The Fourth Angel

She was full of dramatic art
when she told how it came to pass
that she’d landed this plum part
along with the rest of her class.
It’s the fourth angel’s premiere,
her  tinsel halo shines,
it’s set upon her golden hair
and in and out entwines.
She’s running to the schoolgate,
flaunting her angelness,
with her wings just so on her back
and a borrowed frilly white dress.

*

When I meet her after school

with her  wings tucked under her arm,
her smile is satisfaction
and innocence and charm.
The tinsel is gone from her hair,
the dress is distinctly sub-white,
she’s a little the worse for wear –
but – she’s been in the spotlight,
she’s been there –
she has stood upon a chair,
singing Silent Night.
Her first public appearance was
wonderful past words –
she has heard the crowd’s applause –
she has tread the boards.

I’m told the concert was a hit,

the ratings very high,
her eyes are wide with the thrill of it,
mine are not quite dry.
If her teacher only knew,
when she assembled her cast
she made at least one dream come true.
She has been an angel –
a milestone has been passed.

 

Summer Nights

Some summer nights are hardly nights at all,
just lazy azure dimming into grey,
inching along at end of day,
reluctant dusk begins to fall

on scented stock along the way,
and rambling roses by the wall
and swarms of midges out at play.

Later, through dimness comes a call;
a cock crows, somewhere far away,
the early start of another day.
Some summer nights are hardly nights at all.

Storyteller

For Gerry Miller, a great storyteller

There are many stories told, like brave Maeve in days of old,
Fionn MacCumhall and the fish that knew it all,
Gráinne Mhaol who faced the foe and soon told them where to go,
and Cuchulainn and the wolfhound and the ball,
Cuchulainn and the wolfhound and the ball.
Though those times are gone, yet their spirit still lives on
in yarnspinners with stories that engage us;
for whether true or not, a yarn can hit the spot
and bring something of the wisdom of the ages.

So here's to Gerry Miller, I think there's no one briller
for stories, whether credible or tall.
He is our seanachaí of the twenty first century,
he's the man that knows the way to tell 'em all,
Gerry Miller is the man to tell 'em all.

He covers all variety of life's lush tapestry,
the rich, the poor, the powerful, the small,
Yankee visitors or the VAT, or someone's prolific cat,
he'll have a yarn to tell about them all,
he'll have a yarn to tell about them all.
We may get downcast by dint of the country being skint,
maxed credit cards and other sorts of strife,
But when he starts to verbalize, all our spirits start to rise,
for the way he tells 'em brings a lift to life.

So here's to Gerry Miller, I think there's no one briller
for stories, whether credible or tall.
He is our seanachaí of the twenty first century,
he's the man that knows the way to tell 'em all,
Gerry Miller is the man to tell 'em all.

Voyagers

Written for the wedding of Colm and Lindsay,
9th October 2012

You may have heard of St. Brendan, a voyaging hero was he.

With his band of brothers in currachs, he set off on the wild rolling sea.

Through nine years of adventures and dangers, they kept rowing steadfastedly west,

Till they made it at last to America and they called it the Isle of the Blest.

 

Now Colm's adventures were different, when he started to travel afar,

With his band of Michael and Nigel he set off in his trusty white car.

They crossed over the sea on the ferry, with no danger to life or to limb,

By that lucky chance, he landed  in France, and America made it to him.

 

He was working one night in the Oz pub, with customers wanting a jar,

When up Lindsay rocked and their eyes interlocked, and they knew they had each found their star.

From two ends of an ocean they chanced for to meet, as Bogart once likewise expressed:

Of all of the bars in all of the world ...and well, you all know the rest.

 

Cut a long story short and fast forward, we're gathered together today,

Good thoughts come from here and across many miles as you gladly set out on your way.

By Erika's authority united we stand, and we join in with her to appoint ye

As Mr and Mrs, with very good wishes we raise up a glass and say Sláinte!

Frances O'Keeffe

Tea

Will you have a cup of tea? It’s so nice of you to call

To loan your holiday DVD,
That’s something that we’d love to see,
Some other night when we are free
To sit and watch it all.

Would you like a slice of cake? Yes, I made that one myself.

Ah... it took about an hour to bake,
Stop questioning for heaven’s sake,
I know you know that I’m a fake –
And it came off Centra shelf.

You keep droning in my ear of your kids here and abroad,

The one that climbed K2 last year,
That other one, the engineer.
But strange enough, we never hear
Of the one got fired for fraud.

You dropped by at ten to eight and now it’s half past ten.

You were in a hurry, couldn’t wait,
And still you’re prattling in full spate,
You tell me that the chat is great –
And the kettle’s on again.

I suppress a joyful roar, at last you’re standing up,

And now you linger by the door,
You smile and smile and chat some more,
Can’t stop myself saying, are you sure
You won’t have another cup?

There’s one thing that I’ve divined, though its truth we always know,

And that’s the reason and the rhyme
Behind that old song’s paradigm :
Goodbye is such a long, long time,
Three kettlefuls or so.

How fast the time has flown, call again when you are free.

And as you leave, I stop a yawn,
Look down the street, make sure you’re gone,
Then rush to put the kettle on
For another cup of tea.

A Day in the Life of April

Morning wept;

Started early, while we slept.
Rhythmically on the rooftops thrumming,
Like a thousand drummers drumming,
It belted down and kept on coming,
With roads and gutters all rainswept,
Morning wept.

Midday roared;

Like raucous revellers in a horde.
Like wakeful midnight babies roar,
Like wild waves lambaste the shore,
Like an audience yells for more,
The dustbin lids all skyward soared,
Midday roared.

Evening smiled;

Through pale skies, watery-eyed and mild.
Not flamboyantly, like June,
Not brashly, like an August noon,
But soft, like a half-remembered tune,
And shyly, like a timid child,
Evening smiled.

 

They say an old fiddle may play a good tune,

An old boiler may sweeten your plate.
But you see how time’s passed when you look in the glass
And you’re way past your best-before date.
I was bumpy and clumpy, to be frank I was frumpy,
So I asked the nice docs what to do.
They said, you’ll be grand, put yourself in our hands
And we’ll make a new woman of you.

We’ll make a new woman of you,

You’ll hardly believe it by the time we are through.
With bosom uplifted and belly flab shifted,
We’ll make a new woman of you.

They gave me a form that was eight pages long,

I filled it and signed myself in.
They did all the ops on the bottoms and tops,
The brow-lift, the cheeks and the chin.
Trimmed the old bingo wings and did all sorts of things
In all the right places you see,
They plumped up and extracted, added on and subtracted
And they made a new woman of me.

Oh, they made a new woman of me,

I can pass in a dim light for about forty three,
With long hair extensions and reformed dimensions,
They made a new woman of me.

When the dressings came off ‘twas a sight to behold,

Some parts smaller and some parts were bigger.
No more lines or crows’ feet and to make it complete,
They gave me an hourglass figure.
I was chiselled and honed and remarkably toned,
But my pride was soon shattered in three
For my grandchild of two said, “Where’s Nan? Who’re you?”
When they made a new woman of me.

Oh they made a new woman of me,

I’m expecting a call about a pic on page three,
With nips and with snips and with collagen lips,
They made a new woman of me.

Now I have to work hard for to keep my new shape,

Sure I’m living on cress and cucumbers,
Exercising away for hours every day,
But my birth cert still shows the same numbers.
Oh the creases and lines, they are long acquired signs,
They map out our lives, clear and true,
I suggest you think twice when they offer advice
To make a new woman of you.

Oh, they made a new woman of me,

So don’t you believe everything that you see,
Though they smooth out the skin, the old boiler’s within,
And time will still win, finally.