When you reach 50,
You mature
No longer own the word “Young”.
——-
When you reach 50,
you’re alive
Noticing what matters to you.
———
When you reach 50,
You deserve
a better life more than ever.
————
When you reach 100,
you’re more mature than me.
You’re a character.
I must go down to the Crawford again,
to the flowering fields and the food,
where the taties grow and the paintings flow,
where the artwork tickles the mind.
I must go taste the bread again,
the kidneys, marrow, and tart,
where banisters lead your taste astray,
and visitors walk in free.
It was Meat and Potatoes seduced me in,
the smell of paint down Opera Lane,
a butterflied leg, and seeds of the hearth,
no lonely hours within.
The children, they have their space,
one wide, wide place for play.
The boy with the Cork earring,
and BLT for tea.
And to the powers that be,
the nation’s customs, your art,
storytellers gilding the heart,
entrancing the earth’s energy.
I’ll return for the kidneys again,
for Doran’s sweet, brown sauce,
longing to lick the plate,
a persistent return that’s great.
.
My every step a prayer,
Every move a prayer,
Every word a prayer,
Hallelujah
There was hope
They crossed the border
A chorus of joy
The discomfort worth it.
The water gone
Hunger setting in
Bodies weakening
hope still high
A better life beckoning.
Children crying.
51 dead
Roasted flesh
Thirst boiled
Abandoned
The container of death
Jose went first
Delirious
Expired.
The doors to life bolted.
Relief from hell.
Drivers tired from the journey
Want to go home
Abandon the truck.
Time to go home to Netflix,
An ice-cold beer
Air conditioning,
A hug.
And collect their fee.
Release wives & children
from anxiety.
Ready to live a longer life
than the cargo they fled in the oven.
When the sunlight’s burning hot,
and geckos come out to bathe,
golfers drive straight to shade
of the parasol on the veranda.
When it takes the patience of drying
paint to settle the longing
for a double espresso
with boiling water on the side,
there’s time to embrace the rough, the double bogies, the lost balls, the unplayable lies, the bunkers that await
the adventure of the first hole,
and the prospect of that hole-in-one I can’t afford.
The clubhouse in Palmares
looks over the water hazard,
the Atlantic Ocean
flat as the undulating green of the second hole.
Once upon a time, the Earth was cold.
There were no books.
In a twinkle of time,
the multitudes grew hot
with opinions, options, and paradigms.
Nowadays,
there are too many books for you,
and there is global warming.
Books broke the back of the Word,
scribes begat scribblers,
illuminated manuscripts gave birth to maps,
travellers told tales of other words and worlds,
and now
there are too many books born and buried,
too many stories circulating.
Go into your local bookshop
on O’Connell Street by the Shannon River.
Indigestion guaranteed.
The only medicine a microscope
to browse the molecules of wisdom
that revolve in a particle of your imagination.
You are sharing the heated earth
with marks, words, phrases, lines, paragraphs, pages, chapters, volumes
– numbers incalculable –
like stars crying out for attention,
as if minute lights might shine your path,
as if the affection of your orbit
was craved by mysteries of an expanding multiverse.
There are too many stars for you to follow,
too many stories.
You will burn yourself into a black hole
if you consume all the particles in your local bookshop,
all the wisdom crammed on shelves
arranged for your salvation.
In the beginning was the Word.
They procreated the earth,
the world,
the matter that matters,
the sunlight that burns through fog,
and longs to peter out
before the books return to rest.
Light as a feather that fails
to excite the hippopotamus
in my mind’s eye,
Blind as a bat that breaks
whenever it strikes out
in my baseball bowl
So do the words
through my tongue
Into the microphone
Of my desire.
Green with damp,
Drizzled down
the neck of the verse.
Weathered the space
between gestation,
articulation
and dimples.
The way a dung beetle
saves civilised & uncivilised
life.
Beacons.
High as a kite that soars,
slips and slides on a draught of thin air.
Low as a blow from a black bird,
from a messenger
that delivers tidings,
from your mother’s,
mother’s mouth?
She had her own microphone,
her own mouthpiece,
her paragraphs.
Light and blind,
High and low
Hippopotamus and hippopotami.
It’s the way verse is written.
In case
you think I’m being funny,
I wrote to the Easter Bunny
asking for the egg I forgot,
and you know what I got?
It was too big to eat,
hardly much of a treat.
I gave half to the cat,
who’s already too fat
and a chunk to the dog
as we went for a jog.
So when we met the vet,
she was cross as you get.
I said I was sorry,
She said not to worry
– today.
That’s all I have written.
The chocolate’s hidden,
until after the speech
when you won’t hear me preach
“Friends, Romans, Toastmasters,
lend me your tears …”
I never wanted
to excite the cat,
bother the dog,
get a pain in my tummy,
trying to be funny
chasing the bunny
today,
but I’ve started this Path
before running a bath.
I’d love a matchmaker
to help this icebreaker
and
without any more fuss
come across humorous …
_____________________
I am a disaster,
in search of a plaster
to cover my mouth
so I don’t need to shout
cover up what I said
so spare you the dread
you’ll fall from your chair
and mutter a prayer
‘We all did love him once
not without cause
if only he’d pause
and stop being a dunce.
As for the rumour
he’s given to humour,
You can pull my leg
about the Easter Egg.
Even write to the bunny
you think I’m not funny.
I bet you Confucius said
“every day is a good day“
or did I read it was on Rumi’s mind
that “every day’s a day for the good life“?
______________
The local s
Legionnaire peeled off his armour
“They pierced him,
I saw the nails driven in.
The whipping drew blood,
so did the thorns.
And it was good while it lasted.
Some good guy propped him up
after he kept on falling down the hill.
‘Twas good sport
– crucifixions are good for the spirits.”
The brother in the toilet woke,
sat up, sloshed back red wine.
“I loved the way the blood dripped down
‘Twas was a good Friday,
a very good Friday,
well worth remembering.
Even the clouds were black with thunder.”
“So good to hear him chatting with Gestas and Dismas,
vagabonds and vagrants.
A good guy, suffering fools,
off to have a good long nightfall.
I hear he he promised them a good long heaven
before he kicked his bucket…”
“I heard it said he died for a good cause,
and his crucifixion was a good day for all the people.
Wasn’t it good that at least a smattering of tears believed him? …
swear he saw their grief as good…”
“They certainly didn’t believe he was a good sacrifice to the gods.
‘Tis a good thing for them they thought him good…”
“What a bloody good Friday,
a good send-off.
Imagine living your life looking forward to the good life…”
“There were good-looking women there
having a good cry,
chanting
while the centurion stabbed him with a good sharp spear,
a sight to behold,
a sight to be told
on one of the best good Fridays…”
The lads got pissed that night.
_______________
Maybe it was Confucius and Rumi who said
“suffering’s good for the soul
on a good Friday.”
I could be much worse.
Stranded in Cork Airport,
eating sausages
and potato cakes,
dried white pudding
and fried bacon slices,
chilled orange juice
with Americano by Nescafé.
A disaster of a flight to Manchester,
a swollen little throbbing toe,
a lame gait.
I could be much worse.
I could be frozen in Ukraine,
maimed in Ukraine,
my home destroyed in Ukraine.
Parched , starved, wounded, blind, deaf,
I could be a nightmare
walking from gutter through ice & mud,
past unmilked cows,
crippled donkeys,
chickens ready for wolves,
wet with weather that would drown an earthworm,
excremental trudge to the border
between
“Saturn Devouring His Son Peter”,
and some hope of at least an annual salvation.
I could be “The Scream”
on a bus from Mariupol,
from the shipyard in Mykolayiv,
leaving Freedom Square in Kharkiv,
I could be the last scream left living in Kyiv,
Lviv to Poland, to Germany,
into Rumania, Moldova, Lithuania, Estonia
– children lifeless behind me,
my lover lost.
I could be much worse.
I could be pulling the trigger
that’s dispatching the missile
into that apartment block,
and only leave a legless cat alive
to drown in blood.
I could be commanding my officers
to annihilate the opposition,
to obliterate all living humans
that stand in our way,
to invade the land of independence
and putrefy the landscape with tyranny.
I could be much worse.
I could be Vladimir Putin’s mother,
keening my infant’s fall from grace.
I could be stranded with Dante in the Kremlin,
in the dark Earth
where there is no peaceful place
⁃ except the grave.
I could be much worse.
The snow thundered in
Rolled across the border between sleep and wake
Unrelenting
Conquering the ground
Until every centimetre was covered with the colour of the white invasion.
There was no resisting her.
And all winter, this has been predicted.
All February we have been warned
We had no proof
until now.
The snow has spoken
The snow was ready
The snow has fallen.
The earthworms
underground
squirming.
I will wash my teeth again this year,
shower away the scent of salty sweat.
I’ll shave the stubble from my chin
and trim the hairs within my nostrils short.
I’ll cut my nails, keep eyebrows in their place,
suck out the wax that blocks my straining ears.
I’ll dry the feet, prevent a pungent smell.
All this I swear to do before year end.
Surely you spent some years subtracting time
from work to carry out such rituals?
You must be committed to keep so clean,
you use the latest market-leading brands.
It’s clarity of mind and purity
of purpose that secretes consistency.
A face that comes by night to grant you love
is strong enough to fool the flow of dreams.
“Awake you sleeping passion, true Foxglove.”
Disguised friend with magic eyes, it streams.
Let me expose the trickery before
more young, inattentive, beguiled sweethearts
turn sour and lose the joy of what’s in store
provided neither welcome taste of tarts.
There is another way to lift the loss
that absent satisfaction brings to bed.
The scent of lover’s pillow, sweet as moss,
will rouse the flow of memories instead.
Resist temptation’s guile throughout your years,
alive, alone, awake, and sigh no tears.
Dear 2021,
I will write you out of my life.
I’ll erase you.
That’s what you’ve been good for
– practicing the art of expunging,
expelling,
expressing
– an excremental year.
I will forget you
just as I have forgotten
sins of omission,
unsuccessful resurrections
and heaven on earth.
You had the goodwill of surviving relatives to contend with,
antibodies,
antiChrists,
antediluvians.
You’re a year infested with anti-vaxxers,
shadows remembered
January, grim god of beginnings,
all you were good for were continuings.
More infections than genuflections, some said.
Others uttered “we talked about COVID more than we prayed to any god”.
Years ago, it was Occupy Wall Street,
this year it was un-occupy offices,
un-attend water coolers,
empty canteens,
beware public houses
silence confession boxes,
cashless commerce,
“click & collect” your dose.
March, war god of misgivings,
you plundered Cheltenham, St. Patrick’s Day, and Spring.
Months blurred into labyrinths of advice,
recommendations,
regulations,
legislations,
conglomerations of congregations in conflagration.
2021, a confluence of administered vaccinations,
a mess.
It was my brother’s birthday in March, my wife’s in April,
what did we do together?
There was another “We”, without which you would have been too cruel to bear,
drawn from the highways and byways,
from landscapes and mindscapes,
collaborating continents of voices that spoke volumes
with respect for diversity of origin, accent and colour.
I remember golfers practicing their conversations.
I remember contests of conjunctives,
alliterations of ailments,
hyperbolic hyphens,
all the grammar of generations grown on service to others.
I remember the election I lost
and consoling myself
with the conviction that it was well worth
the risk of embarrassment.
I remember the summer of contentment,
when three days in Lahinch was a feast
for Founders Day.
When the certificate arrived,
it was placed between two showjumpers
– because I’ve been living with leg on and leg off,
tack to be cleaned,
boots to be polished,
numnahs and socks
and not once did I hear the farrier fit shoes.
Oh yes,
it’s been a year of desolation,
un-attended funerals,
cancelled operations
and the Health Service Executive
cajoling porters
carrying the burden
of woe-begotten branches of “test & trace”
home visitors and the protocols.
We had a North-South traffic jam,
an all-Ireland festival of futile hints
that one day in our lifetime,
the four green fields will be fertilised by similar slurry,
sustainable signatories to one constitution
celebrated in a land
where the common cold didn’t sneeze.
Toastmasters thrived
while others died.
If it hadn’t been for Zoom,
I’d have been a zombie,
zestless, zigzagging from Netflix to the Premier League,
paraOlympics to Prime or Disney
aching for Bambi’s mother,
Mother Jones or the Mothers of Invention.
It was a year for nostalgic initiatives,
like
“Let’s go play in the garden”
“Let’s go pray for a visit”
“Let’s find our way to forgive
those who refuse to worship at the altar of compliance,
the tabernacle of conformity
the monstrance of hibernation.”
If it wasn’t for words,
I’d have lost my capacity for breath.
If it wasn’t for commas,
I’d have squandered the opportunity for chancing my arm.
If it wasn’t for sentences,
I’d have lost my freedom to mix metaphors
How many operations were postponed?
Marriages postponed?
Lovers postponed?
For goodness sake,
how much sexual intercourse was postponed or sexted?
A virtual year,
a virtuous cheer,
certainly queer.
And, as I quicken to your end,
you morph
Omni Cromnivirus Maximus,
you token turd,
you blind bigot,
you sour-faced, singularly persistent,
bastard of bad faith.
I plant spineless pions
to punctuate your particles
with Pi times your pronounciating pronouns,
Gibberish, Gomorrah,
Tomorrah.
May you perish,
and reincarnate the bodies of the departed
as whole paragraphs of poetry.
May you accompany Dante
from the wood,
like a wandering proposal,
pitched to posterity.
I was with them when they arrived
to give birth.
All they wanted was a miracle.
The rest of us were parched & starved.
All we wanted was
peace on earth.
They could have done with a midwife or two.
Johnsie, Matty , Martin and Daniel,
sure shepherds are only good for staring
-and celebrating after miracles.
[specially for members of Toastmasters International in Ireland, England, Scotland, Wales & beyond]
Come,
adventure into the unknown,
Elf on your shelf,
advent friends.
A time for rejoicing:
let us hold hands in harmony,
let’s stand side-by-side in solidarity,
let’s speak of Ralph C Smedley’s chesnut stuffing,
his legacy
for everyday connectivity.
There is a season …
Turn, turn, turn
and a time to every purpose in Toastmasters
Time:
a time to try,
a time to try,
a time to triumph,
a timer by your side.
Listen:
let there be Grammar,
guttural, graceful grammar,
linguistic tightrope walking
past lazy language,
unkempt utterances
savage sentences.
Let your inner Grammarian prod you
from slovenly, sleepy mouthfuls.
This is the season for rejoicing, rhyme and rhetoric.
Each to your way:
E-commerce,
E-cigarettes,
E-valuations.
Make meaningful the content of your desire.
You are a meaning-making-master
Toastmaster
distinguished,
a lowercase distinguished Toastmaster,
certainly.
You deserve this advent,
this good story,
this Promise of
Integrity for Inspiration,
Respect for Resilience,
Service for Solace,
Excellence for Eccentricity.
May Ralph be Santa to your sleigh,
crammed full of presents,
and presence on your stage,
your landscape,
your speachathon,
the speachathon of your mind.
May the love of leaders that lead with love
fill up your heart this year to come.
Call out this Festival from COVID,
unmask the pain within,
ring out the joy we comrades sing,
make merry when you can
and serve humanity lashings of trifle.
Ring in this season of reindeers,
ridiculous renditions of poetry and song,
With love to you all
Paul.
Sailing to Dover
floating to death on water
we hadn’t a chance.
Screaming for life
for breath, a hand to hold me
swallowing silence.
Sinking and drowning,
a cold wet graveyard for home.
I hoped for better.
It’s never been an easy ride to place
a photograph exactly where it ought to be.
Opinions clash, hypotheses contest the wind
before the taste of breakfast turns to memory,
and dust.
Witness the ease that trickles through your base
and turns a little sour, as morning drifts
apart. Is there not spice to whet your appetite
for war and peace? Is there no more sunshine
around the sound of jays and rooks and doves,
and dust?
Behold English Setter on banks prepared for fish
that jump before lunchtime for flies not moths,
a dog that saved my life with eyes he fixed so firm,
until compelled to sit and drools, and I to smile
through dust.
There’s no ending in sight or sound, no door
locked down, nor ice too cold to strip a breath of air
from lungs on fire. Who cut the brambles back,
murdered the blackberries, and left the path undressed?
Awake with life in mind, unheart me now before the rain,
you gods of sleep, come do your best, sustain
this chimera of dust.
I’ve heard the master say
He had a favourite shot
the best one in his bag.
He dares to whisper the name
Toastmasters for Golf.
_________________________
We are Toastmasters of today
we are Toastmasters for tomorrow.
I’ve heard the master say.
____________________
I have landed in the bunker
my ball’s gone out of bounds
My buggy has a broken wheel
My swing’s gone off the boil,
my ground’s under repair.
There’s a fairway somewhere,
it lies in greener grass.
I’m terrified of shanking,
I’m sure I’ll top the ball.
because I’m an ordinary leader
who stands upon the tee
out there every day.
in your community,
I’ve heard the master say.
I’m no more afraid of public speaking
than of playing a fresh-air shot.
I’ll feast my eye upon the ball
upon my words in flight
“It’s all a game of golf”,
I hear the Toastmaster say
– from concrete fears to metaphors
– from nightmares to the promised land.
I’ll practise my swing
until the rainbow’s end.
I’ll practise my voice
in solidarity with friends.
_____________
Let’s not squander time in fear,
let’s not hide away our talents,
let me be my best.
I heard the master say.
Ralph C Smedley used his wedge,
and built a club house fair.
Ralph C had days he missed his cup
Of this you can be sure,
but he never, ever, gave up.
___________________
Your leader in the zone,
on the eighteenth hole
he knew he’d done his best
he smiled to friends all round the course.
Ralph knew the putt was long,
from when he wore short trousers,
he dreamt of saving lives
he dreamt of players growing strong.
He’d dreamt there would be a hole-in-one
for YOU.
His inner core
Integrity
His outer layer
Respect
His clubs were called to
Service
In the dream of
Excellence.
I’ve heard the master say.
THE MASTER IS YOU
You don’t have to agree
You don’t have to agree with me,
or your father.
You don’t even have to agree
with the gods.
The proof lies in your rebellion
against the power of the authority
that would lord over you
– if you let it.
You don’t have to agree with these few words
or what you imagine they mean
for your own good
– the only good you’ll ever have.
You don’t have to accept
You don’t have to accept
the sun in the morning.
You don’t have to accept
the stars at night.
You don’t have to accept
the scars of words
uttered in your direction.
You don’t even have to attend
the funeral of hopes you used to embrace,
nor love the company
of those who profess to love you,
of those who crave to care,
of those that breathe your name.
You don’t have to accept.
You don’t have to pay
You don’t have to pay attention
to wagtails, butterflies and magpies
in your garden
nor the song of newts, frogs and moths
– symphonic bedfellows.
You don’t have to pay attention
to the call of those who claim
to need your time,
nor the screech of mates, pals and kin
– major keys, minor discords.
You don’t have to attend,
to be present,
to what matters most
to you.
You have your way
You have the power to forget,
the right to deny.
You have the honour to refuse,
the right to be blind.
You have the breath to be echt,
the right to find
your way.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 