'Darcy and O'Mara' is a novel by Arthur Cronin.
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Thursday, September 28, 2006
Audrey was invited to a party in a place
Where swans patrolled a man-made garden pond,
And peacocks had a lawn or two to use and call their base.
It's the sort of place you'd meet a man called Bond.
She nearly spent a fortune when she bought a dress and shoes,
And she thought her hair required a change of style.
She couldn't quite decide so she let her stylist choose.
She could tell that he had plenty skill and guile.
But as she left the place, she noticed, with surprise,
That her stylist had a guide dog on a lead.
She'd been just as blind herself. All the time her eyes
Had been focussed on material to read.
She had assumed her stylist wore dark glasses to look cool.
She blamed herself for giving him free rein.
She faced the possibility of looking like a fool.
Her hair could lead to doubts about her brain.
It was too late for a change. The only thing to do
Was to go and hope she didn't look too odd.
She could easily avoid the brightest lights, and she knew
That she'd attract undue attention with a nod.
It wasn't all that bad. Most people didn't stare.
It seemed her style was part of fashion trends.
'Interesting' was the adjective used about her hair.
She was able to relax and mix with friends.
Hugh was there as well. He was conscious of his head,
And the contents that he kept up on the top.
For years he's worn a wig, and he's very often said
That he's tempted to replace it with a mop.
His wig gets very angry, especially when it's woken.
It likes to sleep for most of every day.
So Hugh moves very slowly and he's always softly spoken.
Awake, his wig will always have its way.
The simplest of decisions need attention and great care.
He could ask someone to dance with blinding charm.
He can use the sweetest words but if his wig dislikes her hair,
Around his head there'll be a sense of harm.
He can't convince his wig that the thing upon her head
Is merely just her hair and not a wig.
Its unrelenting anger can create a sense of dread.
It nearly caused a riot at a gig.
At the party he met Audrey. He asked her out to dance.
They enjoyed a gentle waltz around the floor.
His wig's continued sleep depended heavily on chance.
It woke when someone slammed a huge oak door.
Hugh expected trouble, but the wig felt only love,
Its anger lost in love's prevailing fog.
For Audrey and her hair, Hugh thanked God above.
Audrey thanked her stylist and his dog.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Joe discovered gold
Near his caravan's rear window.
Eighteen carat gold,
But he threw it in the bin, though.
That night he fell asleep
And in his dream he found
That he'd been sleeping in a field
On the soft and dew-filled ground,
In the shadow of a tree,
And standing near him there
Was a woman dressed in white
With glowing golden hair.
She led him to a stream,
And in the water's flow
He saw so many days appear
And sadly fade, and go.
Days gone by in history
And future days as well,
Sad days yet to be,
At the toll of time's great bell.
Falling from time's flow,
And where we go is gone.
Before this fateful day we were,
But now we're merely non.
Some happy days as well,
In the sun with many friends,
Unknowing of what's yet to be,
Or not to be when this life ends.
She said, "There's something you must see,"
And led him by the hand
Through deserted hills and valleys
Of a green and pleasant land.
And then they took the bus.
She spoke about her feet.
One of them was hurting her.
Of foot she's not so fleet.
And the other one looked funny.
She asked him what he thought.
She spoke about her elbow,
And his views she also sought.
They went to see a film
About a little dog called Dime,
Who could read the minds of people
And expose their thoughts of crime.
As long as he got water
And was fed enough corned beef
He'd communicate through barking,
Once for 'He's the thief'.
And twice for 'He's getting away
Through those revolving doors'.
And though he didn't use it much,
Three barks meant 'Up yours'.
She didn't really like the film.
She thought it was too long,
And the characterisation of the dog
Wasn't all that strong.
They then went to MacDonalds,
And as they ate she spoke
About the car she bought
And the mobile phone she broke.
He asked about this thing
That she wanted him to see.
She looked up at the ceiling
And she cursed her memory.
"It's completely slipped my mind," she said
"I'd forget my eyes.
If they weren't always in my head
To see and show surprise."
He said that if it mattered
She'd remember what it is.
The most important memories
Tend to spark and fizz.
"That's true," she said. "Let's assume
The thing I had to show you
Was the river through the city,
And though I barely know you
"I think that it's the sort of thing
You'd likely like to see."
He said that anything with her
Would absolutely be
A thing that would appeal to him.
They walked towards the river.
And so began the romance
That enabled him to give her
A gold engagement ring
Which she wore with heartfelt pride.
That he found it in a bin,
There was no need to confide.
This is when he woke and said,
"I threw it in the bin!"
Those words were in subtitles
With the bigger white word 'Fin'.
In French it would sound different
And not pertain to fish.
It signifies that ending life
Is this film's wish.
In the French one he'd go back to sleep,
Returning to his dream.
In Hollywood there'd be no room
For gazing in a stream.
In the Hollywood version he gets up
And drives away at speed.
To narrow roads and corners,
He doesn't pay much heed.
He gets his gun out at the dump,
And hides behind a van.
He sees his gold being held
By an evil foreign man.
After shots are fired
There's a long protracted chase
That involves a helicopter
To his foe's great mountain base.
Disguised as a waiter,
He searches many floors.
He finds his gold and gets away
Through three revolving doors.
He escapes amid explosions
And fires that rage for hours.
He's merely slightly singed,
And somehow he has flowers
For when he finds his gold-haired girl,
And at the end they kiss.
There it ends, but in the French one
They go much further than this.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
The Ryder Cup
The Ryder Cup is on its way
To Straffan in Kildare.
Mrs. Riley's eldest daughter
Stefi dyed her hair,
A European blue,
With the golden stars on beads.
A star for every state
But she forgot about the Swedes.
Many other people
Are preparing for the Cup.
The prices for a place to sleep
Inevitably go up.
You could rent a bungalow
Or a castle by a lake.
The little folk with crocks of gold
Are likely to be fake.
The bill will seem unreal as well
But don't be fooled by that.
It's as real as the heartfelt
Irish welcome on the mat.
The taxi drivers plan to strike
While the Cup is on.
You'll be stuck in a very deep bunker
When the final bus is gone.
There'll be plenty of the black stuff
When you exit from your flight,
But like its distant cousin oil
The cost increases overnight.
Some people say it's not the way
We should portray this land.
Through TV we'll acquaint
Potential tourists with our brand.
But it's more accurate than leprecauns
And colleens herding sheep.
We still have plenty potatoes
But these days they don't come cheap.
But the act is just as accurate.
It's who we've always been.
We've a very long tradition
Of ensuring to be seen
As carefree cheerful Paddies
When the tourists are around.
We're either very cunning
Or unconscious on the ground.
When tourist money is nearby
Some say they should be king,
That the museum up in Dublin
Has their ancestor's royal bling.
They can blame the Brits to explain
Why their royal seat is gone.
But they can't blame the European Union
While the Ryder Cup is on.
I know someone who claimed she was
Descended from Saint Patrick.
She fooled a lot of people
And made money out of that trick.
She was finally exposed,
But it wasn't held against her.
So grow a beard and buy a cloak
And say you're king of Leinster.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Songs for Dogs
He loves writing songs
About his faithful dog.
Songs like 'You're so Green'
Were once about his frog.
But the frog doesn't like them.
I think that's coz he's dead.
And I think that's coz he caught a vase
With his froggie head.
That happened to the dog once.
He didn't seem to mind.
In fact it seemed to help him
In his attempts to find
All the things he buried,
Like someone's flower-filled hat.
He found the frog as well,
But he hadn't buried that.
He knows his name and address.
I doubt if he knows yours.
He gets confused by the phrase
'Walking on all fours'.
His owner's wife loves this dog.
She tells him so each day.
She loves it when he jumps on her
When she says 'sit' or 'stay'.
She took him to a dog show.
He won a special prize
For refusing to wake up
At every frightening noise.
She was very proud,
And she kissed him on the nose.
The other dogs felt stupid
In their doggie shoes and clothes.
She met a man who owned
A friendly Labrador.
The dogs became good friends
And their masters became more.
They said they'd like to meet,
To see each other soon.
They arranged a meeting
For an autumn afternoon,
In a quiet country pub
Where the regulars could think,
And blend in with their background,
Disappearing via drink.
For her the world felt newer.
With him she felt more free.
She didn't feel surrounded
A freshness to the sights
And the cool September air,
That filled these autumn afternoons,
A new style for her hair.
She thought she'd need to change
The exterior of her head
To match the new interior.
She dyed it slightly red.
But the thrill began to wane
And this new world lost its hold.
This bright new place became
As familiar as the old.
And the old world became newer
When her husband bought a hat
To complete his wizard costume.
She liked the look of that.
He taught the dog new tricks,
In a voice both clear and strong,
As a wizard with a broom stick,
Through the medium of song.
The dog paid close attention
And he learnt the tricks with ease.
In one of them he had to wear
A beard of bumble bees.
She smiled and felt relieved.
This was all she sought.
Her old familiar world
Was more exciting than she thought.