Friday, June 26, 2015

MISTAKEN IDENTITY







MISTAKEN IDENTITY

The hand, that reaches out to a shoulder;
A shoulder, sparse of flesh and muscle now.
A shoulder, that pulled a plough once;
A shoulder, that nestled a spewing babe.
A shoulder, that cradled a new born lamb;
A shoulder, that bronzed with every turn of hay.
A shoulder, that held up a cart to fix a wheel.
A shoulder, soaked by family's tears;.
A shoulder, covered now in papery brown.
The hand, that reaches out....
Let it see the MAN.









Maureen Walsh  -  June 2015



Ciao for now!

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

SO GOOD TO SEE YOU





SO GOOD TO SEE YOU

So good to see you tonight....in one piece
I take no notice of the vermin tag
Silver stripes turning for once at the verge
To head for the anonymity of a hedgerow
Not hushed into death
By squashing rush of wheels
No crows feasting on a soggy door mat.



.


Maureen Walsh - June 2015



Ciao for now!

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

NUMBED IN THE MONTH OF MAY







NUMBED IN THE MONTH OF MAY

Blinded by grief for wasted time
Deafened by noise of empty words
Riddled by pangs of useless regret
Deadened by deeds of impure heart....AND

Thousands are killed for their creed by greed
Nature at its fiercest slaughters smiles in Nepal
Old lady is locked in a box she calls home
A man, unemployed; isn't seen; ends it all....SO I'M SORRY

I cannot see the glory of this Summer
Nor did I of, the Spring just past
I didn't feel the soil grow warm
Or feel the thrill of a curlew's call 
Nor sing in the lane, lined with lime-green beech 
Let not the scents of the hawthorn pass by me
Without my regard or respect
For then I would sense that all was lost;
That swallows would forget to return in May

Maureen Walsh - May 2015








Ciao for now!

Monday, April 20, 2015


Image result for old shepherd with flock



THE FINAL WHISTLE


Ruddy face chastened by Northerly wind;
Wind that spurs army of woolly warriors to be led,
Led not pushed with gentle calm upwards;
Upwards towards the grassy level before the lake.
Lake where the lady lures men down, deep to love.
Love? The girl from the blue house, bottom of the boreen;
Boreen filled with the smell and white of Hawthorn;
Hawthorn, where he should have kissed Moll's full red lips.
Lips that kissed, then married his best friend Paddy; 
Paddy who left the Glen and farming to become a garda.
Garda uniform and he was handsome with a house as well.
Well for them now, with their two girls, and one boy
Boy, awkward, but won with a smile very same as his mother's. 
'Mother's getting too much these days,' and cap off, he scratches
Scratches a balding head bowed by hard work and despair;
Despair around decisions, and moments never seized.
Seized by a crushing pain in chest, he calls the final whistle.
Whistle, in his pocket pinned between his heart and rock;
Rock where Joe played many an air, and Shep his dog would sleep.
Sleep Joe, your turn now: Shep, your friend will guard your sheep. 



Maureen Walsh - April 2015



Image result for old shepherd


I'M THINKING THE WORLD COULD DO WITH A GOOD SHEPHERD RIGHT NOW.....ONE THAT LEADS RATHER THAN PUSHES!


Ciao for now!

Saturday, April 18, 2015

BABIES, BANKERS AND BANDITS




BABIES, BANKERS AND BANDITS


Babies thriving through bottle or breast.
Bankers survive by destroying youths' nests;
Bandits' causes killing kids with the rest




Maureen Walsh - April 2015

 
 
 
 
Ciao for now!

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

THE GIRL WITH NO NAME






THE GIRL WITH NO NAME

The tramp was hungry, so didn't come late;
Filled by curiosity, she could no longer wait.
Arriving in style with the simplest of clothes;
Perfectly coiffed and manicured toes.
Eyes already dancing; she takes in the room
Barely 20 minutes from her mother's womb.   


Maureen Walsh March 31st - 2015

For Brian and Bridget on the birth of their little girl!







Ciao for now!

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

THE NOWHERE DOOR






THE NOWHERE DOOR


Painted with promises of blues and greens
And in the cracks, dreams are glued....as it leans.
At no one's behest, door was unhinged
As storms' beasts, upon it's secrets binged.
There was once a time. it opened only for gold
Carpets for lovers, and tales from the old.
Monster in hearth spawned cackling daughters;
Thrusting forth swords of lustful slaughter;
Behind a stage shared by bards and kings alike.
Then later, through their hearts, a polished spike;
Directed by jealousy towards the thinking mind;
Humanity and reason; mercenaries never find.
Scoundrels came calling and claimed for themselves
Silvery words, lying hidden on shelves.
Their worth not seen; a funeral pyre built;
Flamingos on fire, and waterfalls spilled.
Journals of travellers lay wasted in ash;
As too, did girls in white satin sash.

Nailed to dreams, The Nowhere Door leans;
Painted with promises of blues and greens.







Maureen Walsh - St.Patrick's Day 2015




Happy St. Patrick's Day to all!



Ciao for now!

Monday, January 26, 2015

FOG







FOG


Anything can lie lurking in the fog.....
Not the sort served up by Mother Nature,
But the porridge sort that sticks and hurts;
The man-made stuff that misrepresents;
Scorns greedily, and reinvents 
A soul that was never seen;
And reveals a love that never was.



Maureen Walsh  -  January 2015




 
ciao for now!

Sunday, January 18, 2015

DEEP BREATH





DEEP BREATH

Telling him it wasn't his fault
Allowed a deeper breath or two....
A moment's slackening of the rope
That choked the hope from a child
And secured the guilt of a bum,

Take a deep breath and tell him.........



Maureen Walsh - January 2015







ciao for now

Sunday, January 11, 2015

THE HARD MAN TOM




THE HARD MAN TOM


On lino-d space for two plus six, an upturned bicycle takes centre stage
As patch upon patch upon another is glued.
Finished, he picks up a Reader's Digest, and flicks his way through, to the over-turned page
About the Second World War and the rationing of food.

Blackened by coke, he works, eats and sleeps....with his mate.... that vest;
Close to his heart as he stokes the train's fires; recalling the Digest and those bloody bombs  
On Sundays, a rest, a cup of tea in the bed, and Maudie his sweetheart, doing her best,
Her very best to separate those mates; so's to wash.... that vest of  'The Hard Man Tom.'

Horses won today, and face curls in around the door,
Smile means meat tomorrow, a pint or two tonight and maybe even  a bag of chips
But overalls stay put, his only suit on vacation at the Pawnbroker's once more.
Some Old Spice slapped on, works wonders on the face, and hands.....a quick lick.

Tonight, Maudie's coat goes on, and hand slips into hand;
They talk about the North Easterly wind and Jimmy mitching school that day.
Pub corner hot with jokes and song, squeeze in, so that 'The Hard Man' and Maud can join the band;
The 'Sad Sacks', they're called.....a bunch just like him, struggling to survive on their C.I,E, pay.








Maureen Walsh - January 2015



Part of a collection of poems called Tom's Cycle




Ciao for now!