'Darcy and O'Mara' is a novel by Arthur Cronin.
Click here to buy the paperback or download the ebook for free.

Friday, December 29, 2006


Willie's Scam

His scam is very simple.
A baby in a pram
Could say 'ooh' or 'goo' or 'ik',
Meaning 'I've got this fantastic scam'.

Then using various 'ah's and 'ba's
Explain the plan in simple terms,
Moving arms and legs around,
Wiggling fingers like earth worms.

Mam and Dad will just say 'goo'
Or 'Who's a clever little boy?',
And baby thinks they'll write it down.
But they don't. That's why he'll cry.

Willie's scam is selling ice
Supposedly from somewhere cold.
He likes the hint of Irishness
In selling Greenland's pure white gold.

Some is from Antarctica.
With 'Penguin Spit' in every pack.
That might just be a mis-print.
I'd try to get my money back.

The crazy cost of farming ice
Where ice bergs form and lands are flat
Inflates the price of every pack,
And global warming adds to that.

When Mam and Daddy hold a glass
And say to little baby boy,
"This ice is from where Santa lives,"
Straightaway he'll scream and cry.

He knows it's really from the tap
And made in someone's kitchen freezer.
Someone's making lots of cash.
And baby thought he'd be that geezer.

A woman buys a bag of ice.
Her name is Ruth. Or maybe Clare.
She finds a Lego brick in it.
The penguins didn't leave it there.

The scam comes to a sudden end.
The baby boy no longer cries.
Willie has to hide for now.
He walks the streets in his disguise.

The police have never thought to search
For a man who looks like Groucho Marx,
Or wondered why when he's around,
Their German Shepherd always barks.

Thursday, December 21, 2006


Christmas Mania

Towns and cities full of lights
Are warding off the winter nights,
With Christmas sights and Santa Clauses
Fights and sirens, sterile gauzes,

Choirs and Christmas songs and cheer,
Real cold rain and fake reindeer.
Professional wrestlers end their feuds,
Acquiring rare forgiving moods.

The tall dark wrestler dressed as Death
Removes his robes and goes to get
A Santa suit that's worn with pride.
He seems more fun without his scythe.

He's glad he's freed from deepest black.
With presents in a bright red sack
He goes home to his family,
Expecting glowing eyes and glee,

But shouts and noises fill the place,
The mayhem of a house-bound chase.
The Christmas turkey's still alive.
The wrestler's kids have called it Clive.

And Clive is proving hard to hold.
They said, "You're being very bold."
It didn't work. He took no heed.
He moves from room to room at speed.

The wrestler in his Santa guise
Looks on at first with some surprise,
But then he sees a Christmas treat
And says, "This job's right up my street."

Near the tall grandfather clock
He gets the turkey in a headlock,
And quickly twists the head around,
But there won't be a breaking sound.

Their minor battle isn't real.
Neither man nor bird will feel
The cold unyielding hand of Death.
They won't need doctor, nurse or vet.

The headlock only briefly stuns.
The turkey breaks away and runs.
Upstairs is where they meet again.
They run towards each other then.

Crouching down with outstretched arm,
Santa's bringing hurt and harm.
He soon regrets his clothesline ploy.
The turkey ducks and passes by.

The wrestler runs into a wall,
Which brings about his backward fall.
The happy turkey takes this chance
To do a nifty little dance.

But then the chase begins again.
They overturn the kitchen bin.
Shouts and laughter fill the air.
The kids adore this time of year.

Thursday, December 14, 2006


A Blue Christmas

Gary and Emma
  Are bored as they wait
For Santa to come
  On his usual date.

This year there's no snare
  And no traps in the snow.
Their names aren't on
  Santa's list under 'foe'.

He knows they've been naughty
  And nowhere near nice,
But they haven't been evil
  On Aunt Sue's advice.

Elvis appeared late one night
  To their auntie
They said he couldn't
  But she said, "Why can't he?"

Gary and Emma
  No longer believe
That Elvis exists.
  Their Aunt Sue would grieve

If somebody told her
  The king wasn't real.
They listened in silence
  To auntie's appeal.

She told them that Elvis
  Appeared on behalf
Of Santa himself,
  Who was short of elf staff.

His message for Gary
  And Emma was that
He won't come again
  If they steal his red hat,

Or glue his black boots
  To the floor in the hall,
Or staple his beard,
  Or throw a snow ball

Into his face while
  His arms are still full,
Or lead his reindeer
  To a field with a bull,

Or leave sharp thumbtacks
  On the chair by the fire,
And if there's an absolute
  Need for trip-wire,

At least leave 'beware' signs
  For Santa to see.
And don't expose wires
  In the lights on the tree.

Santa's aware that
  He's said this before.
He's used the same warning
  For three years or more.

But this time he means it,
  Their very last chance.
Their presents will go to
  Some rich kids in France.

They'll have to make do
  With a stick or a nail.
Or gifts bought in Aldi
  And Lidl on sale.

A bald teddy bear
  From a secondhand store,
A mouldy old doll
  With an eye on the floor.

While the good kids next door
  Get their green billiards table.
They pray every night
  To the child in the stable.

Gary and Emma's
  New plans are undone.
Their aunt is determined
  To ruin all their fun.

She seemed so excited.
  Her wonder-lit eyes
Were frequently trained
  On the cold star-filled skies,

Looking for Elvis.
  She hopes for a sighting,
A glimpse of the king
  In the countless stars' lighting.

They'd love to dig holes
  To make traps, but they can't.
They have to be nice
  Just to humour their aunt.

They think they'd ruin Christmas
  For her if they went
Against the instructions
  Supposedly sent

From Santa through Elvis
  And their Auntie Sue.
That's why this cold Christmas
  Is coloured in blue.

This year they had hoped
  To record Santa scream.
For at least the next year
  It'll stay just a dream.

But it's worthwhile pretending
  That Elvis was here.
Aunt Sue always brings
  The best presents each year.

Thursday, December 07, 2006


Fish Bowl Head

Emily once believed
  That all DJs are balloons.
She loved to hear their voices
  In between the latest tunes.

She imagined their wide smiles
  Drawn in marker or with paint.
Slowly seeping air to speak
  Until they're feeling faint.

Some of them make sounds
  By releasing all their air
Into bassoons or saxophones.
  They slowly disappear.

But then she met a DJ who
  Had pierced his nose and eyebrow.
She stared in disbelief.
  She couldn't figure out how

His head was yet to burst,
  Or gradually deflate.
His head's delayed explosion
  Was ridiculously late.

He lacked a fixed expression,
  A never-changing style.
He could show surprise and puzzlement,
  And frown as well as smile.

Many facial muscles
  Were involved in every word.
She stared in admiration,
  Ignoring what she heard.

She loved his face's sparkle,
  And its ever-moving blur.
He loved her deep attention
  Every time he spoke to her.

One night he slept soundly
  After dinner, tea and port.
He dreamt about a goldfish
  Who was swimming back and forth.

On the following morning
  As he lay awake in bed
He imagined that the goldfish
  Was still swimming in his head.

He pictured his bowl head
  While staring into space.
There was just a vacant smile
  And no movement on his face.

He was happy just to see
  His mental goldfish swim,
And to feel his own head
  Full of water to the brim.

He also had two real fish,
  And when they saw him stare
They just assumed he'd died.
  They didn't really care.

Emily lost interest
  When she saw his latest look.
His face had reached the end
  Of its thrilling action book.

But things returned to normal
  When his friend became a bride.
He said he wouldn't do it
  But in floods of tears he cried.

He felt the water drain
  From the inside of his head.
And he couldn't help but notice
  That his mental fish was dead.

He was back to his old self.
  He could move his face again
For Emily to gaze at
  In a warm and vacant grin.

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



August 2005   September 2005   October 2005   November 2005   December 2005   January 2006   February 2006   March 2006   April 2006   May 2006   June 2006   July 2006   August 2006   September 2006   October 2006   November 2006   December 2006   January 2007   February 2007   March 2007   April 2007   May 2007   June 2007   July 2007   August 2007   September 2007   October 2007   November 2007   December 2007   January 2008   February 2008   March 2008   April 2008   May 2008   June 2008   July 2008   August 2008   September 2008   October 2008   November 2008   December 2008   January 2009   February 2009   March 2009   April 2009   May 2009   June 2009   July 2009   August 2009   September 2009   October 2009   November 2009   December 2009   January 2010   February 2010   March 2010   April 2010   May 2010   June 2010   July 2010   August 2010   September 2010   October 2010   November 2010  

A Walk in the Rain

 | poetry from Ireland

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?