefully

Beneath cold cement and tiles

Exotic town they ravished you

They covered your classy style 

Along the shore the flats run on,

On and on beneath the gaze

Of whirring cameras just the same

As in a dystopian computer game. 

The emperor chose marina plans

The day he chose his tunic  

The good news is all will crumble

Years before the mountain granite 

Good luck, farewell and happy I

Never to see your face again

Nature will one day reassert

Will overcome the works of men. 

Bray Brrrr

 Bray Brrrr

Face to the sea, arse to the sun

Back to front the houses run

Windows looking to the chilly north

Along  the frozen shore

A country starved of sunshine

Turns it’s back and shows

Tiny windows facing south

As if we’d light to squander. 

The builders came and built them

And then fecked off to Spain

They never came to see their work

Never to return again

To see how little people 

Managed in the shadows 

Bereft of warmth and light

Strive as all they might

To insulate their castles 

And keep their children cozy

All because the careless planners

Were so useless and so dozey. 

Bray you are a wondrous town

Despite your lousy planning

My heart warms up every time

I cross the River Dargle. 

J Peter Andrews

 J Peter Andrews

Even though fallen, they are never forgotten

Even though buried, their memories will last 

Unable to grieve because of the Covid

Their names are engraved and never are lost.

A De La Salle soul, from leafy Churchtown

Standing tall in the line-out, ahead of us all

Straight spoken and clear, never a doubt

Impatient with cant, calling it out.

J Peter Andrews, a gentleman true,

Ten months later we continue to mourn you

A candle we’ll light with a bright flame 

We’ll raise a full glass to honour your name

Book escapes

 Book escapes

Much of the novels that we read

Are pointless, useless fluff

That will be pulped in record time

Just a pity they got printed. 

Most of the good stuff sleeps the sleep

Of the just on musty shelves

Their faded beauty unrecognized

By the careless market. 

Now and again a book survives  

It’s inner truth shines through

And gives us hope that life is fair

That quality is after all eternal. 

I’ve made a promise that in future

I’ll give the glossy tomes a miss

And spend my money on the classics

That will stand the test of time. 

What my father gave me

 What my father gave me…

Like a well that has run down

It seemed the waters staunched

In my middle years as I wrestled

With the world and his memory. 

And now I’ve remembered

How could I just forget

The ideals that he shared with me

That became my very floor-plans?

So close to me they stayed unseen

Hidden clearly for all to see

I thought I’d traveled but here I am

Where first the journey started.   

Impatient of the hypocrite

Well researched and sober

His favourite saying I recall

Love the sinner hate the sin.

A belly laugh, a howl of fun

When listening to the weekend Goons

The Sunday lunch pierced with jokes

That left him helpless with silly laughter.

Like many sons I ploughed my furrow

Broad and wide and far from home

Humbled now to discover

We are back where we belong.

Winter Wexford Sun

 The Winter sun

The Winter sun sits low on Carnsore Point

It hides behind the ragged hedgerows

Coming free to warm the grateful grass

Uncertain when the frost may come. 

The wind is down but the turbines turn

A quiet act of worship in the light blue sky

The silence covers the dewy meadows

An hour of peace and grateful

For this day serene, for this peaceful evening 

No special feast just an ordinary day

Of grace and goodness that transcends

Our baby troubles of the hour. 

Johnstown Castle Wexford

 Johnstown Castle

The ducks are swimming strongly

Across the upper lake

They’re busy little fellows

They’ve hardly time to take. 

The swans watch over young ones

They look so fierce at strangers

They glide across the lower lake

The castle in the background. 

The peacocks strut their stuff

Extend their plumes in wide abandon

Proud as punch but not too proud

To eat the crumbs from tourist lunch. 

This time of year is heaven

The woodlands change their color

And spread their magic leaves

On gravel paths to charm us. 

The magic scene created

By the low sun over trees

With the garden lake behind

We sit on our wooden chairs

Soaking up late autumn sun

Reflected in the mirrored waters

Of the lake that sends the soul

Into rapture and contentment. 

For the memory of this moment

Will last the days and span the years

And remain a pleasure that the heart

Will treasure in our nursing home. 

Clouds on the horizon

 Morning ferry clouds 

The morning ferry’s sailing

Past my breakfast window

Sliding like a silver swan

When I look up she’s gone. 

Leaving only golden clouds 

Lit up by a rising sun

The sky’s come bright

Alight from a wintry night. 

The ferry’s headed right to left

Arriving at the Harbour

While Rosslare folk are still asleep

Early on a Monday morning. 

The numbers in the hospitals

Are rising day on day

Some won’t change the way they play

They claim it’s too confusing. 

None as deaf as those who fail

To change their selfish lives 

Because their pleasures trump all causes

Their freedoms allow no patient pauses. 

They party hard ‘cause ‘they deserve it’

No care for others or themselves

The innocent who catch the Covid

The nurses of intensive care wards. 

In deadly wars they are the traitors

Consorting with the enemy 

What about their neighbors’ freedom

From death, disease and injury?

Sunday Morning Strollers

 Sunday morning strollers

Sunday morning strollers

Walking down the beach

Reflected in the puddles left

By a tide that’s out to sea 

November’s fast declining

As we welcome Christmas in

My shadow is extending

With the yellow sun behind me. 

The cold East wind is biting

It’s time for hats and gloves

But the senses feel a stirring

It’s so good to be alive 

I reach beach-end and turn around

The low sun reflecting in the water

Warms my face and lifts my spirits

A welcome bonus at Autumn end. 

Its a late November Sunday

With Advent round the corner

Today we’ll worship walking

Along God’s lonely shoreline.