'Darcy and O'Mara' is a novel by Arthur Cronin.
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Thursday, November 24, 2005


Blue Things

Now that we've left behind God and our faith,
And the bridges are crumbling between church and state,
Some people are turning to psychics or tarot,
Or mystics in India who swallow an arrow.

Some will believe in crystals and auras.
They're fine when they talk to the trees but they bore us.
Some meditate on a mountain or mound.
But the only truth lies in these blue things I found.

I just know they're blue and they speak to my soul.
I feel I'm a ball and I've just found the goal.
Some say they're clothes pegs and made out of plastic,
And I feel a connection because I am as thick.

They don't understand and they never will.
I look down on them from the top of the hill.
I feel like the goal posts of life I've just met,
Like Roy Keane has kicked me and I'm in the net.

So if you want to know what to wear every day,
Or where to build houses, and what things to say,
Or to what your investments will one day amount,
Or which car to buy with your savings account,

Have faith in these blue things. They'll reveal all.
They are the boot of truth to your ball.
The psychic you phone won't have all of these answers.
If they give financial advice they're just chancers.

I feel in my soul that something's out there,
And something's in here; this cupboard's not bare.
Something unseen to keep all of life lit.
And the one thing I know is these blue things are it.

Thursday, November 17, 2005



My name is H  A  R  R  Y,
And sometimes H  U  R  R me,
Rushing 'round, I don't know why.
Working day from A to B.

And rest at C on Saturday.
In the countryside again.
Watching cattle eating hay.
Off to meet Samantha then.

I'm H  A  P  P  Y with her,
On a H  O  R  S  E.
She's a blond fast-moving blur.
Flying through the fields is she.

But then her horse decides to stop.
There's a hedgerow in its way.
The one thing she can do is drop.
And this she does without delay.

Looking dazed and worse for wear,
But still a smile, a healthy sign.
Something's nesting in her hair.
She insists she's feeling fine.

She needs to be at home by four.
A birthday party for her niece.
She takes her shoes off by the door.
The noises in her hair won't cease.

A change of clothes, two different shoes.
Her make-up might look good at night.
Many shades of red and blues.
She asks me if she looks alright.

She still sees stars and little birds.
How she looks she wants to know.
I play the harp and I don't use words.
I'm H  A  R  P  O.

At the party people stare.
They say 'hi' and she says 'who?'.
The thing whose home is in her hair
Tends to stare at people too.

I ask her if she'd like to go
To see a play about a bee.
Instead of the expected 'no',
She says she'd love to go with me.

Her phone then rings. She looks around,
Picks up a book - that's her guess.
She says hello, but there's no sound.
Yeah well I still take that as a 'yes'.

Thursday, November 10, 2005



Jill's in the kitchen, sweeping the floor.
She hears some odd voices outside the back door.
Four or five leprechauns stand on the grass.
One with a bottle of Coke and a glass.

They're asking her cat if he'd like to leave,
And live with them, and not to believe
The rumours of animals meeting their end.
Jill goes outside to protect her old friend.

Cover ears of Kitty cat
While shouting        at
The leprechauns, who back away,
At a loss for what to say.

One of them says that they'll pay with their gold.
But Jill says her cat will never be sold.
She says they should buy the weasel instead.
One little leprechaun shakes his grey head.

"Do you think we're stupid?" he says with a grin.
"Mensa have said that they'll let us all in."
The form for Mensa is inside his coat.
He's filled in the blanks and drawn a small boat.

He takes it out. Jill looks through
The words he's written down in blue.
'Stealing cats' is all she sees.
The cat is hiding in the trees.

She says if they leave and let her cat be
She'll give them the latest hair styles for free.
The leprechauns think and talk for a while
Before they agree and she starts the first style.

She gives them all mohawks and colours and things.
One is so happy he dances and sings.
They smile in the mirror; their new selves they meet.
She tells them they look like the kids on the street.

They say goodbye without their hats.
Hair is better than stealing cats.
They agree now with this view,
And write it down on their forms too.

Thursday, November 03, 2005


Meeting Again

A get-together in a hall,
A sort of party, not a ball.
  People gather there for food and drinks.
He sees a face he knows so well.
A vision of the deepest hell.
  He stares at her and this is what he thinks:

She still has eyes to pierce my soul,
A heart as dark as blackest coal.
  Or am I simply being prejudiced?
She once told me I'd die alone,
A birthday card left by my phone.
  And yes, it was unsigned, but I just guessed

I miss those days of deep despair.
I long for days with her in here,
  The way she'd sell my shoes and then she'd lie.
Her lies make up the longest list.
My birthday party too, she missed.
  She said her aunt was sick and might soon die.

But she was in a pub that night
Trying to instigate a fight
  Between two friends, about a missing key.
She cried when I called her a fake,
She said she lied for my heart's sake.
  When I said sorry she just laughed at me.

She told my friends I stole a car
And crashed before I got too far.
  She used my credit card to buy a cow.
She made up stories many times.
In her telling of my crimes,
  There were always tears when she told how.

We went out for a meal one night,
A restaurant, in candle light.
  We left at ten and went back to her place.
Her voice rejoicing in its sting,
She dropped the gold engagement ring,
  And laughed a bitter laugh into my face.

And here she is again right now.
I wish my brain would just allow
  My heart to have its way and talk to her.
Damn it all, we have to meet.
I'll be crushed beneath her feet,
  But after all that's what my heart is for.

He goes to her and stands nearby.
She smiles and waves when she says hi.
  He just nods at her and looks away.
She says it's great to see him here.
And asks him then to stay quite near.
  And they should talk, they have so much to say.

But he stays quiet for so long,
She asks him then if something's wrong.
  He says, "I can't forget all that you've done."
He mentions cows and diamond rings.
And all the hurt her presence brings.
  But she speaks with a voice that's full of sun:

All these things are in the past.
I've left behind my wrongs, at last.
  My other evil half is gone for good.
I love the sun and flowers in hats.
I've set a home up for sick cats.
  I care for homeless cats because we should.

He thinks about this latest twist.
He's starting now to grasp the gist.
  In his mind he wonders what to say.
The days of deep despair are past.
I knew that they could never last.
  The life I lived and loved has gone away.

And yes it would be nice again.
But this cat-lover I could win.
  A life that I could love and cherish too.
It's just three weeks since we last met,
But in that time she's died a death,
  And come to life again as someone new.

He smiles at her and she smiles too.
The darkened skies again are blue.
  They talk about her cats and things for hours.
They leave the hall, go down the hill,
Smiling at each other still.
  She stops to talk to cats or pick wild flowers.

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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