Author: Paul O'Mahony

I'm Paul O'Mahony - living in Cork - Father - Poet - member of Toastmasters International - Business storytelling consultant - Podcaster - Blogger - Foodie - Loves to connect with people. . linkedin.com/in/paulhomahony

Hare

balsam firs weighed low

a snowshoe hare eating twigs

downwind, a red fox

Snowdrops

snowdrops peeping through

the power of a bare oak 

a bed of snowflakes 

Dance of Order & Chaos in Everyday Life

for CongRegation

I

Eyes opening, blurred vision, a fragment of light shafting through curtains, a gentle start to the day, a ritual re-entry into consciousness.

The carpet, soft on soles of both feet – it’s time to visit the toilet: oh dear, it wasn’t flushed last night – I suppose yellow water’s natural too.

Time for the dressing gown, the blue heavy warm one, the one with the detached belt. Time to pick up the charged smart phone – pick up and plug-in the hearing aid – go for a cup of tea – an every day ritual in orderly progress, downstairs into the kitchen.

Turn on kettle,

Oh, it needs more water.

Thank goodness there’s Light milk left in the carton,

boiling water on a bog-standard teabag

– the cheapest from SuperValu.

At last, there is something to think about:

which mug will it be today?

(I only drink from mugs that I love

and those that have passed the test,

that don’t have a chipped lip.)

Sitting on the bar-stool,

at the counter,

surrounded by the National Concert Hall Classical Season 2026,

‘THE ASTRAKHAN CLOAK’

poems by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill – translated by Paul Muldoon,

four pencils,

three biros,

‘Greetings to Our Friends in Brazil’

‘BEING HUMAN’, published by BLOODAXE.

All is well in the world

even the burgundy right handed glove with fur sticking out

(owned by my wife)

doesn’t feel out of place

Maybe the statement from the income tax people,

from government buildings in Kilkenny,

even that doesn’t disturb the peace.

II

There is no such thing as chaos

until the dog goes wild and barks at nothing

I walk to the door and see no one

but the wind and the clouds

bright

painted grey

slivers of blue watching over them.

In my tiny world

inhabited by WhatsApp posts,

daily news from RTE,

Facebook likes and comments,

Instagram likes

commas,

Gmail updates,

Gmail primaries

I see a shrine to my father-in-law

a young man walking with hands in his pockets,

a suit and tie

black and white image

an older man in his prime with a fine head of hair

an even older man with arm round my little girl

when she was about three.

No trace of chaos.

III

Outside

the sun is shining on the cream painted wall behind the rosebush.

Rain is on its way – as it always is.

Over the horizon,  the flood, the storm, the ice, and casualties on the road.

The butterfly in Hiroshima hasn’t yet exercised its wings.

Chaos isn’t even knocking at the island.  

Chaos is nowhere to be found in my little world 

except…

until…

however…

IV

Gaza bleeding… 

Sudan starving

Ukraine unbent

Asylum seekers,

Boat people,

Refugees,

Homeless

Commas,

Paragraphs swirling,

Chapters redacted,

Firepower in the Caribbean.

Who said “ they are all Untermenschen”?

The Earth is kindling wood,

earth quakes

tsunami,

not enough housing.

Racism on the rise,

racists on the wing,

trans gender infants,

transgender children banned.

There is nothing to thank goodness for.

In the outside world,

in the world of other people,

the most fragrant things are questions.

Living in a cesspool

Eating a putrid soup 

Sleeping on poisoned ditches. 

Where is the blind fool,

cataracted pupils, shifting lenses?

Where is the motley fool,?

Who says chaos is a conspiracy theory now? 

V

What will happen to your immortal soul?

How will you sit on the right hand of your God? 

When will you have done your time in purgatory? 

Why will you spend the rest of your eternity in hell? 

Reborn as a germ…

Reborn as a mule…

Reborn as an asylum seeker…

We are all condemned to an asylum, only the walls are not painted with pride.

Who made the world?

God made the world.

Who made the chaos?

Greeks made the chaos.

Who made the butterflies?

Random Variations made the butterflies.

No one in their right mind would’ve made the jellyfish.

There are no earthworms in my little world,

no dung beetles here.

VI

The civil war on Earth

The uncivil world

in the universe of disordered time.

CHA O’S. The child of the alphabet. 

The CHA mpion son of S ilence. 

Joking apart SOAHC  SHOCA OSHAC 

Have A Slice Of Chocolate

Change Half An Outlandish Story

Summon Our Arthritic Catastrophe Hither

PLAY, play, play the game

Sing, sing, sing the sound of silence 

Sniff, sniff, sniff the waft of witless wickedness

Wicked the movie 

Wicked, the explosions

Wicked, the extinctions.

VII

There is nothing but chaos

knocking on my bedroom door,

knocking on my toilet seat,

knocking on my coffee.

It’s time to assemble the pieces.

There may not be sufficient seconds for the jigsaw.

Bring me the head of my teddy bear.

We dance the rhythm of Order & Chaos in Everyday Life

I remember Sean Dwan saying

“A smile is a weapon of mass seduction.”

THE END

CITY

River through city


Street lights burning like candles

Icing bus shelter

ADORATION

Dying to be remembered

Dying to be loved

Yearning to be celebrated

who will prolong my life

in a world

where so much is forgotten

almost before it has been born.

ideas

characters

adventures,

history,

biography,

and I

return to dust

dust they are,

and dust they will remain.

On the cutting floor

there is no eternity.

Good morning,

good afternoon,

good night.

Good mourning

_______________________________________________

(image generated by AI)

Associate

saltwater croc waits


a bird picking its teeth clean –


associate love

Pavement

I

Maple leaves on  O’Connell Bridge

Floating down the Liffey 

Red hand of Ulster 

Three crowns of Munster 

Feathers flickering

one Seagull under lights

It’s not late enough to fall in the river.  

II

Tired grey beard 

losing the colour of life

Flat cap, caipín 

Breasts striding by

Brown Thomas bag 

with a black umbrella 

coming from Grafton street. 

Luas bell warning 

Time to get a move on before it’s too late. 

Long hair flapping 

on Dawson Street, 

out west violent wind.

Trail finders walking by

“Injury Time” on display

“Wolf Man and Water-Hounds”

“Have you seen the Dublin vampire?”

a window for browsing readers. 

Another bell, another Luas, 

that soft strong wind. 

III

Carluccio’s is not the best place to be cremated.

Plastic flower 

in an extra dry Prosecco bottle,

white King Protea facing the door. 

Crema, a thimble of hot water

diluting its bitter companion.

witness the knife and fork 

slice an almond croissant

scattering icing sugar. 

Cool in the mouth.

“Thank you very much”

to a Palestinian smile, 

a time for thinking, 

alone in company 

with an afternoon snack .

Cutlery crashing,  

any second now,

settle the bill.

— There may be time to die .

Sonorous

a monk chants the psalm

sonorous from temple’s drum —

cherry blossoms fall

Perhaps

perhaps an earthquake —

a butterfly tastes the wind

jellyfish abide

Reinvigorate

Jumping spider down

yearns to reinvigorate

a rain drop reflects

Stock

stock grazing grassland

cow pats baking, sun blazing

dung beetle rolls ball