Tag: poem

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

Haiku

shape of the rainbow 

Payne’s grey cloud ready to pour

cows curled in the field 

Tempting

Does travel tempt you?

Tantalising seduction

Come flying with me.

Travelling now

Where are you going?

Lightening time, warming soon

Green pheasant calling

Cricket is a curse

(work in progress)

Cricket is the curse of the bowling class,
an ode:
the catching team an echo,
the batting class a sestina,
the fielding team a muse.

Cricket is the curse of the tea break:
line, length, time, and rhyme,
bad light and rain.
Refrain stops play.

Cricket’s a mug’s game,
a heroic couplet,
yet more of the same.

A Haiku running between stumps,
legs and symbols before wicket
a foot, outside the line,
an Alexandrine.

A forward defense with cadence,
against the seam,
like a no ball, a simile,

Cricket’s a testing game:
the toss,
a full toss
hit for six. Epic.

The cover’s on.
the cover’s off,
a song.

The bat, the pen, the runs, the words,
a coin spins
out comes the side, and the ink.

The follow-on stanza,
mid-on,
mid-off,
side-on.
An innings defeat.

Cricket is the curse of the umpire’s hand,
a satire.
a verse at square leg.

Onomatopoeia.
a mug’s game of innings and googlies.
Pitch, bouncers and reverse swing.
Centuries and ironies.

Ducks and golden pairs.
Stress,
a wrong’un.

Englynion:
Two new openers
batting long boring innings – sleeping time
quite a crime every ball
blocking bowlers, playing crawl
soaking pressure, scoring nothing.

Drift, line, and length.
a flipper and villanelle.
flight through the air.

Cricket is the curse of the leg spinner,
the third man.
The tail, the tale, and off-cutter.

Metaphor.
Wisden’s dictionary.
Ashes and syllables.
Lords, the Gabba,
and the popping crease.

Your Festival For Friends

[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.

The Cauldron

Let’s not go back through the whole story
– who was right and who was wrong
– who was trite and who was strong.
Let’s not chew the cud nor blaspheme
into the eyes of the other side.

All us elephants belong together,
no matter the weather,
even if we carry opposing memories
in trunks weighed down
with the affluence of a river stream,
weighed down under the influence
of our tribe of scribes.

Don’t you remember … ?
Haven’t you forgotten … ?
Surely it was a dream
conjured up in daylight
suffered by night
under O’Ryan’s belt
or Murphy’s plough
– the one she gave away
to her infant star?

Let’s not dwell
on the hell
of the big bang
our sides faced
in silence,
the vacuum of peace
and war of the worlds
we each imagine
the other inhabits.

We elephantine serpentines,
we cling to the underside
of the all-knowing
Red Admiral.
We think we know better than to rage
against the fading meteorite.

In the puddle of blood we dribbled
from wounds our flashpoint celebrated
there isn’t an ounce of virtue
outstanding.
There is time in space
extending
all about a place
as warm as a teddybear’s tummy,
as soft as powder down
on a heron’s breast.

We are witness.

Let’s move on to the pale moon light,
and wake the characters within
a freshly scrubbed cauldron.

Hell

 

image

Hell

From the depths of Hell in summertime

Dante heard his name called

wished he’d misheard.

However,

he always knew it wasn’t enough

to write a description of Hell

to ward off the experience of hell on earth.

—

I am Dante

I’ve tried to write my way

out of misery

– wished many times

I could have woken up dead –

longer than that Italian moaned his lost love.

—-—————

Notes:

(1) This poem was written during a livestream Periscope on 8 June 2016 – in 10 minutes.

(2) The first line was suggested by @shaggydog69 “From the depths of Hell” & @brendyrussell11 “in summertime”.

(3) The scope was both nerve-wracking & fun.

Potato Poem (PP)

 

unnamed

Potato Poem

Dear reader…

You already know Continue reading Potato Poem (PP)

Strangle Bukowski – poem by Paul O’Mahony

Will someone please strangle Bukowski

A disgraceful man

not worthy of the name Charles

He farts his syllables

belches his words

vomits his phrases

– his sentences smell

like festering fish

As for his verse

it’s worse.

When did Mewkowski last rhyme?

When did he not spew  out his truth

as if it was personal?

If caustic Charlie didn’t drink sour milk

sucked from his Mother Nature

the inhuman race

would have no warlike bastards

inciting us all to spill blood

from eructive orifices.

Pastiching

the barely sane Bukowski

keeps my bad breath moving mindfully

in and out

in and out

through gaps between teeth

filled originally by a dumb dentist

married to his drill

addicted to screwing

holes he amalgamed.

Father, father

who will rid me of this

treacherous gurgitator

sent from that inner being

Steve Jobs

tried to connect with

on his ashram

in smelly feet.

See,

pastiche is the sincerest form of flattery

Will someone please strangle Bukowski?