Saturday, December 31, 2011



I'll raise a glass
To your execution,
As you wind your way down
Through the last stubborn ten.

Your death will be swift;
One strike and it's done;
Befitting the hero;
The battles you've won.

Defeats, you have ushered
Through frustrated finger tips,
Fault of kisses blown hellwards
Out of bruised mortals' lips.

In the shadows, your son stands
Aloft, from your breast.
And collects severed head;
In your armour he's dressed.

He'll fight with your valour
He'll roar in your truth
So sleep well gentle Father
Son's mighty in your shoes.

Maureen Walsh - December 31st 2011

See you in the New Year

Ciao for Now!

Wednesday, December 28, 2011


Trying to prepare a scrumptious stuffing and roast the perfect turkey is something I have tried to achieve for many, many years. Some years, the stuffing might be pretty tasty, but the turkey collapses, and then sometimes the stuffing isn't too hot, but the turkey still looks like a turkey; maybe a little dry, but reasonably edible. I have even watched Fanny Craddock; the original, 'not so sure' female version of Jamie Oliver,(if the voice box is anything to go by) of the 50/60's black and white TV era, and followed her(?) instructions to the letter.

I went into my local butcher, Martin in Bansha and ordered my ham and a 'boned and rolled' turkey.  After much deliberation over my desire to see a turkey that looked like a real turkey, I decided that in my idealism was outdated and it was time to cop on. I was to make my own stuffing and then the expert butcher's hands would do the necessary 'strapping in'. When I called to collect the turkey, that, quite honestly, could have been pork, lamb or any other kind of whitish meat, Martin said he loved my stuffing and even asked for the recipe. 'Nice one...good start' I thought. 'This might just be THE YEAR!'

Thought I'd go with the turkey bag this year and sliced up an orange and a lemon (not quite sure where I picked up that tip) and popped them in alongside the 'slab' of turkey. OK the turkey did not look like a turkey, but when I opened the bag, the meat was moist ...delicious, and the stuffing wasn't bad either. I was rather pleased with myself and the gang seemed to thoroughly enjoy. I was looking forward to my favourite part, which was to slicing it cold and eating it with pickles and chutney on St. Stephens Day. Now this is where Buffy makes her entrance.

Buffy, our dog, who strayed into my car several years ago was put on a strict diet recently, because her digestive system is no longer able to deal with MEAT, not even OUR OWN freshly-cooked meat as opposed to the normally quite highly-rated Pedigree Chum. The vet suggested PURINA, which looks like horse nuts for all the world. She tolerates them, but makes mealtimes quite difficult for us with her sad demeanour and pleading eyes, as we tuck into steak or chicken. Buffy was not a happy camper at all!


Buffy spends her night time sleeping in either, her own cosy bed or on her own special throw that is flung  onto one of the couches before going to bed. Christmas night was no exception. However, when we got up on St. Stephen's morning, we were met with disaster in the kitchen. The turkey lay on the floor, gnawed at; and my favourite oval plate was in smithereens. Buffy had GUILTY stamped all over her, and flashing like red neon lights in her eyes! Now we (and  of course that should read 'I') should have moved the turkey onto the kitchen worktop or onto the middle of the dining table, and of course, it wasn't Buffy's fault. After all, she is a dog and up until recently...a carnivore!

Something tells me, that Buffy had her eye on that turkey from the moment it came into the kitchen. She had decided she had had enough of our meat deprivation order and was going to REVOLT. What better way than to make sure that none of us would enjoy the pleasure of turkey, if she couldn't! She succeeded! She spent most of St Stephens Day in Coventry, but wiled her way back into our hearts after a few disappointed hours with no cold turkey and home-made chutney lunches.


Anyway, the turkey was good. Buffy can testify to that! Ah well, it's only food!

Ciao for now!

Saturday, December 24, 2011


Wishing all my friends, fellow bloggers, followers and occasional visitors a very Happy Christmas and a very peaceful but exhilarating New Year.

Just settling down to watch MUPPETS CHRISTMAS CAROL with my family in front of a roaring fire. My heart goes out to all those who have recently lost a loved one and to anyone who feels lonely, sick or hungry.

A little Christmas poem:


Wipe your feet and just walk in
Everything's where it's always been.
Flames in the hearth, candles lit,
Pull over the chair where you always sit.

Take off your shoes, warm your toes,
There's love in your heart, the sparkle shows.
Making a wish as you close your eyes,
May it come true by early sunrise!

Maureen Walsh December 24th 2010 ©

Because Christmas just isn't Christmas for me without Christmas carols; I would like to share my all-time favourite, O Holy Night performed by Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti.

Ciao for now!

Thursday, December 22, 2011



'Is there anyone sitting there?'
Said the red anorak with a smile.
'Not that I know of!'
Said a blue woollen jacket
Neat on a flowing floral skirt,
Spiced with indifference.
'I missed my bus....!'
And flushed cheeks make to sit down
On an already-taken Stephen's Green bench.
The blue, pink and mauve pansies
Fumble left to the edge....
To maintain the distance:
'Damn that bus!'
The red hood comes down
As the piercing rain gives up,
But her walls of self-preservation,
Cemented with fear.
Not content to look straight ahead;
He turns towards her.
'Fear of us!
It'll make Christmas shopping a lot easier
Anyways, as I was saying....
'Why is he telling me all this....
A perfect stranger!
Christ another orphan stone
Reaching out for.... for....!'
She swallows.
'I'm really a gardener....
My friends thought I was a cissy,
Because I liked growing things with my oul fella....
Yer know yourself....
Flowers and vegetables....
Oh.... and fruit!
Even papayas and passion fruit....imagine!
He had an old rickety lean-to glass-house
And a plot that ran down to the Canal.....
And the SWANS!
Jaysus, they were the best-fed swans in Drimnagh!
All the neighbours' stale bread....
My legs would be run off me!
And you....?
The silence was awkward,
Even for her.
'I'm a singer.... training.'
She turned slightly towards him;
Knotted stomach untangling,
In the blue of his interested eyes.
'I haven't a note in my head,' he laughs.
'But I can whistle!'
The anorak and woollen coat both laughed;
Shoulder to shoulder,
And watched a squirrel rummaging....
Pin-striped suits striding....
Headscarves with shopping bags struggling....
Dogs on leads dragging,
Winter sun setting....

Elsie fell in madly love, that rainy evening in St. Stephen's Green, with a gardener, called Joe. Six months later, when he proposed to her, he whispered her name at least a dozen times, before admitting that even though he could not give her a ring at that time, he still had something special to give her. On bended knee, he produced two passion fruits and a papaya from his pocket: 'Elsie will you marry me? Please let these gifts of nature and fruits of my labour signify our passion for each other; that we shall never be afraid to LIVE; that we shall never satisfy the hunger for each other or Life's opportunities.' Everything excited Joe. It was both infectious and addictive.

There were never floral bouquets from Joe on opening night. No not at all. Sitting in front of the dressing table in the nursing home, Elsie recalls the reflection in the bulb-studded dressing room mirror, of not only herself, transformed into Tosca, Butterfly, and Violetta, but also that of a golden box, in which, nestled two passion fruit and one papaya ...and a card....which read: 'Still hungry Elsie!' 

Maureen Walsh - December 2011

Wednesday, December 7, 2011



An apology,
For being,
For having been....

Nightdress, Knickers,
Washed out, drained;
Pegged; hanging on....

Birth pains; naked.
Lungs explode;
In pastels wrapped....

Out of....into
Life's sweet paint
On babe-blue mist....

Life's orange noon;
It's sunset red;
It's brights, imbetween....

Trapped by Winter,
The flags of life,
Hanging on; pegged....

Maureen Walsh - December 20l1

Ciao for now!