'Darcy and O'Mara' is a novel by Arthur Cronin.
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Sunday, November 07, 2010
Tip-toe through the garden
Though Stan lacks education
He's been blessed with common sense.
Some believe he's thicker than
The planks nailed to his fence.
But Stan knows well his ten-foot fence
Will keep him safe from strife,
Keeping out the leprechaun
Who travelled here from Fife,
A crazy Scottish cousin of
A leprechaun called Peter
Who poses as a pint-sized man,
Drinks whiskey by the litre,
And shows great feats of fortitude
With night-long jigs on sheds.
The sound of boots on iron roofs
Wakes flowers from their beds,
And makes them grow with evil thoughts
And plans to cut down trees,
Schemes for farming beetles and
Peter's dance enhanced the place
In front of Stan's abode,
A beetle-farm-filled wilderness
Where menace overflowed,
Regarded as a garden by
Its owner, who was proud.
Stan admired the daisies that
Released a noxious cloud.
He loved to see the sunlight on
His apple tree's black branches.
They only make their rotten fruit
To drop in avalanches,
And land on lawns of neighbours who
Complained about the briars,
Those ever-roaming tentacles
That tended to start fires.
Peter's dance made sneezing plants
Appear in even rows.
They'd wait until they got a chance
To sneeze on strutting crows,
And smear black clothes with some strange goo
That sticks to feather coats,
A style that suits the parrots who
Reside on pirate boats.
When Peter's cousin Cormac came
To visit for a week,
He spent the first month telling tales
Of trips to Mozambique,
And felling trees in Canada
Where children panned for gold,
While grizzly bears grew beards and bowler
Hats to fight the cold,
And when his stock of tales were told
He ventured out for air.
He hoped he'd meet the neighbourhood's
Instead he found the wilderness
Where Stan goes to unwind.
Its strange mystique applied a hold
On Cormac's funny mind.
He spent three weeks exploring it,
In search of deadly creatures.
He built sand castles with the stuff
That flowed from water features.
His never-ceasing researches
Made Stan feel ill-at-ease.
He'd put up with unwanted guests
If they paid rent or fees.
To extricate his visitor
He followed Cormac's route.
Days and nights of daunting jaunts
Made up this fraught pursuit.
After Cormac's exit Stan
Built up the fence with planks.
He's seen this added safeguard used
On all the local banks.
Friday, October 08, 2010
Written in the Stars
An often-correct horoscope
Told Monica she would elope
With Willie, a welder,
And each time he held her
She'd smell his aversion to soap.
Soon she felt flustered and harried.
Her tea leaves said they would be married
By Ron, a dead rector,
A spine-chilling spectre
Who stroked the strange hedgehog he carried.
Her crystal ball's view made her quail.
The church would be used as a jail.
The rector would roar
And the hedgehog would snore.
A banshee would whistle and wail.
But she saw an end to her plight.
The cake looked immense in moonlight,
And she'd have recourse
To a court of divorce
In a graveyard on their wedding night.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A Life of Comedy
My greatest wish was that each day
Would leave me with a lighter load,
And I'd avoid events that held
The sense that something would explode,
And that a life of comedy
Would come to me and make me laugh,
To bring a tingling buzz as good
As those supplied by Van de Graaff.
It seemed my wish was granted when
I won a highly-valued prize,
A cruise across enchanted seas
And days as light as butterflies
That flutter into twilit skies
And grace the views of setting suns,
Far away from relatives
Whose greatest skill is getting guns
And pointing them at animals
And leaving walls with massive holes,
Missing out on free fresh meat
They'd hoped to cook in casseroles.
The bar on board the ship was home
To sombre people dressed in black,
Men espousing misery
While drinking wine and rare cognac.
They revelled in advising me
To yield to our impending doom,
A looming ending soon to start,
A constant night about to bloom,
With meagre light illuminating
Waiting rooms for tours of yards,
Estates of tombs where garden gnomes
Wear uniforms of prison guards,
And these eternal building sites
Would never be the welcome host
To any type of building work
Performed by man or beast or ghost.
I had to hear these cheerless folk
Explain their bleak philosophy.
Some would speak in technical
Expressions that were lost on me.
Some of them used simple words
With ample time between each one.
They'd reminisce on days with books
That reached the peak of teenage fun.
For some a light and easy read
Would be a book by Wittgenstein.
Some said life's a jigsaw and
You'll laugh when all the bits combine.
The final scene will be revealed.
You'll see that it's a sinking ship.
You'll never find a fuller stop
To punctuate a stately trip.
Late one night I had to laugh
Despite the sense of shock I felt.
A massive ice berg shook our ship.
It wandered over seas with stealth.
The men who had been hoping for
An end to life to come their way
Were all in floods of tears and praying
Loudly to extend their stay.
They didn't need to be afraid.
Our boat would win its bout with ease.
It beat the berg and kept its course.
It ruled the waves of icy seas.
The quality of ice bergs now
Is not as high as in the past.
Because of global warming they
Are not designed and built to last.
I smile when I mull over all
The harm to Father Nature's wife,
And future cataclysms that
Might terminate all human life.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The Futility of War
Grace became the nanny for
A family in Kerry;
A mansion near Killarney where
The granny lived on sherry.
The parents led chaotic lives
That threatened to unravel.
The unrelieved upheaval came
From constant foreign travel,
Busy sealing business deals
Or sailing seas on yachts,
Getting tangled up in nets
And complicated plots.
The kids ran wild with Grace, whose nerves
Were frayed around the edges.
Sam and Sue put keys in cakes,
Or so the cook alleges.
They'd try their best to leave a room
Arranged in disarray,
While Grace despaired, but all would change
As brunch began one day.
The plethora of crackers placed
Upon the silver platter
Were swiftly aimed at Grace's face
And thrown with feeling at her.
Something snapped inside her head.
Her fury overflowed.
A dark, forbidding mood impaired
Her caring nanny mode.
She started throwing bread at them.
She only lost their trust
When she threw wholemeal bread without
Removing all the crust,
So they threw jam and Parma ham
And Parmesan, ungrated.
At times like these, when armed with cheese,
They're frequently elated.
They'll improvise and try to use
All weapons within reach.
Sam threw shells and batteries
He'd gathered on the beach.
Grace fought back by throwing books
And magazines left scattered.
She looked at all the titles though
Their contents hardly mattered.
The war went on till lunch was served.
They stopped for soup and salad,
A time for trauma-laden troops
To sing a mournful ballad.
When they surveyed the mess they'd made
They felt both pride and shock.
Even Gran had fled to hide
In her grandfather clock.
Carpets, curtains, rugs and walls
Were scarred by shards of cake.
They'd smashed to bits the priceless vase
They dearly hoped was fake.
Chairs had suffered injuries.
They'd soon be amputees.
They'd have to get new wooden legs
But they'd get used to these.
Sam and Sue agreed with Grace
When she proposed a truce.
She cursed the crackers and the force
Of madness they let loose.
They signed their names to seal the peace,
The first accord of many.
They promised they'd forget the fight
And blame the mess on Granny.
Many weeks went by before
She exited the clock.
Inside she'd found some diamonds and
A terrier called Jock.
(Another change: I'll be updating this site every three weeks from now on).
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Come back next week
I've decided to update this site once every two weeks instead of every week.