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.          

   

Evolution

Not meant to be taken as a serious argument.

Consider

the Theory of Evolution.

I know we had to come from somewhere,

But is that the solution?

If you tell me my great-great-grandfather back

 millions of years was an amoeba,

I’m not sure I believe ya.

But yeah, I can see we might have crawled

up from the primordial ooze,

since people still love snakeskin bags

and alligator shoes.

In the nineteenth century

society got in a flap because

Mr Darwin spent some time

poking around Galapagos.

He studied and wrote a book,

The Origins of Species,

about why birds fly, fish swim

and dogs go round on leashes,

while human beings progressed

into womankind and man,

and things have never been the same

since the fossils hit the fan.

Some hailed him as a hero, some said he’d got it wrong,

some stuck with the ideas that had served them all along.

I’m not taking any side, either

Evolutionist or Creationist;

but there are questions that occur

to any observationist:

like, if there’s anything at all in the Theory of Evolution,

what I don’t understand

is, why, after all the millennia

mothers have never developed even

one extra hand.

Riddle

Six men went golfing and then to a pub,

For a drink and a laugh and a plate of pub grub.

They grinned as they eyed up the neighbourhood talent,

They tried to look worldly and tried to look gallant.

Matthew and Mark met Izzie and Clare,

Who happened that day to be lunching there.

They had a nice afternoon, with nods, smiles and winks,

That’s as far as they got – and they bought all the drinks.

Simon and Spencer met Margie and Kath,

Out for the day and out for a laugh.

These four left the pub and walked down to the beach,

Where they found some large rocks within easy reach –

Went discreetly behind them, in high expectation,

And there the relationships reached consummation.

And afterwards, pledging to call within days,

They swapped fake mobile numbers

And all went their ways.

Two ladies conversed with Thomas and Stan,

Listening intently each one to her man.

Gleaming hair, lovely clothes and, as I made mention,

They gave the two boyos their utmost attention.

The lads gave their numbers, right ones, not wrong –

Two weddings resulted before very long.

With neat homes and consistent routine of each day

And joint accounts to manage their pay.

In the way of the world, the wives listened less,

Added some fat and the hair glistened less.

Children arrived – great joys, it’s true,

But loud and demanding and costly too.

With mortgages, bills and a budgeting plan,

It’s responsible living for Simon and Stan.

Their treats nowadays are the specials at Lidl,

Now here’s the question, the eponymous riddle:

Does anyone know, or can anyone say

Which two men got lucky that day?  

Frances O’Keeffe

Mindfulness

A jogger jogged into a tree,

stood stunned along the roadside edge.

He shook himself and carried on

and jogged into a clump of sedge

which stood on spongy, marshy ground,

and soaked his socks and tracksuit ends,

(luckily his shoes were sound).

A shopper eyed some juicy steaks,

but found the price was just too high.

Drooling, she turned and left them there.

She never heard the butcher’s cry:

“It’s buy one, get one free today.”

Not knowing that she had enough spends,

steaklessly, she walked away.

Cyclists, walkers, kids on heelys,

those on buses, trains or trams,

gardeners on summer evenings,

people pushing brooms or prams;

wear tiny earphones, neatly curled,

(you’d hardly even notice) but

are they a wall against the world?

Music is wonderful and we love it,

I think that most agree with that.

But what about living in the now,

being where we are, with what we’re at?

To quote a wiser bard than me,

(on living with heart and head and gut)

We choose to be or not to be.

Advice that doesn't always Work

A counsel that I’ve sometimes got,

(I think that few are dafter),

Is - you’re a woman, have a good cry,

You’ll feel better after.

You’ll see the truth of this advice

If you will only try it.

Weep your little probs away, just –

Make sure you keep it quiet.

Go weep your little probs away,  

You’ll soon be feeling chipper;

Open up and let it out –

As if we were a zipper.

Yes, sometimes I’ve been moved to tears

And sometimes moved to laughter.

And I know (don’t we all) which one

Makes me feel better after.

 Frances O'Keeffe

Fooled by the Lights

‘Twas a rush as I flashed my card.

Now the mirror at home won't hide

the clumpy, lumpy mounds of lard

and the massive backside.

A fool and her money are easily stunned

by mirrors and lights that say - score,

It’s not that I want an exchange or refund -

just to look like I did in the store.

Frances O'Keeffe 

Homage to the Villanelle

Isn’t it grand to be rhyming,

To follow the flow and the swell

Of the metre, the pitch and the timing

The cadences falling and climbing,

The syllables clear as a bell,

Isn’t it grand to be rhyming

With the ever-melodious chiming

Of  fruits from the bottomless well

Of the metre, the pitch and the timing,

That hone words with polish and priming,

Revealing their magical spell. 

Isn’t it grand to be rhyming

With language that soars to subliming

In the places where harmonies dwell

With the metre, the pitch and the timing.

Of poem-styles that harmonize well,

My favourite is the Villanelle.

Yes, it’s grand to be rhyming,

With the metre, the pitch and the timing.

Frances O’Keeffe

Night

Write a poem to the night,

To calm and quiet wed

In silvery, soft pale moonlight,

Easing cares to make them right,

Soothing every weary head,

Write a poem to the night.

Following their destined flight,

Planets of blue and dark and red

In silvery, soft pale moonlight

Follow their courses, new and bright

Through ancients orbits led.

Write a poem to the night,

Whirring a velvety, measured delight.

That was a wise one, whoever said -

(In silvery, soft pale moonlight),

- Never take tomorrow to bed,

Trust the healing hush instead,  

Write a poem to the night,

To silvery, soft pale moonlight.

Frances O’Keeffe

Wedding

Our old loves have found new love

With each other instead of us.

We stand at the back and listen

As they make their vows upfront.

Mine is black-tied and handsome,

Yours, an ivory meringue.

Yours, a jealous control freak;

Mine has a wandering eye.

We’d love to be flies on the wall

To see this marriage play out.

Niamh's Lament

The Irish legend of Oisín tells the story of how he met and fell in love with Niamh, a beautiful princess, and went with her on her white horse to Tír na n-Óg, the Land of Youth, where they lived happily with everlasting youth and beauty until Oisín became homesick. He went back, just to see, Niamh warning him that he must not touch the soil of Ireland.  While there, he saw some men trying to move a huge stone.  He bent down with his great strength and easily moved the stone - but a strap broke and he fell from the horse.  Immediately, he changed into an old man and learned that three hundred years had passed since he'd left.  The poem visualises how Niamh would have felt when she saw the white horse return, without Oisín.

Niamh’s Lament

The white horse galloped through the sea.

The horse alone came into sight.

I knew that he was gone from me.

The sun flamed then sank dreamily

As evening softened into night,

The white horse galloped through the sea.

A broken strap was hanging free –  

He’d fallen from the mare’s tall height.

I knew that he was gone from me.

Oisín was claimed by his country,

Made old, no longer young and bright.

The white horse galloped through the sea.

So it’s all lost, that used to be

When every day was a delight.

I know that he’s gone from me.

Without him, beauty has no light

And endless youth seems endless blight.

The white horse galloped through the sea.

 I knew that he was lost to me.

Frances O’Keeffe

Leaning on a Trolley in a Supermarket

Leaning on a Trolley At The Supermarket

Time for some quiet introspection,

Why does money flow out, more than in?

I stand in the queue, in reflection

Of this week’s provisions selection,

Seems I fell for display-product spin.

Time for some quiet introspection.

A woman at one intersection

Gave out cake (I was first in).

I stand in the queue, in reflection

Of that dreamy and creamy confection –

It could fairly be labelled as Sin.

Time for some quiet introspection.

The woman in front of this section

Has loudly forgotten her PIN.

She’s trying every number connection –    

As we wait while they call in Admin,

Why don’t they do BOGOFFs on gin?

Time for some quite introspection.

I stand in the queue, in reflection.

© Frances O’Keeffe