'Darcy and O'Mara' is a novel by Arthur Cronin.
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Thursday, August 25, 2005


Joe's Street

Wave hello to Mrs. Neighbour.
Yes it is, no it's not.
Glad they got it, lovely day for.
Hope it's like this, not too hot.

Bad with names, good with people.
Women hide their wedding rings.
What's a church, where's the steeple?
Forgetting those 'I do' type things.

She says she's busy painting walls.
Asks for help and he says yes.
Minutes later when he calls,
She wears a very slight red dress.

Cover chairs with something light.
The parrot too beneath a sheet.
He paints the ceiling brilliant white.
Uncover things to deal with heat.

Removing clothes. What's a wedding?
Moving closer, mopping brow.
Dropping brushes, shoes they're shedding.
Not much left of clothing now.

Husband back from business thing.
Home before the drinking session.
Put on clothes and wedding ring.
Joe wears his 'I'm lost' expression.

"I'm lost," he says and does the look.
Silent seconds take an age.
Averting eyes to every nook.
Joe goes to the parrot's cage,

Says 'what's your name?' to the bird,
Who looks around and seems at ease.
Instead of just a single word,
The parrot answers Joe with these:

"There are patches on the ceiling."
Eyes stare out beyond his beak.
"I said 'what's your name?'," said with feeling
Shake the cage to help him speak.

Thursday, August 18, 2005



Displacing ants
And planting plants.
Morning sunlight
in the garden.

All they need are a rake and a hoe
And the water from the tap by the shed.
The thing outside that I've never had to mow
Looks a lot like a lawn in my head.

I'll dig a hole for the dog to play in,
To keep him entertained for hours.
He'll roll in dirt day out, day in.
Rather that than eating flowers.

Inch by inch and row by row,
These things will grow

And someday soon I'll say to them
"You're a rose and you're a rock,
  And you're that thing with things."
I'll fill the can up to the brim.
And wait to see what summer brings.

Waiting waiting weeks and then
Things will come up into view,
Growing growing gone again,
Winter long and spring anew.

Oh hello there, you're that thing,
The one I planted just last year.
This is what I'll say or sing,
On sweetly-scented garden air.

Sowing seeds,
Pulling weeds,
Drinking water
wiping brows.

Or Just a brow without the S.
Hers is free from dirt and sweat.
She chose to save her summer dress.
Tired of digging she won't get.

Sitting down she says to me
"I think it was Marcel Proust who said..."
Wait a while in shade of tree,
Then get the shovel from the shed.

Digging holes,
Upsetting moles.
Empty flower pots
By the door.

Evening now, a fading sun.
Looking at a work of art.
Admiring all the work I've done.
"Or maybe it was Roland Barthes."

Thursday, August 11, 2005


Planning Things

Planning things, stress and worry.
Then it's sorted, sit and rest.
Off again, now in a hurry.
On the move and still half-stressed.

Happy calm today and then
Mrs. Thing-With says she lost it.
Hm that's tricky.
That's just,

Down to thinking,
Planning, pacing.
Avoiding sinking,
Mind is racing.

What if we used a dog instead?
A small dog with a fluffy head.

Wedding over, worry fading.
All calm and light, the sound of birds.
A mini-bar I'll soon be raiding.
But someone ruins it with these words:

"I can't help thinking something's missing.
"A thing we got forgotten now."
Move along now, end the kissing.
Before that thing says bow and wow.

Thursday, August 04, 2005


Jade and I

Me and Jade, we got it made,
Always things to do and say.
Or 'do' at least, and things to see,
A million things to do today.

There's a dog
And there's a cat,
And there's a car;
Point at that.

And here am I (a wave to her),
Standing near, again in luck.
She waves back and smiles as well,
And I smile too, and that's a truck.

But now she has to go away,
A holiday with friends she knows.
A girlie thing,
Off she goes.

Darling Jade,
Sweetie pie,
I miss her already, hello again.


Monday, August 01, 2005



Stay in the shade when the sky is still blue.
Out in the red when the blue fades away.
Be in the black with the stars and the dew
Rest your head at the end of the day.

All of the plans I had in my head,
I wrote on my hand to leave nothing but air
Above in my brain as I fall into bed,
Things for tomorrow, which now is quite near.

The plans involve Jane and wondering how
The fridge in the kitchen exploded last week.
Things I didn't have time for till now.
But I'll do them tomorrow, answers I'll seek.

Wake up after nine.
Then again in afternoon.
Outside it's very fine.
Leave the pub sometime soon.

Three hours talking to a goat about a fox.
"He somehow stole my glasses. I left them on my head."
And then another hour or two staring at a box.
Until it's after midnight; time to go to bed.

Look at the hand; damn I forgot.
Supposed to meet Jane; she'll make my life hell.
I still don't know why my fridge is now not.
I'll find out tomorrow and meet Jane as well.

Write it on the hand.
Meet her on a boat.
Or maybe see a band.
Blame that bloody goat.

Very Slight Stories

Henry Seaward-Shannon

The East Cork Patents Office

The Tree and the Horse


Words are my favourite noises

Previous Poems

Poems from 2004
Poems from 2005



Gizmo's (Non)sense

Pretty Cunning

The Dossing Times


Cruiskeen Eile
Kevin Myers' blog (sorry, Colonel Kevin Myers).

The Chancer

Sinead Gleeson



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A Walk in the Rain

 | poetry from Ireland

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